Artful: A Novel

by Peter David

  Princess Victoria saw it. She was a few feet away, and every drop of blood drained from her face. “What in God’s name—?” she gasped out.

  The Artful had no choice. He lunged forward, slamming into Drina. She hadn’t been expecting the move and tumbled backward. She hit the ground heavily, and Dodger grabbed up the stake and turned.

  Mr. Fang was standing right there, right behind him. He grabbed Dodger’s wrist and immobilized it. The Artful grunted, and Mr. Fang shook his hand violently, causing him to drop the stake. Mr. Fang caught it and then in one smooth motion tossed the stake across the room.

  “No!” cried out Dodger, but it was too late. Mr. Fang’s aim had been perfect. The stake landed in the fireplace. The flames immediately began to consume it.

  Mr. Fang snarled into Dodger’s face. “Did you really think you would get away with it?”

  The Artful answered by slamming his forehead forward into Mr. Fang’s face. He hit Mr. Fang’s nose so hard that it audibly snapped.

  Mr. Fang let out an agonized groan, and Dodger yanked back, hard. His shirt tore and he pulled free of Mr. Fang’s grasp. Infuriated, Mr. Fang leaped at him, but for once it was Dodger that was too quick. He vaulted to one side, and Mr. Fang sailed past him.

  “What is happening? What is going on?” screamed Princess Victoria.

  From the door, Charley Bates shouted, “Your guest is a vampyre, your Highness!” The door was now banging behind him, thanks to the guards who were repeatedly slamming into it.

  “A what?” Clearly, she wasn’t certain she had heard him properly. “A what?” she repeated.

  If Charley answered, the Artful didn’t hear the response. Instead, he ran toward the fireplace. The stake was burning viciously. He tried to reach for it, tried to pull it from the fire, but he was unable to get his fingers near it. And now Mr. Fang was coming toward him. The police magistrate was so furious that he was incapable of speech. An inarticulate string of syllables tumbled from his lips; that was all he was able to manage.

  The clock clicked toward midnight. In the distance, probably from a grandfather clock, Dodger heard a steady, sonorous pounding of a bell begin to clang.

  His head whipped around as he looked desperately for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

  Then he spotted Sir Conroy’s walking stick. More to the point, he recognized it instantly for what it was. He had seen one identical to it before, and he prayed that he was not mistaken.

  He lunged for Sir Conroy under Mr. Fang’s outstretched arms. Somersaulting across the floor, he came up within a foot of Conroy and yanked the walking stick from his hand. Conroy simply sat there, still staring ahead.

  The Artful Dodger pulled on the stick and for half a heartbeat, it held together, and his spirit was crushed because he thought he had guessed wrong. But then the walking stick split apart, and he was holding a bladed saber in his hand, just as Mr. Fang got to him, his hands outstretched, his fangs exposed.

  The Artful whirled in one smooth motion.

  Understand that Dodger had never in his life engaged in swordplay of any sort. But that did not deter him from swinging the sword as quickly and viciously as he could. Fortunately for him, it was not a foil or something that was intended for stabbing. Nevertheless, had Dodger been fighting a normal human individual, he might have managed to slice the skin but not much more than that.

  That was not the case here. He was battling an animated corpse that was bone dry of any sort of liquid.

  As a result, the sword cut through the air and Mr. Fang’s neck so fast that it was as if there were nothing there to impede it. Mr. Fang gurgled in protest, and his eyes widened in complete surprise. A thin line of black goo appeared across his throat. He clutched at his throat, gasped, tried to say something, but was unable to verbalize.

  The bells continued to sound. Six, seven . . .

  The Artful whipped the sword back as quickly as he could. The blade sliced through again, and this time it was a harder cut because it was driving through more skin and gristle. The black liquid gushed as if oil had been struck, and then Mr. Fang’s head toppled backward. It fell off his shoulders and tumbled to the ground, and the Artful was certain that he actually heard the monster say something as the head rolled away.

