by Peter David
He caught a look at a clock as he ran through one room and his heart sank. It was twenty minutes until the hour of twelve. He was losing time but had no means of stopping it or even slowing it down. And Mr. Fang could be anywhere. For all the Artful knew, Mr. Fang had already departed the halls of Buckingham Palace, and he, Dodger, was simply engaged in a pointless chase.
He ran into yet another room. This one seemed to be some sort of dining room. Clearly, people had recently eaten in it; there were dishes upon the table. If that was the case, then it meant that the servants were in the process of clearing it, which made this the last room in which Dodger wanted to be.
He started to run for the door at the far side, and suddenly he heard the voice of a young man calling, “I’m on it! I’ll get the rest!” This was exactly the third-to-last thing Dodger wanted to hear—the second-to-last thing being “I got him!” and the last thing being the clock chiming midnight—because the boy would surely sound the alert now that the staff doubtless knew of the intruder’s presence. He started to turn back in order to retrace his steps, but in the distance he heard the sounds of feet stomping in his direction. The guards were in hot pursuit.
He backed up, looking right and left desperately. There was a door to his right that seemed to be some sort of closet. He threw it open, and sure enough, it led to a place for the storage of linens and such things as would be used to decorate a table. He clambered in and closed the door behind himself just as the door through which he had heard the lad speaking was opened. He heard the boy gasp; he’d been spotted. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He heard steps crossing quickly to the closet door. The Artful tried to curl up, to find somewhere within the closet that he could find coverage, but nothing presented itself. Seconds later, the door flew open, the light from the room pouring in and fully illuminating it. The shadowed form of a young man was standing there. If Dodger had been thinking faster, he might well have leaped to the attack, but his mind was shutting down over the enormity of his task and his certain inability to accomplish it.
Suddenly, Dodger heard the far door crashing open. He knew that the boy would immediately shout that he had found the intruder hiding within the closet, and the new arrivals in the room, doubtless the guards, would immediately imprison him.
The Artful had failed, totally and utterly. Mr. Fang would live on and exert his influence, and Princess Alexandrina Victoria would be a monster of a monarch. Never had such a wave of frustration and despair swept over someone as it did now upon the Artful Dodger.
“You! Boy! What’s in the closet?” called a voice sharply.
Here he is, sir! The boy you’re seeking! Come take him away! The surely soon-to-be-uttered words spun through Dodger’s mind.
To Dodger’s utter shock, the boy said—calm as anyone could please—“Nothing but table linens, sir. Naught t’worry about.”
He released the door and allowed it to slam shut.
The Artful Dodger was stunned. What in the world had just happened? Why had the boy not immediately turned him over to the forces of the royal family? This made no sense at all.
He heard some conversation between the lad and the guardsman. He couldn’t make out what was being said exactly; as near as he could determine, the guard was providing a description of Dodger and telling the lad to be on the lookout for him. The lad, in return, said that he would take care to have his eyes peeled. This continued to be senseless to Dodger. The boy was covering for him. Why in the world would he do that?
The Artful heard the far door close; clearly, the guard had gone out upon his business. Then footsteps approached the closet. For a moment, Dodger thought that maybe somehow the boy simply had not, in fact, seen him. But he surely would now and promptly sound the alarm. Certainly, Dodger had gained only a few seconds respite.
Seconds indeed; the door was pulled open yet again, and the boy stood there, staring right at Dodger. Yet no alarm did he cry.
“Dodger?” he said.
Artful froze. He couldn’t quite believe it. Slowly, he sat up, then stood, and from this angle was able to look straight into the face of his savior.
Now: As we have mentioned, unlikely coincidence was hardly unprecedented in the life of Dodger and his friends. We simply have to say that this is yet another instance of the happenstances that seem to pervade the lives of the Artful and those in his acquaintance.
There stood Master Bates.
“Charley?” said the astounded Dodger. “Charley Bates?”
