Artful: A Novel (15 page)

“Why are they at the Bazaar?”

“To make sure he doesn’t leave.” Wiggins glanced skyward. “Not terribly likely. It’s broad daylight, after all. Still, it’s always wiser not to underestimate what vampyres are capable of doing.”

“Make sure
who
doesn’t leave?”

Wiggins once more glanced right and left, as if concerned that someone might be eavesdropping. Then he lowered his voice and said softly, “One of me boys thinks there may be an actual
vampyre
in the chamber of horrors. He says a body showed up there the other day outta nowhere.”

“Couldn’t it just be another waxwork?”

“My boy doesn’t think so. He’s pretty sure he saw it breathin’. Or doin’ whatever it is they do that passes for breathin’.”

“Sounds like a hell of a long shot to me,” said Dodger, who was hardly convinced that this was what they were searching for.

“You have a better idea?”

The Artful started to fire off a reply but then stopped. The truth was that he had no better idea, and not only was he aware of it, but so was Wiggins, who smiled grimly. “All right then,” said Wiggins. “Off you go. You know where it is?” The Artful nodded, trying not to show his distaste. “Fine.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Twelve shillings so that you two can get in. I don’t want you to have to pick someone’s pocket in order to gain entrance.”

“Damned decent of you,” said the Artful.

“Just trying to keep my street clear of . . . well, people like you, truth to tell.”

Dodger nodded in acknowledgment of the sentiment, and they then parted ways.

It was a short walk to the Bazaar, and Dodger dreaded it the entire way. But he knew he had absolutely no choice. The fact that the Irregulars had been of any help at all was nothing short of miraculous; he and Bram simply did not have the option of asking more than they already had.

A few people were filing in at the open double doors of the
Bazaar
. They were chattering eagerly amongst themselves. Dodger could discern from what they were saying that all of them were out-of-town travelers; no return guests in his
particular
outing. He was not certain why, but he took some degree of comfort
in that.

The first room to engage the tourists when they entered was the exhibit of the French Revolution. It could take quite some time to see it, and that suited Dodger just fine. “This way,” he murmured to Bram, and the two lads headed straight for the signs that
pointed
them to the chamber of horrors. Even as he passed through, the Artful Dodger became more and more concerned. They were not heading into this situation with anything resembling a plan, and lack of planning was a good way to get oneself nicked at the very least. But the fact was that they simply did not have time to plan. Everything had to be done as expeditiously as possible, and so there was nothing for it but to throw themselves directly into matters and pray that it all worked out to their advantage.

Quickly the two lads sidled into the chamber of horrors. Dodger had been braced for it but it was nevertheless, at least initially, bordering on the overwhelming. He was faced with an assortment of creatures spat up from the most hideous and unfortunate aspects of human imagination. They were surrounded by wax vampyres, werewolves, and creatures climbing up out of the depths, with every intention of lunging straight at anyone who happened to be nearby. The interior of the place had been properly done up, giving the lads the impression that they had somehow wandered into a haunted forest somewhere in eastern Europe. It was disturbingly simple to forget that they were in the heart of London. They might well have been on the native ground of these monstrosities, face to face with them with no hope of survival.

Artful felt his heartbeat speeding up rapidly, and he had to do everything within his abilities to slow himself down to something more manageable. He took slow, steady breaths in an attempt to keep calm. He reminded himself that just last night he had been face to face with the actual monstrosities that were merely being represented here, and he had managed to survive. If he had accomplished that much, then this should be no problem for him at all.

A hand suddenly touched his arm, and he jumped involuntarily, letting out a cry of fright. It took a moment for his
scattered
brain to process the fact that it was merely Bram
making
contact
. Bram, for his part, appeared completely at ease. The
Artful
Dodger
was beginning to think that there was nothing in the world capable of throwing Abraham Van
Helsing
for a loop. He did not know whether to feel reassured by that. He was,
after
all, accustomed to thinking rather highly of himself and his
capacity
for adjusting to unusual situations. Yet here, with the vampyres, he had been slow to do so whereas Bram had had no difficulties whatsoever in rolling with whatever machinations the
vampyres had
engaged in. To acknowledge Bram’s skill in adjustments
was to
acknowledge where he was coming up short. He didn’t feel quite ready for that.

