Artful: A Novel (23 page)

Sanguine Harry smiled grimly into Dodger’s face. “You gave it a good run, lad. You truly did. Tell you what: You’d make a worthwhile student. How about if I don’t kill you? How about I turn you into one of me?”

“One of you? A vampyre, you mean?”

“O’ course that’s what I mean. Granted, it’d run contrary to orders. But I doubt that Mr. Fang would offer too strenuous an objection once the deed was done. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, I always say.” He nudged Dodger. It was almost a friendly gesture. “Come on, lad. You’ll wind up just like your precious Victoria. You’d probably enjoy it.”

“I probably would.”

“All right!” Sanguine Harry for the first time actually seemed cheered by the prospect. “So first, I drain you. And then I open a vein and you drink from me. Ya ready?”

“Sure,” said Dodger, trying to grin.

Sanguine Harry brought his face down toward Dodger’s throat, and that was when the Artful Dodger slammed his head forward as hard as he could. It crashed into Harry’s face, and the vampyre let out a loud yell of pain. He staggered, clutching at his face, and he momentarily lost his hold on Dodger. The
Artful
pulled away from him, his shirt tearing slightly as he did so, and he started to run. Unfortunately, he only managed to get five feet this time and then Sanguine Harry was upon him. Harry was clearly taking no more chances as he bore Dodger to the ground, face down. The Artful slammed into the walkway with such jarring force that it almost knocked a tooth loose.

From behind him, Harry snarled, “I gave you a chance, boy. I could have made you one of us. Now, though . . . now you die.”

The Artful braced himself as Sanguine Harry brought his teeth down toward Dodger’s throat. He tossed out a final prayer to a God that he was sure wasn’t bothering to listen to him, that Bram somehow managed to get out of police custody and take over for him in rescuing Drina during the few hours they had left.

He expected to hear nothing but silence from the Lord. What he didn’t expect was Sanguine Harry gasping into his ear.

He frowned and tried to look behind him but was not in a good position to see much of anything. Then Sanguine Harry gasped again and started to tremble violently. He was no longer making any effort to keep Dodger flat upon the ground, and Artful managed to twist around and shove Harry off himself. He gaped in astonishment at what he saw.

A stake was sticking out of Sanguine Harry’s back. Harry’s eyes had blackened over, and his head was still shaking violently.

Someone was standing behind Harry; clearly, it was the individual who had shoved the stake home. The Artful stared at him and he could not believe what he was seeing.

It was Fagin.

His mouth was twisted into a triumphant snarl. “Hello,
dearie
,” he said, his voice an amused whisper.

Harry was actually trying to get to his feet, but Fagin gave him no opportunity. Instead, he interlaced his fingers and slammed them down in a two-fisted smash onto the part of the stake that was protruding. It drove the stake even more thoroughly into Sanguine Harry’s heart, and Harry let out a scream so loud that Dodger clapped his hands over his ears.

It wasn’t necessary, for as quickly as the scream had released, Harry fell forward with a disgusting splotching sound. His body began to rot away, aging what seemed a thousand years in a matter of seconds. Just that fast, his body was gone, and the threat of Sanguine Harry along with it.

A long silence followed as Dodger clambered to his feet and faced his former mentor. Then Fagin reached down and yanked the stake out of Harry’s back. The remains of his body trembled ever so slightly, and then the last of the aging passed through him. He crumbled away into nothing except a pile of old clothes.

Fagin stared down at him for a moment and picked up the coat. Then he tossed it over to Dodger, who caught it more automatically than out of desire. “It’ll be big on ye, but that’s ’ardly a new sensation for ye, eh?”

“Why?” said Dodger. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill him?”

“Because he irritated me somethin’ fierce,” said Fagin. He was studying the stake as if it was something new to him. “As he did ye as well, I’d guess. Here,” he said, lobbing the stake to Dodger, who caught it easily. “You’ll prob’ly be needing this. You’re going after Mr. Fang, I imagine.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Best of luck to ye then.”

The Artful couldn’t believe it. “You just killed the thing that was trying t’kill me and now you’re walking away?”

“That’s right,” said Fagin. “B’cause there may be no love lost twixt me and Mr. Fang, but that don’t mean I’m tending to go face to face with ’im. Best leave that to ye, Dodger. And Mr. Fang
is
who ye want. He’s the one what changed your little princess into one of us.”

“I know.”

“Oh, ye know, do ye? Best hurry to the palace then if ye have any hope of trying to stop him from making the change permanent. As for us,”—and he gestured toward Dodger and then
himself
—“I fancy we’re even now.”