“Th’ same. But what the ’ell are ye doin’ here!”
“What am I doin’ here? What are ye doin’ here?”
“I work here,” said Charley Bates. “So it’s natural that I’d be, ye know, workin’ here.”
The Artful slowly emerged from the closet. “How?”
“I had me ways,” said Charley with a shrug. “Made some well-placed friends who took pity on a boy of the streets. Washed me up, got me out. One thing led to another, and here’s where I wound up, on the serving staff.”
There was so much he wanted to ask Charley Bates in terms of how he had come to work at the palace. But the minutes were dwindling down. He did take the time, however, to throw his arms briefly around his old mate from his Fagin days, just to reestablish contact. “I can scarce believe it,” he whispered, practically in Charley’s ear. “You showin’ up here, now. Runnin’ guard for me against the guards.”
“Well, old times,” said Charley with a shrug. He stepped back and looked Dodger up and down. “But what are ye doin’ here? Ye still haven’t told me.”
The Artful licked his lips nervously. He didn’t see any other way around it save to leap straight into it. “Has a man come here? His name is Mr. Fang.”
“Mr. Fang? The police magistrate?” Charley made a face of clear disgust. “Sure ’n he did. He sat right over there,” he said, pointing at a nearby chair. “Didn’t eat much of anythin’.”
“Or perhaps nothing at all?”
Charley frowned, considering it. “Ya may be right, now that I think on it. Put a fork to some stuff, nibbled maybe, but never actually seemed t’swallow nothin’. Wonder why.”
“Because”—and there was no other way for Dodger to say it—“he’s a vampyre.”
“He is?”
The Artful nodded and then braced himself for an outpouring of skepticism and disbelief. Charley Bates was as grounded a young man as Dodger had ever seen, and not for one moment did he expect him to believe a word of it.
To his astonishment, instead Charley nodded. “Awright. That ’splains a bit, actually.”
“It does?”
“ ‘Course it does. We have some of the best food in the world here at the palace. What man in his right mind would pass it up lest he wouldn’t eat it because he don’t eat nothing ’cept fresh blood.”
“And . . .” The Artful was having deep trouble accepting the acceptance. “And you believe me?”
“ ‘Course I b’lieve ya, Dodger! My whole life, ya never lied t’me. Not once. And b’sides, if ya were gonna lie ’bout somethin’, I got a feeling that it wouldn’t be somethin’ like that. So what do ya need from me?”
It was then Dodger asked the question, the answer to which he was dreading the most. “Is he still here?”
“Mr. Fang?”
“Yah.”
“Best of my knowledge, yeah. They went to the drawing room for a nightcap t’talk business. Him, Sir Conroy, and the princess and her mum. The mum wasn’t keen on it none, but the others talked her into it.”
“Then you’ve got to get me there! Quickly! We only have maybe ten minutes.” He looked nervously at the clock hung on the wall nearby that was counting down toward midnight.
“Awright.” Charley’s mind was racing. “Awright. Just stay right here a minute.”
Without another word, he clo
sed the door in Dodger’s face. Naturally, Artful found this disconcerting, but he didn’t see any way around it. Providence had dropped him into Charley’s lap, and now Dodger had no choice but to allow fate to pull him in whatever direction it desired. In his head, a minute passed, then two, then ten, and it was too late; it was past midnight, and Drina was forever lost to both him and the kingdom.
Then the door flew open what seemed a half hour later, and Dodger saw, to his shock, that only a minute had passed. Charley was standing there with clothing draped over his arms, and he whispered, “Quickly. Change into this.” He handed the clothes to Dodger and also gave him a dampened washcloth. “And this too. Wipe down your face. It’s filthy. Just do the best ya can.” He mostly closed the door but allowed it to remain slightly open so that a sliver of light would be there for Dodger’s use.