  The body was actually still standing, and it was staggering toward Dodger, its arms flailing around. The Artful stepped to the side and stuck out his foot, and the body collapsed to the floor where it twitched for a few moments before finally laying still.

  That was when Drina let out a high-pitched, ululating scream.

  She stumbled as her own head snapped back, and inhuman gurgling noises poured from her lips. It was if she too had felt the blade’s sweeping blows, though no visible wounds were apparent. Nevertheless, she staggered, her feet twitching, and then she fell to the floor.

  The Artful started toward her, and that was when he suddenly became aware of the rhythmic pounding at the door, right before it burst open. Charley Bates was sent flying as half a dozen royal guards, rifles at the ready, burst through. The Artful’s path to the princess was cut off as guards stepped between and brought their rifles to bear. “Don’t move!” they shouted almost in unison, which was all the encouragement Dodger needed to remain right where he was. Charley Bates was on the floor and was staying there, with his arms raised and a very nervous expression on his face.

  The princess was continuing to cry out, and she was grabbing at her mouth as she did so. The guards had no idea what they should do. They looked at each other questioningly; no one wanted to get anywhere near the shrieking member of the royal family.

  In the distance, more clearly now that the door had been shattered, Dodger heard the final clanging of the clock as midnight struck. And as the final chime of the bell sounded, Princess Alexandria Victoria suddenly sat bolt upright, her eyes looking set to burst from her face. She was gasping loudly, and she reached up toward her teeth. She ran her fingers across them and Dodger was able to see, even from his angle, that there was no sign of any fangs.

  “My God,” she whispered. “Oh, my dear God.”

  “What’s all this?” Sir Conroy had bounded up from the couch and was staring at the disturbance within the sitting room with a complete lack of understanding. “What are you men doing in here? What are you doing here?” he demanded when his eyes fell upon Dodger. Then he added with a confused look, “What am I doing here? I don’t remember coming up here. I don’t . . . good heavens!”

  That latter reaction was to the headless body that was lying several feet away. To the shock of almost everyone in the room—save Dodger, of course—the thick black liquid was continuing to seep out of the body. It could not remotely be mistaken for blood by anyone, and not only that: As it leaked out, the body began to deflate much like a balloon being robbed of air. A faint hissing was audible as the body shrank in a manner that did not remotely approach anything that transpired for human beings.

  No one said anything as the body shriveled. All in the room were aware that they were staring at something unworldly; they just did not know for sure what they were looking at. One of the guards looked questioningly at Dodger, and Dodger simply said, “Vampyre.”

  “Oh, well that explains it,” said one of the guards and was promptly punched in the shoulder by his superior.

  Princess Alexandrina Victoria had now managed to get to her feet and was staggering toward her mother. She collapsed into the older woman’s arms and then did the only thing that seemed appropriate under the circumstances: She passed out.

  “Get her to her bedchambers,” Sir Conroy immediately barked to the guards. Then he noticed Dodger standing there. “As for this one and his friend,” he said, indicating Charley Bates, “take him to the Tower immediately!”

  “Wait . . . what!” said Dodger. “But I just—!”

  They were not the least bit interested in listening to h
im, and moments later the Artful Dodger and Master Charley Bates were chained up and being escorted to the Tower of London.

  EIGHTEEN

  IN WHICH ALL IS MADE AS RIGHT AS COULD POSSIBLY BE, CONSIDERING THE CIRCUMSTANCES

  Bram Van Helsing sat in his cell and kept running the recent events through his mind, trying to determine what he might have done differently to have matters turn out in such a way that he could continue to contribute positively to things, and unfortunately for him, nothing was coming readily to his mind.

  The Artful’s plan had always been borderline insane anyway, but the truth was that Bram had not been able to come up with anything better. So he hardly felt in a position to be critical of Dodger.

