Artful: A Novel (13 page)

The Artful braced himself, prepared to slam up against a wall. In this he was disappointed. There was no wall; instead, there was a wide window that overlooked nothing. Darkness yawned before him, and he cried out, arms waving frantically, as he plummeted.

He was fully prepared to hit ground and was thus rather astounded when he hit a tree instead. The branches seemed to reach out to him and grab him as if the tree were filled with living thought, which was, of course, just an imagining of his fevered brain. He crashed into the branches that, rather than support him, snapped rapidly at the impact. He continued to fall but was thrown about considerably, which served to lessen his velocity, so that was a help. Moments later he struck the ground, shaking every bone in his body. He lay there, gasping heavily, scarcely able to catch his breath.

It was then that he truly thought he’d pass out.

That was, until he heard afresh screams and shrieks from within the abbey. “Drina,” he whispered, for that was his greatest concern, but he was also worried about the nuns. They had never done anything save support him and give him a place to live, and so naturally he was anxious for their welfare. But he knew in his heart that there was nothing left for him to worry about. There was no doubt in his mind that they were dead or dying. There were too many vampyres for anyone to deter. They were unleashing their bloodlust upon the helpless women, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He wanted to get up. He wanted to rush into the fray and battle back against them. In his mind’s eye, he was a fully capable warrior, rising to the challenge, throwing himself into the war against them and triumphing over them, even though they outnumbered him at least twenty to one.

Whatever his dream, though, that was all it was.

In the reality in which he was anchored, Dodger allowed terror to wash over him. He drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, and lay there at the base of the tree, shaking uncontrollably. He heard every scream and simply lay there, helpless, overwhelmed by what he had learned and the evil that had been part of his life for so long, all without him knowing.

Fagin, the man who had been a substitute father to him—a teacher, a mentor—was part of some evil cadre of mythic characters and was partly responsible for the death of Dodger’s mother. It was almost more than the boy could reasonably process. Not surprising, really. How would you fare, dear reader, after learning and seeing such things? As easy as it is to sit in harsh judgment upon Dodger’s less than heroic actions, it seems fairly safe to say that you yourself would scarcely have done better.

Eventually the incessant screaming dwindled off. The nuns were dead. All of them. It was remotely possible that a few or perhaps only one or two of them might have found somewhere to hide that was beyond the vampyres’ ability to find. The
Artful
doubted it, however. To his mind, they were all dead. All of them. Even Bram and Drina, for certainly they had been seeking her in order to kill her. Why else?

Why else?

He realized there had to be something else. Fagin had
wanted
Drina. But why? What was it about her that made her of particular interest? There had to be something, some reason. Fagin had said something about a princess . . . .

It was at that moment that Dodger heard something.

Footsteps approaching him, tentatively but firmly.

The Artful had no idea to whom they belonged, but he was hardly about to take a chance. He sat up, somewhat surprised that he was able to do so. He had not eliminated the possibility that he had broken something severe on the way down and was in fact paralyzed. But this was obviously not the case. He was banged up, scratched up, but otherwise he was in fine shape—the only paralysis had been that of spirit. He was able to marshal his strength, and he scrambled to hide amongst some nearby bushes. There he crouched, waiting, trying to ignore the fact that his legs were trembling. For all he knew, this was going to be his last moment on earth. The approaching feet would belong to a vampyre who would, in turn, be led right to him, courtesy of his sharp nostrils or some other advantage.

It took seemingly forever, and then a small, slight form emerged into the darkness, looking around desperately. “
Dodger
!” came a familiar voice.

“Bram!” Dodger could scarcely believe it. Immediately he emerged from the bush and, sure enough, there was Abraham Van Helsing, looking none the worse for wear.

Despite the seriousness of the situation and his general distaste for touching other people unless it entailed depriving them of their wallets, Dodger crossed quickly to Bram and embraced him. “I thought you were dead! There’s no way you should not be dead!” Then he pushed the boy back several feet and regarded him suspiciously. “Are you dead? Did they transform you
into—?”
He could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

Bram shook his head and, despite the dire situation in which they found themselves, still could not help but smile. “I assure you I’m quite fit. They’d never have been able to change me that quickly.”

“But how did you escape?”

“I retraced my steps, with the vampyres following but staying back because of the crucifix,” he said. “I went back down the stairs and found an entrance into a wine cellar and availed myself of it before they could catch up with me. And there was an exit out from there into the fresh air.”

“Why didn’t they pursue you, though? I can’t believe they just gave up . . . .”

“They didn’t follow because they got what they wanted.”