“Over there,” said Bram, and he pointed toward the far end of the chamber of horrors. “Everything else is out and open to inspection. But over there is sheltered.”

“Yes, it is,” said Dodger. He could see exactly what Bram was pointing at: It was a coffin that read, “Final Resting Place of
Dracula
.”

“Who’s Dracula?” asked Artful.

“A former Romanian prince,” replied Bram. “Supposedly several hundred years old. When he was alive, he was known as Vlad the Impaler for his habit of beheading his opponents and putting their heads on pikes.”

“How lovely.” He paused. “I suspect you don’t believe that Dracula is within there.”

“Dracula is somewhere in the world,” replied Bram. “In
Romania
, I should think. But he is most definitely not in there, no.”

“Then let’s see who or what is.”

Artful glanced around, and his eyes widened. There was a “vampyre” off to the right who was leaning on a skull-headed walking stick. The Artful had been sorely missing his own ever since it had been shattered in action, and he saw this as a genuine opportunity to retrieve something. Plus he would be able to put it to immediate use.

He crossed quickly to the vampyre, stepping over the rope that was hanging to keep the public at bay. It might serve
fine fo
r ordinary museumgoers, but that was certainly not an accurate description of the Artful Dodger. Carefully, so as not to damage the figure, he extracted the cane from it. He wielded it back and forth and smiled. Yes. This would do extremely nicely.

Immediately, he strode back across the room and went to the coffin. “Get ready,” he said. Bram nodded and extracted quite possibly the largest cross that Dodger had ever seen from within the folds of his coat. The Artful could not quite believe that Bram had managed to keep that secreted on his person all this time, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Indeed, at this point there was nothing that Bram could say or do that would wind up surprising the Artful.

The Artful shoved the end of the cane into the separation just under the lid and levered it. The lid resisted at first, and it took Dodger several attempts to manage to get it moving. Finally, though, he accomplished it, and he began prying the lid open. Bram, shoving the cross into his belt, lent a hand and
began
to pull with far greater strength than Dodger would have credited him to possess. The Artful then stepped in and added his own strength to the endeavor, and within moments, they had managed to shove the lid open.

Part of the Artful had suspected that this was all for naught—that they would either find the coffin empty or else it would have a wax figure of the imagined Count Dracula.

Instead, there was a body in there. It was not doing anything except lying there. Its face, however, was badly scarred.

Dodger recognized it immediately. It was the vampyre that had attacked them on the hansom cab. The one at whom he had spat and whose skin he had wound up sizzling because he had been drinking tea made with holy water.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

Bram recognized him as well. “I wager he would recognize you quite easily.”

“I would take that wager. He’s sound asleep, though. How do we wake him up?”

“I’m not sure,” said Bram. “I know that a vampyre sleeps very deeply. When he is asleep, I’m not sure there is any way to awaken him. He will likely be unconscious for—”

At that moment, the vampyre’s eyes snapped open. He took one look at the boys staring down at him and let out a shriek of anger and terror mixed together.

“You sure about that?” said Dodger, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

The vampyre, with a roar, leaped up and out of the coffin, which rattled around him as he moved. He vaulted through the air, landed, turned, and spun to face the two lads. His lips were drawn back in fury, and his fangs protruded from them.

Bram pulled his crucifix from his belt and held it up.

If God was at all interested in what was happening, then perhaps this was evidence of that, because the vampyre shrank back, bringing his hands up defensively and gasping out a startled and angry hiss. He snarled several extremely unfortunate and ungentlemanly words, none of which Dodger or Bram would ever care to repeat.

Then, to their astonishment, he turned and ran.