  He walked the perimeter of his cage for what seemed the hundredth time, running his hands across the bars as he passed.

  Then he heard something. It was distant, from down the hallway, but it was very distinctive: It was barking. Not only was it barking, but it was extremely familiar to him.

  “Father?” he called as loudly as he could, which as it happened was not loudly at all, for it had been some hours since he had had anything to drink, and his throat was hoarse. “Father?” he tried again.

  “Abraham?” His father’s familiar voice floated down the corridor toward him.

  “Here! I’m here!”

  Moments later Isaac Van Helsing was in front of him, holding the leash of his dog firmly. His father gasped upon seeing his son, as if not trusting himself to be filled with joy until he actually beheld the lad with his own eyes. “You’re here! You’re here!”

  Bram nodded. “And you are, too.”

  A police officer was accompanying Isaac Van Helsing, and the doctor turned to the officer and said, “This is my son. Release him immediately.”

  “We ain’t releasin’ anyone until Mr. Fang says so,” the police officer replied brusquely.

  “Mr. Fang is a villain of the highest order,” said Isaac.

  “Mr. Fang is a police magistrate and I will thank you to watch your tone and words.” The threat was implicit: If Isaac didn’t take care of what he said, he might wind up sharing the cell with his son.

  Isaac was trembling with barely suppressed rage, but he managed to rein it in. Instead, he kept his response to a curt nod and then said, “I wish to speak with my son. I hope that will not serve as a hardship to you.”

  The officer actually appeared to be considering it, and then he simply nodded. He strode away down the corridor, leaving the Van Helsings to themselves.

  “How did you find me?” Bram said immediately.

  His father was rummaging in his pocket. “I never stopped looking for you. I have been checking at various police stations ever since you disappeared. To be blunt, I was checking to see if your body turned up. Honestly, I did not expect that you would be able to escape your captors.”

  “It wasn’t a hardship,” said Bram. “It’s been rather exciting as it so happens. What are you doing?”

  His father produced a slender metal rod from within his right coat pocket. “Getting you out. Stand back.”

  Bram did as he was instructed. The elder Van Helsing slid the metal into the lock and made several quick turns. Almost immediately, the lock snapped open and Isaac pulled wide the jail door. Bram could not suppress his surprise. He knew his father was a gifted lock pick, but even for him, this was fast work.

  Quickly joining his father, Bram looked at him expectantly. “Now what?”

  “Now we leave.”

  Isaac Van Helsing started walking. Bram fell into step next to him. The dog’s head swiveled back and forth as if it were taking in all their surroundings and appraising them from a strategic point of view.

  Moments later, they encountered the police officer who had escorted Isaac to the cell. He was heading right toward them, and his jaw dropped when he saw that Bram had been freed from his cell.

  It should be noted that London policemen did not carry firearms of any sort. Had they done so, matters might have turned out quite differently. Instead, they carried whistles and sticks, and the policeman’s stick was now in his hand. That did not deter Isaac in the slightest. He strode forward quickly, catching the police officer’s wrist before he could wield his club in any sort of offensive fashion. One quick twist from Isaac, and the police officer dropped the club from his numb hand. Isaac then slammed his elbow around, catching the police officer in the side of the head. The officer gasped as he went down, and Isaac drove a fast kick upward that caught him square in the face. The police officer fell backward onto the floor.

  Isaac stepped right over him, Bram following—neither really having broken stride. A few instants later, they ran into another policeman, and Isaac immediately pointed behind himself and said, in a perfect imitation of a British accent, “Your man appears to have had some sort of attack and passed out. You may want to attend to him.”

  “Yes sir! Thank you, sir!” said the police officer immediately. He didn’t have the faintest idea who Isaac was, but his attitude and certainty appeared to mark him as some sort of senior officer. So instead of attempting to arrest Isaac Van Helsing, the police officer tossed off a fast salute and ran to help his fallen fellow.

