Artful: A Novel

  “But . . . you don’t know of a certainty that he was a spy,” said Drina. “He might well have been a child in genuine trouble.”

  “Not likely.”

  “All right, well,”—she gave a small shrug—“I suppose that you would be much more knowledgeable about these things than I would.”

  At first, Dodger nodded, pleased that she had wound up agreeing with him. But her voice had trailed off a bit at the end in a manner that raised his suspicions. “What d’ya mean by that?”

  “Mean by it? Nothing, really.”

  “I know what’cher thinkin’,” he said after a moment. “You’re figurin’ that right now, even as we’re here, there’s some kid what needs my help and I’m just sittin’ here laughin’ at ’im. And that Mary’s arranged even more problems for ’im, but here I am, not carin’.”

  “Well . . . you’re not,” said Drina reasonably. “I mean, it’s obvious you don’t care.”

  “And you do.”

  “A bit, yes.”

  “Why do you care?” said Dodger. He knew it should have been irrelevant to him, but he couldn’t help but ask.

  “Why do you not care? How long ago was it that you were a young lad in trouble, and someone stepped in to help you when he didn’t have to.”

  “You mean preyin’ on me, don’t’cher?”

  “Whatever his reason was, he helped you. From what you’ve said, you’d be dead if it weren’t for him.”

  “So what if that’s the case?”

  “So,” she said, and she pointed in the direction the boy had been sent, “it could be argued—and because you brought it up, then obviously you’re choosing to argue it—that you have a moral obligation to help him as you were helped by someone else.”

  “Get her! A moral obligation!” Mary howled with laughter over the prospect. “As if the Artful has anythin’ t’do with morals of any kind!” She continued to howl with merriment at the prospect, and the Artful Dodger felt a burning in his cheeks, and when he saw the way that Drina was looking at him, the disappointment in her face, the silent chastening in her eyes, he felt something for the first time in the entirety of his existence.

  He felt shame.

  He turned back to Mary and said, “What did he look like?”

  “What?”

  “The boy. What did he look like?”

  “Um . . . black coat, short pants. Square jaw, biggish nose, large forehead, shock of red hair . . . Dodger, you’re not thinkin’ of—”

  Taking Drina’s now gloved hand firmly, he said, “Let’s go get him,” and he started off at a rapid trot toward the Broken Nail.

  Mary, appalled, shouted after him, “You’re putting your neck in the noose, tryin’ t’ impress that Judy! You’ll be dancing on air, Dodger, mark me! Mark me!”

  The Artful Dodger did indeed mark her, and he was fully aware that there was every possibility that Mary was absolutely correct. But to his astonishment, he realized that he would rather face the possibility of dodging the law than the probability that Drina would give him another look of disappointment. He wasn’t entirely sure why the opinion of someone he had known a relatively brief time was of any consequence to him, but it was. Perhaps it was because she carried herself with a quiet air of authority and importance that consequently lent weight to her estimation of his character. It was an unusual sensation for Dodger, caring what someone else thought of him. There was something about Drina that made him want to be better than he was. To aspire to something beyond being the most skilled tooler—that is, pickpocket—in the whole of London.

  None of which he would admit to her, of course. There were some things that a gentleman simply did not discuss with a lady, and feelings were most definitely one of them. Ten of them, even.

  “I’m . . . I’m having trouble keeping up!” Drina said, and he realized she was gasping for breath.

  He felt a flash of anger despite everything, or perhaps because of everything. He wanted to tell her that if she was having problems, they were entirely of her own doing. Then, to make matters worse, he felt guilty over feeling angry. The girl was beginning to get on his nerves, twisting his emotions around the way she was, without even trying.

  Suddenly he saw a hackney rolling their way from behind, empty of passengers. Without hesitation, he let go of her hand and waved his arms to flag it down. The driver made eye contact with him and, flicking his whip, prepared to send the horse-drawn cab barreling right past, clearly unimpressed by the youth who was endeavoring to catch his attention.

