Artful: A Novel (16 page)

Some part of Dodger actually felt sorry for the creature. Once upon a time, this had been a normal, God-fearing human
being
. The Artful knew nothing of the circumstances under which he had been transformed into this vampyric thing. There was
every
likelihood that he had been as much a victim as anyone else. Yet here they were treating him as if he had never been a human being at all. As if he had always been an inhuman monster who could be treated as little more than an animal. But then he realized that there was simply no way around it nor anything that could be done. Whatever he might have been in the past no
longer
mattered
. The only relevant thing was his current status as an undead creature of the night, and it was clear that Bram van Helsing was perfectly willing to treat him in that capacity. That being the case, the Artful had no choice but to follow his lead.

Finally, after what seemed forever, Bram withdrew the cross. Dodger saw a large blackened crisscross upon the left side of the creature’s face. He clawed at it as if intending to rip the skin right off his own face. When Bram threatened to bring the cross down again, the vampyre threw his hands up and screamed,
“No! No! I’ll tell all!”

“Do so,” said Dodger, fighting to keep his voice flat and even and to maintain his own revulsion deep within and out of sight.

“They’re hidden her away right enough,” said the vampyre. “She’s in Bethlem Hospital.”

“Bethlehem?” said Bram, not understanding.

“Nay! Bethlem! Didn’t ye hear me right?”

“I heard you,” said Dodger. He nodded toward Bram. “He’s new in town. He doesn’t know what’s what or what’s where.”

“Bethlem?” Bram repeated.

“That’s its official name,” Dodger said grimly. He was already understanding what the vampyre was talking about when he was saying that they were going to have difficulty. “The unofficial name is Bedlam. It’s a madhouse.”

“Aye, and what better place for ’er?” said the vampyre. “After all, if she rattles around in her cell claiming that she’s the future queen, who’s gonna believe her, eh? There’s blokes in there claiming that they’re all people from history.”

“The future queen in that place.” The Artful trembled inside just contemplating it. He had never been inside Bedlam. He might have had many quirks to his personality, but no one had ever thought to deem him insane. “From what I’ve heard of it, you can go into that place sane as anything and go mad while you’re there just from the surroundings.”

“That won’t happen to her,” said Bram firmly. “She is much too strong.”

The Artful Dodger very much wanted to believe that. He had never so strenuously wished that someone else was correct about something. Then he turned his attention back to the vampyre. “How do we get into Bedlam?”

The vampyre shook his head strenuously. “I’ve no idea, and that’s the God’s honest truth, I swear to ye.”

“As if something like you has any knowledge of God,”
Bram said
.

“I did!” the vampyre protested. “I was once no different than ye! It ain’t my fault that God’s turned His face from me! I swear!”

Bram did not appear convinced. He started to bring the cross down once more, and this time the vampyre did not even try to shrink from it. “Do it! Burn me face off! Ye can sear every bit of skin from me body, and it won’t change the fact that I told ye everything I know! Now give me a cloak, and let me go!”

For a long moment, nothing was said. Then Dodger reached back onto the chair and grabbed a seat cover off it. He tossed it to the vampyre. “Get out of here,” he said tersely.

“Thank ye!” said the vampyre. “Bless ye!” He drew the cover over his upper body, shielding himself from the sun. The Artful tossed open the opposite door, and the vampyre slid out through it.

Quinn was waiting for him. “Here now! That’s mine!” He grabbed the seat cover off the vampyre’s back before the unfortunate creature could do anything to prevent it.

“No, wait!” shouted Dodger, but it was too late. With the full light of the sun upon him, the vampyre fell to his knees and screamed in agony. But there was nowhere for him to go because passersby were blocking his path back into the Bazaar and were standing there in confusion, staring at the man who was writhing for no reason.

“What the hell?” said Quinn, and it was fitting that was the last thing the vampyre heard as the sunlight immolated him, sending him to the hell Quinn had just questioned. The
vampyre
burst into flames, causing confused screams and shrieks from the passersby, who had no comprehension of what they were looking at. He twisted about on the ground, beating furiously at himself even as he screamed in agony, but it was too late for him to do anything except burn. His skin erupted in flame, and then his clothing caught. Having no moisture in his body, he was one large tinderbox ready to flame out, and that was precisely what he did. People scrambled to a nearby horse trough to try and get water to extinguish him, but it was too late. In less time than it takes to read of it now, the vampyre was reduced to nothing but ashes.