“Even?”

“For my small part in the death of yer mum. Granted, I didn’t do the deed meself, but I was still part of the entire business, and believe it or not, I felt bad about it for quite some time. But now I saved yer life, so t’my mind, we’re square. A life for a life.”

“We,” said Dodger quietly, “will never be even, Fagin. Not ever. My life was destroyed ’cause of you, and I will never f’get that or f’give you.”

“Well then,” said Fagin, and he bowed mockingly, “then best of luck to ye anyway. And perhaps we will meet in more favorable circumstances at some point in the future.”

With that, Fagin backed away into the shadows, which reached out and swallowed him, leaving Dodger alone in the street.

His mind was in a tumult. He was reeling from Hudgens’s beating, as well as Harry’s attack, and now Fagin saving him. He could scarcely parse a bit of it. And it was then that things clicked for Dodger: There was no time for making sense. Only time for action. Observe and react, just as he’d been doing his whole life—just as he’d failed to do when his mother was killed.

Realizing he had no other choice, Dodger returned to the carriage. Quinn’s body was lying on the ground, and the horse was neighing pitifully. Unsure of what to do, Dodger decided that the first thing he needed to do was attend to Quinn. He managed to haul Quinn’s body upright and slowly, laboriously, shoved the body into the carriage. He was huffing and puffing mightily and, once the feat was accomplished, he slammed the door. Quinn’s dead body sat upright in the carriage, slumped over to one side.

Now what? Now what?
The same frantic thought kept on racing through his head, but no immediate reply was presenting itself. Now what indeed?
Figure out the situation and then react, old chum
. He had to find a way to get into Buckingham Palace so that he could get to Drina and, even more importantly, to Mr. Fang. If he did not manage to slay Mr. Fang, Drina would permanently be a vampyre once the clock struck midnight.

Of course, his reaction—his plan—wasn’t quite as
fully
formed as he might have hoped. He still had to get into
Buckingham
. He had to get past the assortment of guards and penetrate the deepest recesses of the most heavily guarded building in the entirety of the kingdom. And counting travel time to get to Westminster, he would have barely an hour or so to figure it out.

“Then I’s got an hour to do the figurin’,” he said. He clambered up onto the seat that Quinn had previously been occupying. He hoped that the horse knew what to do, because Dodger only had the vaguest idea. “Yah!” he shouted because he felt obliged to shout something. The horse actually turned and looked at him in bewilderment, as if trying to figure out who this new individual was and what in the world had happened to the man who was supposed to be there. The Artful shouted, “Yah!” a second time, snapping the reins with what he hoped was pronounced authority. The horse seemed to respect this to a certain degree, and it started forward. The Artful flicked the reins one more time, and the horse actually sped up. It wasn’t galloping, but at least it was moving at a brisk trot.

Now all he had to do was figure out how he was going to gain access into the palace.

Fast.

FIFTEEN

I
N
W
HICH
W
E
L
EARN THE
D
ETAILS OF
D
RINA
’
S
R
ETURN
H
OME

W
e have thus far been remiss in describing, in any detail, Princess Alexandrina Victoria’s homecoming (which is entirely our responsibility) due to the fact that there was so much transpiring with Dodger and Bram that our attention remained focused upon them, but now, because we have a few minutes to breathe while Dodger makes his way to the place where the climax of our tale is to be found, we feel constrained to flesh out for you the circumstances of Drina’s return.

At first, believe it or not, she had trouble gaining access to her own home. Pity the guards, none of whom had ever actually had the opportunity to view their future monarch in any sort of proximity. So what they beheld was the unassuming, if mildly threatening, form of Mr. Fang approaching the great front gates in the company of a somewhat disheveled streetwalker. One of the guards stepped smartly forward, bringing his rifle across his upper body as a means of quietly informing the two approaching individuals that they were not to advance any farther.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Fang inquired.

“I am stopping you in your path, sir,” replied the guard. “What is your business here?”

“My business is with the mother of Princess Alexandrina
Victoria
.”

“And what business could you possibly have with her?”

“I have her daughter right here.”

The guard stared at him skeptically. “You have the princess with you. This . . . person?” He flicked a skeptical look at Drina.

“This person,” said Mr. Fang, “is your future queen, and I strongly suggest you provide her with the respect that her office is due.”

The guard actually chuckled at that. Think kindly of him, we beg you: He was in fact unaware that the princess had departed the palace. The adults in her life had done a superb job of keeping that fact as quiet as possible, and even the guardsmen had been kept from knowing. So he had no reason to think that Mr. Fang was anything other than a nutter. “This is the future queen? This is Princess Alexandrina Victoria?”