  Drina looked from the Artful to the driver, and then she took in a breath and called out a single word, an order, in a voice that would not allow for even the slightest possibility of being ignored.

  “Halt!”

  Reflexively, automatically, the driver yanked hard on the reins, forcing the horse to a stop so abruptly that the animal let out a startled and irritated whinny of protest.

  Without waiting for the driver to clamber down, Drina strode forward and yanked open the door. “Get in,” she said to the Artful and then fixed an angry glare upon the driver. “Is that what you consider proper business conduct? Ignoring a customer who was endeavoring to engage your services?”

  The driver looked taken aback. “Sorry, miss,” he said. “Didn’t mean nothing by it. Just meant to be a bit of a laugh.”

  Icily she said, “We are not amused.”

  They clambered in, and the Artful Dodger gave quick instructions. The driver sent the horse speeding down the King’s Way while Dodger kept his eyes upon the road in front of them, scanning the walks, trying to catch a glimpse of the lad that he was certain they would overtake. He did take time, however, to glance toward Drina. The heat of the moment having passed, she seemed ever so slightly contrite. “I hope you’re not upset,” she said, “that I did that.”

  “You mean take charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. No, you were brilliant,” he said in wonderment. “I think . . . I think it’s good you’re strong.” He looked away from her then and said softly, “I cared about two women in my life. My mum. And a girl named Nancy. Both of them were gentle souls. Both of them paid for it with their lives. World don’t seem t’ welcome gentle souls. You stay strong, you take charge, and you can meet the world on its own terms, which means maybe you won’t go the way they did. That’s fine with me.”

  “Mr. Dawkins,” said Drina, “that may be the most sincere thing I’ve heard you say. I’m flattered. And . . . intrigued, to be honest. Are you insinuating that you care about—”

  “There!” said the Artful Dodger abruptly. “Pull over! There!”

  Just ahead of them, approaching the Broken Nail, was a boy who exactly matched the description that Mary had provided them. He was moving with quick, steady strides, his arms pumping furiously. It was remarkable how much distance those little legs could consume.

  And then two men seemed to come out of nowhere and grabbed the boy by either arm. They were cloaked in brown Inverness capes that were ragged and tatty around the edges. The boy let out a startled yelp and tried to pull away, but they easily hoisted him off his feet and carried him off into the darkness of a nearby alley.

  For half a heartbeat, the Artful was back in his young mind from years ago, and he saw his mother struggling in a similar dark alley. He remembered his cowardice, being frozen with indecision and fear, and doing nothing as she died.

  “Not again,” he snarled. “Not this time!” Without further hesitation, he vaulted out the side of the hansom cab as it rolled up, swinging his walking stick down and around at the head of the nearer of the two men.

  “Dodger, be careful!” Drina cried out.

  There was a sharp crack and Dodger landed on the sidewalk, looking up at the man whom he had bludgeoned with his cane . . . only to find the man was looking down at him without the slightest indication of any
injury. A clang alerted Dodger to dart his eyes downward, where he saw the heavy metal head of the cane landed on the street, having snapped clean off.

  “Let him go!” shouted the boy, struggling furiously in the hands of the man who was holding him. “Don’t hurt anybody because of me!” His voice sounded odd, foreign. Clearly he was not English, and that crime alone was sufficient to prompt the Artful to wonder why he was bothering.

  Both men had—there was no other way to say it—evil faces. They had distended brows; small, ferocious eyes; and scraggly black hair, coupled with a stench like the dead coming off them. One of them said to the boy, “Ya should have thought of that before ya run off!”

  Meanwhile, the one who had shown no ill effects from Dodger’s assault reached down and grabbed the Artful by the front of his shirt, yanking him off his feet as if he weighed nothing. “And yew, li’l mon,” he said in a thick Scots brogue, bringing the Artful face to face with him, “yew’ll pay fuh thot!” Indeed, his breath was so foul that the Artful Dodger thought he was already paying for it.