The Artful quickly changed. Moments later, he was attired in clothing similar to Charley Bates’s. He finished scrubbing down his face and glanced in a nearby mirror. There were a few smudges of dirt still on his face, and he suspected that they were ingrained by this point in his life. He would have to live with it. At least he was cleaned up enough, he hoped, to avoid detection by the guards of Buckingham Palace.
“All right,” said Dodger. “Now what?”
“Now we go to the sitting room. Or at least one of the sitting rooms.”
“How many are there?”
“Ten, last I checked.”
The Artful was stunned. “How much sitting does the royal family need to do?”
“We have over seven hundred rooms in this place, Dodger. Just count yerself lucky ya ran into me or ye’d never find her.”
The Artful couldn’t deny that. So he simply nodded and fell into step behind Charley Bates.
Charley was not empty-handed. While Dodger had been changing, Charley had hastily assembled a tea service. He was carrying it with both hands, and his hands were shaking slightly, betraying his nervousness. The Artful appreciated Charley’s gumption, considering the circumstances.
They made their way quickly through the corridors. The Artful was desperately thinking about how he was going to manage to get close enough to Mr. Fang to accomplish what he needed to do. He had the stake up the sleeve of his white jacket, and he was holding it tightly.
“Here now!”
The voice was sharp, and Artful recognized it immediately. It was one of the guards who had been pursuing him. Charley turned to face him, passing off the tea service to Dodger as he did so. The Artful kept his back to their pursuer.
“Where are you off to?” said the guard.
“Sittin’ room,” Charley said immediately. “Royal family wants some tea.”
“At this time of night?” the guard said skeptically.
Charley shrugged. “I didn’t see it as my place t’argue with ’em. Do you want to take it up with ’em?”
The guard actually chuckled at that. “I’ll pass, thanks. Say, you haven’t seen a scruffy street boy running around through here, have you?”
“Yes,” said Charley, a response that froze Dodger in his spot. Before Dodger could muster himself to bolt, Charley continued, “I’m reasonably sure I saw some lad runnin’ in that d’rection. Seemed a little odd t’me, actually.”
“Good work!” said the guard. Without hesitation, he sped off in the direction that Charley had indicated. Charley then promptly kept walking, and Dodger followed him.
“Dodger, this better be a fair cop,” Charley muttered, “because otherwise this may’ve just cost me my job, or worse.”
“It’s more than fair,” Dodger assured him.
They headed up a long, winding staircase. Every footstep, every passing second loomed large for Dodger. He suspected that somewhere a clock would strike the midnight toll, and he dreaded the thought of Mr. Fang still being alive when that happened. But at that point, he could do nothing, because he was still carrying the tea tray. Charley had scurried on ahead, presumably to clear the way and make certain that no other guards would impede them.
Around a corner, and then another and another, and Dodger was certain that midnight was closer and closer. Then, from just ahead he heard a voice speaking, a loud, proper female voice, and she did not sound happy. Not happy at all. It was coming from a room two doors down to the right, the doors shuttered against any intruders. Artful looked at Charley questioningly, and Charley simply nodded. This was where they were going, all right. This was the location of Mr. Fang.
The Artful was suddenly aware of his Adam’s apple for some reason. It seemed large in his throat. He had no idea why this was, and it’s not especially relevant to the narrative, but he felt it, and so we make note of it.
Charley took several steps in front of Dodger and rapped briskly on the door. “Tea, your Highness,” he called out and opened the door. Without waiting for an invitation to be offered—a scandalous breach of etiquette in and of itself—Dodger strode in, looking down studiously at the tea and making eye contact with no one.
“We did not request tea,” said a woman that Dodger intuited, correctly, was Princess Victoria. To her immediate right was a distinguished looking gentleman, and to her left . . . .
His blood froze. It was Mr. Fang. Mr. Fang was not paying him the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he was entirely focused on the princess, who seemed rather put out about something.