“What did they—?” Then the realization set in upon him, and his face went ashen. “Drina. They got Drina.”

“Yes,” said Bram grimly. “I was hiding in the shadows and saw Fagin drag her out, followed by his vampyric brethren.”

“And did they—?” The Artful was unable even to finish the sentence, unwilling to put to voice his fear for what they had done to her.

At first, Bram didn’t quite understand Dodger’s hesitancy, but then he did. “Oh. No, no, they didn’t slay her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“They’re vampyres. What else would I be worried about?”

“I think there’s plenty to worry about, starting with what they are doing to her, whatever that is.” He frowned. “It was strange, the way they referred to her, though.”

“Referred to her?” Dodger didn’t understand. “How did they refer to her?”

“They kept calling her ‘your Highness.’ They did it mockingly, of course. They were making fun of her. But still: ‘Right this way, your Highness. Best not struggle, your Highness.’ They kept
saying
things like that to her. I mean . . .” He shook his head, clearly bewildered. “I don’t pretend to know royalty in various countries. There’s no way I could keep track of them. But there’s no way she’s a queen, is there?”

“We don’t have a queen,” said Dodger. “I mean, all right, yes, we do. I guess. We have the Princess Victoria, and she has a daughter who will be the queen when she’s eighteen. Right now she’s—I don’t know—sixteen or seventeen.”

“What’s the princess’s name? The young princess.”

“Also Victoria. Alexandrina Victor—”

His voice trailed off, and for a long moment silence hung like a shroud between them.

“Bugger all,” said Dodger in a low, trembling voice. “You don’t think that she’s . . . I mean, it’s not possible, is it . . .?”

“Maybe not,” said Bram, “but the vampyres definitely think so. They think they’ve got their hands on the next ruler of England.”

The Artful was having extreme trouble processing it. For a moment, he was actually having difficulty standing, but that could be based on the fact that he had but recently descended from the abbey by way of being thrown out a window. “What do we do? What can we do?”

“We go after her,” said Bram. “Just as we would if she were just some ordinary girl. Princess or no, we do what any decent and God-fearing person would do. We track them down and rescue her and show the vampyres that they aren’t allowed to do this kind of thing.”

“You’re insane,” Dodger said incredulously. “You saw what they are, what they can do. They can do whatever they want to whomever they want. Who are you and me to tell them otherwise, eh?”

“We are the forces for right. And if we don’t, no one else will.”

There were so many things that Dodger wanted to say in response to that. He wanted to question the boy’s sanity. He
wanted
to tell Bram to sod off. He wanted to start walking and never look back. He wanted to distance himself from all this insanity as fast and as far as he possibly could.

All this and much more went through his mind.

Then he adjusted his hat and said, “Let’s go find her, then.”

ELEVEN

I
N
W
HICH THE
B
AKER
S
TREET
I
RREGULARS ARE
P
RESSED
I
NTO
S
ERVICE
A
LONG
W
ITH AN
O
LD
F
RIEND

M
r. Brownlow had never been the most imaginative of men, and so it was that when he went to sleep that night, he had never in his remotest dreams come up with the notion that something would disturb him and roust him from his slumber, and so it was that when he was in fact thrown from his slumbers by the pounding at his front door, it was a severely disconcerting sensation and one that he had no desire to repeat at any time in the near or even far future.

The sharp, disturbing, and urgent pounding at the door of the estate was more than enough to roust the people residing within. Mr. Brownlow was heading down the stairs, but the butler, performing his customary job duties, reached the door first. “I’ll attend to it, sir,” he said, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “It’s the middle of the night; you’ve no business being awake.”

“When someone deems it acceptable to come pounding at one’s doors at all hours of the morning, it seems my business cannot be helped,” said Brownlow. However, he remained where he was upon the stairs that led down to the main hall, waiting to see who was calling at such an hour.

The butler shuffled to the door. He was an elderly gentleman, having been in Mr. Brownlow’s employ to such a ripe age that one would think he was, by this point, entitled to the services of a butler himself. Yet he served because that was what he had been trained to do, and so he did.

He pulled open the door, and for just a moment fear flitted through his still groggy brain. He had not bothered to ask who was there; it might be some criminal who was intending to perform some manner of dire harm to whomever answered their summons. Yet it was one of those moments where he was already in motion and could not restrain himself from opening the door so as to see who was there.

It was most definitely two presences that he was not expecting. One was a teen boy with a tall hat set jauntily on his head. The other was a child with the most serious mien he had ever seen on a young man.