  The Van Helsings then walked straight out of the precinct. Whenever anyone happened to step into their path, a fast bark of their dog would clear the obstruction from their way. Moments later, they were in the street and departing the area as fast as they could.

  The sun was just coming up over the horizon. Immediately, Bram said, “Father, we have to do something! Princess Alexandrina Victoria has been made into a vampyre by Mr. Fang!”

  Isaac turned and looked at his son, his eyes wide. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. We have no choice.”

  There was a coach waiting for them. Isaac ushered his son into the cab’s interior, then the dog, and then the man himself. Within a few minutes, the cab was rushing forward.

  Bram sat back in his seat, letting out a deep breath. His mind had felt so scattered while he was being held in a cell. Now, though, he was reunited with his father, and he had apprised him of the immediate situation. There was no doubt in his mind that his father would know exactly what to do.

  For the first time in what seemed ages, Bram actually was able to relax. He had not seemingly slept in days, but now, finally, his exhaustion would not be denied, and Bram sank into slumber.

  “Bram.”

  He awakened all at once rather than slowly. It was how he always awoke; one never knew if a vampyre was about to attack, and he had simply developed the habit of waking up immediately just in case the situation called for it.

  He was confused, however, for the carriage had stopped moving, and his father and the dog were already out. “Finally, you awaken,” said Isaac. “I couldn’t rouse you when we stopped briefly at the inn to gather our belongings. How nice to know you have finally rejoined the land of the living.”

  “The inn . . .?” Bram didn’t understand at first. Was there something that his father had left in their personal belongings that would enable them to deal with the challenge that was before them? He wondered what it could possibly be.

  Then he saw where they were, and he stared in confusion. They were at the docks, and a large boat was situated there. People were boarding it, cheerful tourists or determined travelers. He heard a variety of accents as people spoke animatedly.

  The sun was now high in the sky. The noon hour had to be approaching.

  “Father, what is this? Where are we going—?”

  “Home. We take this vessel to Spain and connect there to—”

  “But I don’t understand!” said Bram, his voice rising. For the first time in a long time, he was actually starting to sound his age. “Father, we have to help Drina! And Dodger! I haven’t even told you about him!”
<
br />   “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does!”

  “No, it does not,” Isaac Van Helsing said firmly. “You are telling me that Mr. Fang has taken over the royal family. If that is the case, then we have no choice save to flee the country as quickly as possible. This is much too big for a pair of vampyre hunters, Abraham. Mr. Fang is now much too powerful. I would be an utterly reckless father if I subjected you to the amount of danger that we would be faced with, and in the end it would not matter. We have already lost. The country is lost. Frankly, we should be grateful that it is not our country.”

  “But . . . but we cannot just leave matters as they are . . . .”

  “Yes, we can,” said Isaac Van Helsing. “And you will come with me now, and we will never speak of this again.”

  “But Father—!”

  Isaac silenced him by raising a single finger. “This is not easy for me, Abraham. By departing this country, I am allowing Mr. Fang and his cohorts to win. It goes against the fiber of my being. If that is what I have to do in order to guarantee your health, however, then that is what I am going to do.”

  “I still think you are wrong.”

  “You are welcome to your opinion, as long as you are wise enough to keep it to yourself.”

  They disembarked from the carriage. Bram seemed disinclined to pick up his bag, and his father had no interest in prolonging matters. So he picked up Bram’s bag and started toward the ship, the dog trotting obediently behind.

  Bram had never felt more frustrated, more alone. He looked around the docks, trying to decide whether perhaps he should just run off and seek to aid the Artful. Even as the thought crossed his mind, however, he knew it was futile. He had no idea where the Dodger was, or what he was up to, or even if he was still in London.

  But he knew what he had to do.

  Before the hansom cab that he had vacated had pulled away, he quickly approached it and banged on the door. “Excuse me,” he called. The driver looked down at him questioningly. “Do you know the way to Baker Street?”