Drina was not with the group of adults. Instead, she was off to the side, standing at a window and staring out blankly at the full moon that hung in the sky. It was impossible to determine what was in her mind, and Dodger shoved it away as being unimportant.
The room was rather homey, considering the caliber of the individuals seated within. Dodger made particular notice of not only a roaring fireplace nearby but a clock that was situated upon the hearth. It was two minutes to midnight.
Two minutes. My God!
“Oh, very well,” said Princess Victoria, and she gestured preemptively toward Dodger. “Put the tea on the table and just go. We can attend to it ourselves.” Without giving him any further thought, she turned back to the focus of her attention, Mr. Fang. “To be blunt, Mr. Fang, I do not care in the least what my daughter’s desires are. Although we are naturally grateful for your returning her, I simply do not understand her wish to maintain you as some sort of permanent council.”
“With respect, Highness, it is not for you to understand,” Mr. Fang said with arch respect. “Alexandrina is the future queen of England. It is simply for you to attend to her wishes.”
“Mr. Fang is quite right, my dear,” said the officious looking gentleman.
Princess Victoria stared at him with clear bewilderment and also a hint of betrayal. “Sir Conroy, I find it hard to believe that you, of all people, would accede to this request.”
“Mr. Fang is quite right, my dear.”
The princess frowned. “You just said that.”
“It bears repeating,” he said without hesitation.
The Artful lowered the tea service slowly onto the short table that was between the three seated adults. His hand trembled slightly as he bent forward and prepared to make his move.
It was at that moment that the stake slipped out of his sleeve and fell to the floor.
SEVENTEEN
IN WHICH THE FINAL BATTLE IS HELD
The Artful did not intend for that to happen, of course; remember that he had been careful to keep the stake secured within the sleeve of his jacket, but between bending forward and having to hold onto the tea set as well, he was unable to hold onto the stake as securely as he had been, and consequently he was unable to retain his grip, and the stake tumbled out of his sleeve and clattered noisily to the floor.
Charley Bates audibly gulped. The Artful froze where he was, having just put the tea service down upon the table. Princess Victoria stared down at it, not understanding what she was looking at
. Drina glanced over, taking her eyes from the moon. Sir Conroy did not react at all; he simply continued to stare forward.
Mr. Fang, however, looked down at the stake and then his eyes snapped upward and took in Dodger. He had never actually seen him before; he had simply heard about him from the lips of his servants. Now, though, face to face with him, he knew exactly whom he was staring at.
“The Artful!” bellowed Mr. Fang.
The Artful did not for a moment wonder how in the world Mr. Fang knew who he was. Instead, as quickly as he could, he lunged forward for the stake.
Mr. Fang was faster. He stretched out a foot and kicked the stake just before Dodger could get his hand on it. It skittered across the floor, out of Dodger’s reach, rolling under a couch and back through the other side.
Then Mr. Fang lunged for Dodger himself. The Artful twisted away, grabbed the teapot, and threw it at Mr. Fang. This was no inexpensive metal teapot: It was a Staffordshire teapot made out of fine china. Consequently, it cracked solidly against Mr. Fang’s head and shattered into a hundred pieces. Hot water spilled everywhere and Mr. Fang let out an agonized and infuriated howl.
Princess Victoria also howled, but instead of inarticulate pain, she cried out, “Guards!” And the guards most definitely would have been forthcoming, save for the fact that the sitting room only had one entrance into it, and Charley Bates had just locked the door. His arms to either side, he braced himself against the door and shouted for Dodger to hurry up and do what needed to be done.
Sir Conroy continued to stare straight ahead. He made no motions, took no action. It was as if he were awaiting instructions, which he most certainly was.
The Artful scrambled toward the couch and leaped over it. The stake was lying on the floor. He grabbed for it, his hands encircling it.
A foot stamped down on his hand, preventing him from getting a grip on it. He looked up. Drina was standing there, her lips pulled back in a snarl of hatred and her fangs visible.