The older boy was all business. “We’re here to see Oliver,” he said. “He still lives here? You didn’t just throw him out, did you?”

“What?” The butler stared in confusion and then turned to Mr. Brownlow. “What?” he said again.

“What is your interest in Oliver?” asked Mr. Brownlow. Still standing perched at the top of the steps, he descended several in order to convey the idea that, at the very least, his interest was engaged.

“We need his help.”

“How did you know he was here?”

The older boy made a dismissive noise. “I keep up on the whereabouts of all me former associates. Just the way I operate.”

“Wait a moment,” said Mr. Brownlow. He advanced more steps so that he was now merely a full man’s height taller than his visitors. “I know you. I’ve seen you in court some years back.”

“You have quite the memory, sir.”

“I remember the clothes. You were a young man wearing men’s clothing that was far too big on you. You are wearing the same outfit. You just seem to have grown into it somewhat.”

“An eye for fashion you have, and good on you for that. But much as I’d love to discuss this with you at great length, we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“What’s your name?”

The boy seemed to hesitate, and then bowed and said, “Jack Dawkins, at your service, sir.”

Mr. Brownlow assumed that to be a false name since the boy had hesitated before saying it, causing Brownlow to conclude that he had a real name he wished to keep to himself. That was acceptable to Brownlow; it did not matter to him what the lad’s true name was, so long as he departed the premises with all due speed. Indeed, he briefly considered simply closing the door in the boy’s face and being done with him, but quickly he dismissed the notion for two reasons. The first is that the boy would doubtless just start pounding again. And second, it wasn’t exactly polite. “What can I do for you, Mr. Dawkins?”

“I’m here t’speak to Oliver, if you’d be so kind.”

“I think I would rather not be so kind,” replied Brownlow. “He does not need to be disturbed by random boys at such an ungodly hour as this.”

“Random boys!” said Dawkins, his voice quivering with indignity. “Thanks to this random boy, you met Oliver in the first place. If it weren’t for me, you’d never have seen him, never brought him to this fine mansion out in the—”

“Wait a moment,” said Brownlow. “I met Oliver when I mistakenly thought he picked my pocket. Are you saying
you
were the actual thief?”

Dawkins started to respond readily but then stopped.
Different
expressions warred upon his face before he finally settled for an abashed grin. “I obviously didn’t plan this through too well . . . .”

“You’re fortunate I don’t have you arrested!”

Before Dawkins could reply, the youngster with him stepped forward. “Sir, none of this matters,” a statement that, coming from a child, seemed impossibly serious—and yet, Brownlow found himself intrigued. The boy continued, “We are here because we need a fast ride back to London. That is literally all we require. The Artful . . . Mister Dawkins here,”—and he gestured toward the older lad—“he recalled that you had a house in these parts and thought you might be able to aid us in this matter.”

“And why would I do that? Why would I do anything other than have my man see you back into the streets where you belong?”

“Because,” said the young man, “vampyres have kidnapped the future queen of England. We discerned from things they
said that
they were returning to London, but we have no idea where they have taken her and are hoping that we can catch up with them, find her, and save your nation’s future.”

Unsurprisingly, Brownlow had no ready answer for that. “What?” He looked to Dawkins, who simply nodded, although he rolled his eyes as he did so. It was evident that he was unenthused about the young man’s reply but did not consider it his place to gainsay him. “Is he serious?”

“Completely,” said Dawkins. “We were hoping that Oliver might be able t’arrange transit for us back to London.”

For a long moment, he stared at them silently. Then in a loud, firm voice, he said, “Frost.”

Frost, who happened to be the butler, turned and looked at his master. “Yes, sir?”

“Awaken Quinn. Have him ready the carriage and bring these two lads wherever they need to go.”

Frost’s eyes widened in surprise. “Excuse me, sir?”

“You are excused, but I am reasonably certain you heard me.”

“Sir, are you sure? This . . .” He paused, gesturing toward the two lads. “This tale they’re spinning—it’s utter nonsense.”

“Yes, it is. But what if it is truth?”

“Truth?”

“If it is true, and the young Princess Victoria is indeed in trouble, and these lads can attend to it, then they should be allowed to do so. And what citizens of England would we be if we stood in their way or impeded them?”

The butler had no ready answer for that—aloud, that is. His face spoke volumes, though, and it wasn’t hard to translate his expression to answer his master’s question with “Bloody sane ones, sir.”

Even the older boy, Dawkins, seemed surprised. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“I believe the customary reply is ‘Thank you.’ But I need a promise from you before I lend you my services.”