“That is correct.”

“Right. And I’m the king o’ Spain.” He pointed at the street. “Be off with you.”

Mr. Fang was not to be deterred. “I wish to speak with your commanding officer. Now, if you please.”

The guard blew some air impatiently through his mouth. At this point, he was inclined to march them to the street, but the turmoil being created by Mr. Fang’s insistence served to accomplish exactly what he had desired: The noise and the back and forth was overheard by the captain of the palace guard, who chose to discover just what was responsible for causing such a ruckus.

And so the captain strode forward and said brusquely, “What is it?”

Mr. Fang started to speak, but Drina put a hand on his shoulder to indicate that she would handle matters from here. She strode forward and looked into the eyes of the captain of the guards. “Roderick, is it not?” was all she said.

The captain seemed to see her for the first time, and
then he gasped. “Princess!” he cried out. “What . . . I don’t understand . . . I . . .” Then he managed to gain control of himself, snapped upright, and saluted her smartly while simultaneously averting his eyes so that he was not staring directly into hers. “Highness! How can we help you?”

“You can let me into my home,” she said in a soft but commanding voice.

“At once, Highness. Guards!” he called out, clapping his hands briskly. The guards immediately came running. The younger guard who had challenged her when she had first
arrived
had gone deathly white. The only thing he could think of to do was stand perfectly still, his right hand snapped into a salute at the brim of his tall black hat. The rest of the guards in the immediate area formed a circle around Drina and Mr. Fang and escorted them to the interior confines of Buckingham Palace.

Princess Victoria, the mother of Princess Alexandrina
Victoria
, was there to meet her at the door. Her full name, it should be noted in the interest of being complete, was Princess Mary Louise Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, but Princess Victoria was how she was more routinely referred to around the palace. Thus was her daughter frequently referred to as the Princess Alexandrina so that everyone knew whom everyone else was talking about at any given moment. It is unclear how she knew that her daughter had returned, but nevertheless there she was. Her entire body was sagging in relief the moment that her daughter was in view.
“
Alexandrina
!”
she cried out. “Oh my lord! Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you! Absolutely sick!” Truth to tell, it was a somewhat extraordinary and over-the-top reaction for a personage of royal blood to be indulging in—although not for a mother—and certainly no one felt it was their place to gainsay her.

Drina approached her slowly, and her mother met her halfway, throwing her arms around her and embracing her tightly. “How could you do that?” she demanded. The princess was
endeavoring
to apply her sterner mother’s voice rather than her concerned mother’s voice, with a variance of success. “How could you sneak out of the palace in such a way?”

“No harm came from it, Mother.”

“No harm! Look at you! You look as if you haven’t bathed in days! And what is this dress that you’re wearing? And . . .” Her attention finally seemed to focus on Drina’s companion. “And who is this?”

“This is Mr. Fang,” said Drina. She gestured for him to approach, which he obediently did. “He is a police magistrate. He is the one who found me out in the streets and took it upon himself to return me safely.”

“Well, then!” said the princess. “It behooves me to thank him properly.”

The princess was an attractive woman. Her hair was short, brown and curly; her eyes were brown; her face, round and
comely
. She approached Mr. Fang with an arm still draped around her daughter’s shoulders, holding her tightly against her body. “M
r. . . . Fan
g, is it?”

“Yes, your Highness.” He bowed deeply.

“Mr. Fang, the royal family is in your debt. And in England, such debts are paid in full. Do you have a price in mind?”

He gave her an odd look and then permitted a smile. “I assure you, Highness, I seek no remuneration. The time I’ve had to spend with your daughter is certainly compensation enough.”

“Nonsense!” said Drina, perfectly on cue. “I insist that
Mr. Fang
be welcomed to Buckingham as if it were his own home and join us in a late repast.”

“That will not be necessary,” Mr. Fang assured them. “I am not even hungry.” That was a clever thing for him to say as he would, in fact, not be especially inclined to eat any food put out for him. Drina was still recent enough to her human
incarnation
that she was capable of ingesting human food, but Mr. Fang had long left such delicacies behind.

“I insist,” Drina repeated, “and as a princess, I feel it is my right to have my wishes accommodated.”

“Alexandrina,” her mother said stiffly, “if the man has no
desire
. . . .”

To her mother’s utter astonishment, Drina refused to take no for an answer. “I insist, Mother.”