  “Release him! At once!” Drina’s voice thundered, but unlike the cab driver, the man who was holding Dodger was not overwhelmed by an urge to obey her. In fact, he rather seemed nothing but entertained . . . until he turned and looked at her as she leaned out of the side of the cab. Then his jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and he was clearly stunned by what he saw.

  At that point, the Artful did the only thing he could think of doing: He pursed his lips, sucked in his cheeks, and then left fly a huge wad of spit directly in his assailant’s face. The hope was that it would startle him sufficiently that he would lose his grip on the young thief, allowing Dodger to slip free.

  Instead, it had a far more profound impact than Dodger could possibly have anticipated.

  The moment the saliva struck his face, the man let out a screech like unto a howl of the damned. The liquid did not simply run down his face; instead it began to eat right into it with a sizzling and hissing, and the foul smell of the man’s breath was obliterated by a brand new aroma: the stench of burning flesh.

  He dropped the Artful as he staggered backward and then fell, clutching at his face, thrashing about like a fish just landed on a pier.

  “What the bleeding Christ did you do!” shouted the other man, the one who was holding the boy roughly, and the truth was that Dodger had absolutely no idea, but he knew one thing and one thing only, and that was that something that had worked once might well work again. He wadded up and spat once more, although this did not strike as directly as the first one had. Instead, it grazed the other man’s cheek, but it was sufficient to cause him extreme pain. The ruffian staggered, grabbing at his face and letting out a string of profanities, but he still clutched the boy. The Artful Dodger grabbed the man’s hand and spat upon it, and it had the same effect as his spit had upon their faces, causing the skin on the back to sizzle. Now the man released the boy, grabbing at his own wrist, and Dodger seized the boy’s hand and yanked him toward himself. In his other hand, he was still clutching the remains of his walking stick, and he ran toward the hansom cab, hauling the boy behind him. He as much as hurled the boy bodily into the cab even as he shouted, “Go! Go!”

  The driver had observed everything that had happened with eyes the size of two half-crown coins. But the moment the Artful and the boy were in the cab, he snapped the reins and yelled, “Yaaaah!” at the top of his lungs. The horse wheeled around and started barreling down the King’s Way.

  “What happened back there?” asked Drina. She seemed out of breath, although that might well have been from the excitement of what she’d just witnessed. “Dodger, what happened?”

  “I don’t know. Honest to God, I have no idea.”

  “Dodger?” said the boy. “You’re the Artful Dodger?”

  “The same.” Reflexively Dodger tipped his hat even as he felt his mind was whirling.

  “What did you do to them?” Drina was still looking stunned.

  “I spat on them. I spat on them and it just . . . it burned them somehow. How is that possible?”

  “Pardon what may seem a ridiculous question,” said the boy, “but you haven’t been drinking holy water by any chance, have you?”

  “Holy water?” said Drina before Dodger could answer. “That’s ridiculous! Why would he be drinking holy water?” Then her voice trailed off and she looked at him with suspicion. “Wait. The . . . the tea . . .?”

  “The water was just sitting there in the stoup,” he said defensively.

  “You stole water from a church? To make tea?”

  “It’s not like I was impersonatin’ a choker and goin’ ’round and usin’ it to baptize babies and chargin’ a quid for it!”

  “That’s not the point, and . . . choker?”

  “Priest,” he said, motioning to his neck to indicate a collar. And before Drina could start up with her recriminations once more, he quickly turned his attentions back to the boy. “What dif’rence would it make what I was drinking?”

  “It probably won’t last for long—a few hours from now, your saliva will be back to normal—but for the moment there was enough residue in your spit to be effective against them,” said the boy.

  “Effective how?” said Drina. “I don’t understand. Who were those villains?”

  “Not who. What.” The boy said very darkly, with much drama and pronouncement, “Vampyres.”