“Anything, sir.”

“You,” he said firmly, “are never again to approach Oliver for any service, under any circumstance. Ever. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” said Dawkins, and he even gave a slight bow.

“See to it, Frost.” That was clearly Brownlow’s last comment on the topic, but as he headed back up the stairs, apparently young Mr. Dawkins could not restrain himself.

“Mr. Brownlow?”

Brownlow turned on the stairs and stared down at him, waiting for the next words to come from the teenager’s mouth. It appeared at first that Dawkins was having difficulty thinking of those next words, but finally he spoke them. “Why? Why did you believe? I mean, I had an entire fake story to tell you. Wasn’t expectin’ this one,” he said, gesturing toward the younger lad, “to opt to be so damned honest. And yet he tells you the entire truth, and you believe it, as unlikely as it sounds . . . .”

“I don’t believe it,” said Brownlow. “It is completely
preposterous
. I am ninety-nine percent certain that this is some pure feat of imagination. On the other hand, however, that leaves the faint one percent to allow for the possibility that you are speaking the truth. And if that is the case, then a gentleman cannot ignore it. Quinn is quite the skilled driver, and he will come with you to serve your needs during the ‘emergency’, which is likely not happening at all. If it is, however, then do give the young princess my regards when you see her. I had the occasion to meet her once when she was about ten. She was polite but sad, which is unfortunately about all that could be expected under her personal situation. You will see to that, will you not?”

The boys both nodded.

“Off with you, then,” said Brownlow, and he continued upstairs.

As he walked down the hallway, a bedroom door opened. A young man was standing there, rubbing his eyes. “What is the matter, sir?”

“Nothing you need worry yourself over, Oliver. Go back to sleep.”

“But—”

Brownlow rested an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “
Oliver
, we moved out here because I wanted to get you out of London and into a fresh, new environment.”

“I know.” The boy was staring at him with a distinct lack of comprehension. “What does that have to do with everyone being up so early?”

For a long moment, Brownlow stood there, all the possible responses warring within his head. Then he gave the small smile that Oliver knew so well. “Not a blessed thing. Return to bed. I know I’m going to.”

“All right,” said Oliver Twist, uncertain of what had just transpired, but knowing that if Mr. Brownlow was confident with the situation, then everything must be all right.

Oliver returned to his bedroom and lay down. There he remained for long minutes, his mind awhirl. There had been
someone
at the front door, of that he was quite certain. One of the
voices
had even sounded faintly familiar, but he could not be sure of the individual’s identity. And it was obvious that, whoever it was,
Mr. Brownlow
didn’t want him to have anything to do with him.

Who could it have been, though?

At that moment, he heard the sound of hoof beats. Whoever it was, that person was moving quite quickly.

Immediately Oliver was out of bed, his bedclothes swirling around his legs. He went to the window just in time to see
Mr. Brownlow’s
horse and carriage go charging by. He had no idea who was in it, however. Mr. Brownlow it was not, though. He had told Oliver he was returning to sleep, and never in their relationship had Mr. Brownlow had cause to lie to him, so Oliver fully expected that now was not the time that he was going to start. But that left the question of who was in the coach?

He started to turn and head for the door but then stopped. Brownlow obviously knew who it was, and as he hadn’t mentioned it to Oliver, he obviously did not want the lad to know. If that was the case, well . . . that was that. For Oliver did not have the sort of disposition that led him to challenge those who were above him. Indeed, the last time he had, daring to ask for more food, it had sent all manner of living hell into motion. He did not expect Brownlow to subject him to a similar punishment, but nevertheless it would be fair to say that he had learned his lesson.

Oliver returned to bed.

Quinn was not what Dodger had expected. He didn’t seem inclined to speak about his background, but he came across as
being
a former member of the army. Or perhaps a pirate, although Dodger had to admit he was being rather fanciful in that imagining . . . although he further had to admit that tonight had been more fanciful than any he had experienced previously. Regardless, Quinn was square built, with thick grayish muttonchops, and when he spoke, which was infrequent, he did so with a low and slightly impatient growl. He acted deferentially to Dodger and Bram because he had been told to do so, but apparently he had also been told of the specifics of their mission and so regarded them with a healthy dose of doubt.

And who could blame him? The Artful certainly could not.

“Where are we going again?” said Bram as the coach rattled around them. It was not the fanciest means of transportation existent, but at least it was going to get them where they needed to be, wherever that was. “You don’t know where Drina is, do you?”

“No,” said Dodger grimly. “But I’ll wager the vampyres do.”