Quinn stood there, stunned, staring uncomprehendingly at the covering that he had removed from the vampyre, which had sent him into a ball of flame. “Quickly,” the Artful said into his ear. “Get us out of here. Now.
Now
!” Responding to the boy’s urging, Quinn scrambled up onto his seat, and moments later, even as the police came running up in response to the crowd’s screams of confusion, the coach rolled away into the London streets. It left behind an assortment of bewildered citizens and a small bit of ash that was blowing away in a convenient breeze.

TWELVE

I
N
W
HICH THE
A
DVANTAGE OF
I
T
B
EING
T
UESDAY IS
M
ADE
C
LEAR TO
O
UR
H
EROES

T
here were many places that the Artful Dodger might have been given to visit on any particular day, but he was quite sure that St. George’s Fields in Southwark was not remotely one of those locations and thus until today had never really registered on his consciousness or awareness of the world around him, and yet that was now precisely and exactly where Quinn was driving him.

It had not been an easy endeavor. Quinn had hied the carriage out of the immediate area of the Bazaar, but once he had put some distance between them and the place of the
vampyre’s
death, he pulled the carriage over to a side street and came down from his seat. He stepped over to the side of the carriage and threw the door open. His face was purpling with rage.
Curiously
, Dodger could see no fear in it.
“What in the world have ye gotten me into?”
he thundered.

“We told you already,” said Bram, the picture of calm.

“But ye didn’t tell me men would be bursting into flame! What the hell was that thing?”

“A vampyre. You were told there were vampyres involved
in this.
”

“Aye, but I didn’t believe it!”

“Well,” said Bram, being utterly reasonable, “I don’t see how that’s our problem. Your problem, perhaps . . .
 .
”

“I dinna understand how these things are possible!”

“There is far more,” said Bram, “on heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy. The question is, now that you know, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. I . . .” His voice tapered off and he scratched his head, letting his outright confusion show.

“You have a choice,” Dodger spoke up. “Either you can help us try t’save the Princess Alexandrina Victoria from the hands of the right bastards who have taken her. Or you can stand aside, return to Mr. Brownlow, without havin’ done what you were s’posed to do. It’s up to you.”

“Fine. Get out,” said Quinn.

That was not the response that either of the lads
expected
, but they obediently clambered out of the coach as Quinn jumped up to his seat and snapped the reins.

The boys remained where they were as the carriage
started
to roll away down the dusty road. It got about fifty feet, and then Quinn yanked the horse to a halt. The animal appeared mildly confused but otherwise was not especially put out.

“What is he doing?” asked Bram in a low voice.

“He’s figuring it out,” Dodger replied.

For about ten seconds, nothing was said. Then Quinn stepped down from his place atop the coach and landed once more in the dirt road. He strode toward the two lads and folded his arms. “I was in the army, ye know. Wasn’t much older than you. Lied about me age.”

“Very brave of you,” said Dodger.

“Weren’t nothing to do with brave. Just didn’t have any other job. And I served. And then I was mustered out. I used to ride horses into battle. Now I ride them around town.”

“And now you ride them to save royalty,” Dodger told him. “That seems like a step up to me.”

“Aye, it is.” Quinn was as straightforward as possible about that. “You sure this is the princess we’re talking about? You wouldn’t be making that up, would ye?”

“Swear on me mum’s name,” said Dodger. It was a harmless swear, with his mother being long dead. But Quinn had no idea of her demise. Nor did it occur to him to ask. “So are ya with us or not? I’d really like t’know.”

Quinn slowly nodded. “Bethlem, eh?”

“Yes. Assuming,” said Dodger with a touch of dread, “we can figure out how to get in.”

“Shouldn’t be an issue. It’s Tuesday, after all.”

The Artful and Bram exchanged confused looks. “Why should that be making any dif’rence?” asked Dodger.

“Because Tuesday is visitin’ day.”

“Visitin’ day?”