  Drina and the Artful Dodger exchanged looks. Dodger didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the notion. “Vampyres,” said Drina slowly. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Serious as the grave, miss,” he said. “Those two took me prisoner . . . held me captive . . .”

  “And that makes them vampyres?”

  “No, the fact that they are undead, drink blood, and are burned by holy water makes them vampyres.”

  “But there’s no such things!” said the Artful. “They’re myths and stories and things that parents try to scare their children with!”

  “There are such things,” the boy said firmly. “And there’s more of them than you’d think, and they are more highly placed and in positions of influence than you can imagine. Which is why we cannot trust anyone in authority.”

  “Well, I’m with you in that regard, at least,” said Dodger. “Still, you can’t think that—”

  “Bloody hell!”

  It was a startled exclamation from the driver above. Immediately, Dodger leaned out the side to look up and see what was happening, and then he gaped at what he saw.

  The second blackguard, the one whom Dodger had slowed, but not badly injured, was running after the speeding carriage. Not just running; bounding, as if he were a great jungle cat.

  And he was overtaking it.

  Yet with all that before him—and all the boy had said—still the Artful Dodger was having trouble grasping the reality of what he was seeing, precisely because it all seemed so utterly unreal. But the threat presented seemed real enough, and Dodger shouted, “Faster! Faster!”

  The horse needed no urging from its driver, for there was terror in the creature’s eyes.

  The carriage turned sharply onto Great Queen Street, losing a bit of speed in the turn but able to take advantage of the greater width of the road. Their pursuer drew closer, and his clawlike fingers almost reached the cab. Then the cab picked up speed and barreled down Great Queen, heading toward Long Acre Road. Their pursuer seemed to be falling back, and within moments Dodger was certain he would lose his taste for the chase.

  Dodger sagged back in his seat, the hansom cab—not precisely designed for high speeds—swaying wildly back and forth as it sped down the road. “I think we’ve lost him,” he said, and that was the moment that Drina let out a scream of alarm, because their pursuer was right there, right next to them, having picked up speed with apparently no effort whatsoever, and was now clinging to the side of the
hansom cab. His arm was thrust into the cab, and he was clawing at Drina, trying to yank her bodily out of it. She cried out, trying to pull loose from his grip, but he was clearly too strong.

  The Artful Dodger tried to wad up more spit, but his mouth was dry. He lunged forward, yanking at the villain’s hands, trying to force them off, but they were like unto iron. The villain looked at him, and his appearance seemed to change as his fury mounted upon seeing Dodger. His eyes were blazing an unearthly red, and his lips were drawn back to reveal fangs that would have been more at home in the mouth of a snarling beast.

  That was when Dodger saw that as Drina had endeavored to pull free of the villain who was trying to yank her from the cab, a jeweled necklace had slipped out from under her bodice. Dangling from a string of purple beads was an ornate cross.

  Desperate in the face of the unreal, but remembering the ancient tales that he’d heard, Dodger grabbed the cross and yanked it free of the beads. It snapped off and he held the cross up directly before the intruder’s eyes.

  The fiery eyes widened and the creature hissed, reflexively drawing back, allowing just enough slack in his grasp for the Artful to yank Drina away from him. But there was not much room in the cab, and with a roar of fury, overcoming his initial revulsion to the cross, the monster yanked open the door, presenting the entirety of his body as he prepared to climb in and do the Lord only knew what to the passengers.

  And it was at that moment that the boy, a youth still in his short pants, grabbed up Dodger’s cane—or the remnants of the cane, which was now little more than a long wooden pole with a jagged point—and thrust forward with all the strength his small but determined body possessed. The villain clinging to the cab had only a moment’s warning, and it was insufficient, as the lad drove the wooden shaft into the attacker’s chest with surgical precision. One would have thought that such an effort would have required considerable power, perhaps even a hammer to drive it in with finality. Not so; it punched through the creature’s chest as easily as through a wall of cheapest plaster and straight into the pathetic, shriveled thing that passed for his heart.