Princess Victoria’s mouth moved for a long moment, but no words emerged. Then she forced a smile. “Of course. Whatever you wish, Alexandrina. Pintel!” The voice rang over the space of the great hall, and seconds later a servant appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. “Pintel, bring Mr. Fang to a waiting room. Then inform the kitchen we would appreciate a light repast be set up. See to it, would you? Oh, and inform Sir Conroy of the current situation.”

“Yes, Highness,” said Pintel, bowing deeply. He turned to
Mr. Fang
and gestured for him to follow, which Mr. Fang did.
Princess
Victoria then took her daughter’s arm in her own and walked quickly to the huge, main stairs. They walked up the stairs, without a word, until they finally arrived at Drina’s bedroom. The princess closed the door behind her and her daughter.

“Mother,” Drina started to say.

She did not get past the first syllable. The princess’s hand flew and struck Alexandrina across her right cheek. Drina staggered, and Victoria struck her a second time. This time the blow was so vicious that it literally knocked Drina off her feet. She fell to the ground, landing heavily, cracking her elbow badly.

“How dare you!” her mother said with uncontained fury. “How dare you slip out of the palace! How dare you go off on your own! Do you have any idea who you are? Do you know what sort of responsibilities you have to both yourself and your kingdom? If your father were alive, he would likely kill you with his own hands!”

Drina lay where she was for a long moment. In her head, her response to the princess’s actions was quite clear. In her head, she leaped to her feet, and her fangs snapped out. She vaulted across the distance of the room between them, landing on her mother’s chest and slamming her to the floor. Her mother screeched and squirmed under her, begging for
mercy
, not quite understanding what was happening to her. Then Drina sank her fangs into her mother’s throat, and Princess Victoria screamed and thrashed violently. She did everything she could to extricate herself from her daughter’s attentions, but it did no good. All that happened was that her thrusts and shoves became weaker and weaker, and within moments ceased altogether. At that point, Drina lifted her head and let out a triumphant shriek, as if she were loudly welcoming her entire life to come.

All of this, as we said, passed through her mind. She did not, however, do it. Instead, she remained where she was, rubbing her jaw but otherwise not saying anything. She simply stared levelly at her mother, without speaking.

Her mother was breathing heavily from the strain of slapping her daughter so viciously. Finally, her temper began to settle. Then tears started to dribble from her eyes. Drina was appalled at the sentimental display. She’d almost have preferred that her mother continue to batter her, because perhaps that would finally have provoked her into physical retaliation.

Instead, her mother sighed heavily, wiping the tears away. “I am so sorry, Alexandrina. I should not have done that. I was
angry
, yes, but that is no excuse for taking such an action against you. Can you forgive me?”

Drina was not the least bit interested in forgiving her. Drina wanted to drain her dry. It would take no time at all.

But she knew she could not—
must
not. That was not
Mr. Fang’
s plan. His plan was very specific, and her mother needed to live, at least for a while, for the plan to reach fruition. There were too many people in Drina’s life who could stand in opposition to
Mr. Fang
, and at least for the time being Princess Victoria was
going
to be necessary to accomplish that.

And so, lying through her fanged teeth, Drina simply nodded and said, “Yes. Yes, of course I forgive you.”

Her mother went to her and extended a hand. Drina took it and allowed her mother to haul her to her feet. Her mother looked her up and down and shook her head. “Where did you get this ensemble?” she asked.

“From a woman. She was trying to help. My own clothes were soiled.”

“Well, let’s get you bathed and attended to. And then we shall join your Mr. Fang for a meal, and all will be accounted for.”

“That would be superb,” said Drina, and she forced a smile.

Mr. Fang was rather impressed by the room in which he had been asked to wait. It was filled with paintings of heroic, armored individuals. He found it a bit amusing to see Britons so valiantly represented in the midst of combat.

The furniture was likewise quite luxurious. Mr. Fang dropped into one particularly ornate chair and simply sat there, unmoving and unbreathing, although it would have taken a particularly sharp eye to make note of that second fact.

There was a noise at the double doors that provided entrance into the room. Immediately, Mr. Fang was on his feet, taking the time to straighten his coat in anticipation of the princess’s entrance. It was not, however, a princess who
entered
—either
princess
. Instead, it was a tall, stately, dignified gentleman. His black hair, streaked with a few shades of gray, was brushed back, and he sported rather large, and yet understated, muttonchops. He looked down his nose at Mr. Fang in a way that Mr. Fang found rather off-putting. But he tolerated it because killing the man did not seem a reasonable option.

The man walked stiffly with an elegant walking stick. He didn’t require it for actual locomotion; it was simply for show.

“May I help you?” Mr. Fang said with measured politeness.