The boys did not hesitate: They ran directly after him.

He dashed from the chamber of horrors directly into the French Revolution display. Various visitors gasped in confusion upon his entrance, and two women fainted at the sight of his heavily scarred face. He looked right and left for some manner of escape. Momentarily, he turned, perhaps toying with the idea of returning the way he’d come, but he saw the two lads in pursuit, with Bram waving the extremely large cross. The only remaining means of escape appeared to be the great front doors of the room.

He did not hesitate but made straight for them. He burst through the doors, but in the quest to leave the boys behind and make good his escape, he had apparently completely lost track of the time. As a result, when he threw open the doors, he was hit with a massive blast of sunlight.

The vampyre let out a high, ululating scream. Instinctively, he tried to do the only thing he could and retreat to within the wax museum, but that option was not open to him. The Artful Dodger plowed into him from behind, thrusting him forward. The vampyre fought back with everything he could, but at that moment he had no idea which way to focus his attentions: Should he concern himself with the scrappy, top-hatted young man, or the younger fellow wielding a cross, or the blazing heat of the sun? For once the perpetually foggy air of London had actually given way to the sun’s rays, and so he was experiencing the unfortunate sensation of literally being burned alive.

Quinn, standing next to the coach several feet away, reacted with widened eyes. “What’s all this, then?” he demanded.

“The door! Throw open the door!”
Dodger shouted, and Quinn—who had spent a lifetime obeying orders—did not fail in that capacity. Instantly, he yanked open the door to the coach, and the Artful shoved the burning vampyre toward it. Unable to comprehend why the boys appeared to be saving his life, but hardly in a position to question it, the vampyre allowed himself to be pushed in to salvation. Bram had run around the other side and was waiting at the far door, cross at the ready. The vampyre lay there gasping for several long moments, clutching at his skin. There were several patches of redness from where the sun had scored him, but otherwise he did not seem particularly the worse for wear. Finally, he managed to gather himself sufficiently to look at Dodger, who was leaning over him with his cane firmly in his hand, looking prepared to assail his victim with a series of blows.

“What’ll ye have of me?” demanded the vampyre. His voice was hoarse, and he was gasping for breath, which Dodger found curious considering that the vampyre had long since parted from the necessity of breathing. Doubtless, it was a lifelong habit that the simple act of dying was insufficient to dispose of.

“The girl your ilk captured,” Dodger said intently. “Where
is she?”

“I’ve no idea what yer speaking of.”

“Really?” Though that was exactly what Dodger had expected of him. The vampyre was evil incarnate, after all. He was unlikely to be honest first crack of the cricket bat. “Okay, then. We’ve no further need of ye.”

He nodded toward Bram and Bram, with a look of quiet determination, thrust the large crucifix through the window. He shoved it against the vampyre’s face, and the creature let out a scream so ear-splitting that it was all Dodger could do not to cover his ears. He refrained from doing so, however, for he was certain that such a move would make him appear weak.

“Wait! Wait!” the vampyre howled as he clawed at the cross. Bram withdrew it but kept it nearby, prepared at any moment to shove it forward again. The vampyre rubbed at his face and let out an irritated hiss. Then he dropped his voice and whispered, “You can’t help her.”

“Leave that to us,” said Dodger. “Now where is she?”

“And how do you know?” added Bram.

The vampyre looked disdainfully at Bram. “I know because I know, boy. We always know each other’s business. We’re joined in blood. You humans have no ken of that.”

“Not ’specially sure I want any ken of it,” said Dodger. “So out with it. Where is she?”

“I’m telling ye, she’s beyond ye,” the vampyre repeated. “All of this is beyond ye. Ye’d be well advised to get back to the shadows what spat ye out—”

Bram had clearly had enough. Yet again he shoved the cross forward, and once more the vampyre let out a high scream. This time Bram kept it pressed against his skin far longer. The vampyre shook and writhed on the bench, and it was all Dodger could do to hold him in place.