“Aye. It’s a regular fund-raising activity. Me uncle used to be a resident there, and some days I’d go to see him, so that’s how I know. Bedlam is open to the public on Tuesdays. Anyone with half a crown to spend can walk around inside, and see what’s what. Used to be that they were open every day, but they cut back on that because . . .” He shrugged. He really didn’t have any idea why. That was simply the way it was, and Quinn wasn’t much for questioning the way things were.

“So all we each need is half a crown and we can just stroll in!”

“Exactly right.”

“Um . . . ” The Artful scratched his pockets as if he had an itch there. “Do ye by any chance happen t’have a crown or two on ya?”

Quinn made an impatient face. “Do ye have any money on ye at all?”

“Not enough to do us any good. Not really in the habit of carrying a lot on me.”

“Why not?”

“There’s thieves everywhere. Don’t fancy makin’ meself a
target
.”

Quinn stared at him, his jaw dropping open and just hanging there for a long moment. Then he let out a roar of laughter that startled Bram. The Artful, however, didn’t react in the slightest other than to scratch his nose for a moment.

“All right, then,” said Quinn, shaking his head at Dodger’s audacity. “Get back in the coach. Off to Bedlam then.”

Feeling the need to ask, Dodger inquired, “Um . . . what happened with your uncle?”

“Killed ’imself. Happens a lot to people there.”

“Ah. Well . . . sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a bit of a git.”

Moments later they were barreling down the road. It had been awhile since the boys had eaten anything. Bram reached into his pocket and withdrew a few apples that he and Dodger quickly devoured. “Where did you get these?” Dodger asked.

“Mr. Brownlow’s kitchen.”

“You stole ’em?”

“I don’t like to think of it that way, but yes, I suppose I did.”

In spite of himself, Dodger smiled at that. “So it seems there’s hope for you after all.”

“I hope not,” Bram replied.

The Artful wasn’t sure how to respond to that comment, and wisely let it pass.

Instead, he turned his attention to the sun. The fog had settled back in and was partly covering it, but he was still able to discern its rays as it crept across the sky. It was odd to him; he had never previously had any strong feelings about the sun at all. Why would he? It was just a glowing orb in the sky.

Now, though, he saw it very differently. He saw it as an ally against the forces that waited for the dark in order to launch their various schemes. It wasn’t a knowing ally, of course. It was inanimate. Except, for all Dodger knew, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps the sun was alive in a way that a simple London street lad could never understand. Perhaps it comprehended that it was the greatest warrior existent in an ongoing battle against creatures that had lurked in shadow since the days that humanity was cowering within caves and staring out at the darkness in fear.

(At least, we think he was thinking this. Perhaps he was not, because it is a rather deep consideration for a street urchin. But let us allow for the possibility that he was so that we can then examine it.)

What was the most disconcerting to Dodger was the sun’s progress. As it made its way across the sky, it was signaling the amount of time he had left before the vampyres would again be able to wander out and begin committing their crimes. They would be able to inflict their horrors upon Drina, not to mention anyone else. The notion was inwardly terrifying to Dodger, and it was everything he could do to keep his fears repressed. It was not an easy endeavor. Part of Dodger desperately wanted to leap out of the coach that was taking them to Bedlam, to vault clear of it even though it was moving. To take his chances upon escaping the moving vehicle and run in the other direction, leaving Bram to deal with this entire mess. And why not? This was Bram’s business, after all. This was something he was raised to fight. His father had taught him how. There was really no reason for Dodger to have been pulled into this madness at all. Even the fact that he now knew Drina’s true identity didn’t make all that much of a difference. Since when did the royals give the slightest of damns about people like Mr. Jack Dawkins? She was the head of a way of life that would have been perfectly happy to ship Dodger off to Australia if he hadn’t been able to escape.

Stay,
he found himself mentally pleading with the sun.
Don’t leave. Stay where you are, and keep bathing the world in your rays so that the vampyres will always be trapped within their coffins or wherever they rest during the day. Don’t abandon us. Stay . . . .

But he knew that he was wasting his time. The sun could not be stilled in its movements, even though he found himself
wishing
that he had some sort of biblical ability to halt it by blowing a trumpet or some such.

“You have a lot on your mind,” said Bram. The Artful had lost track of how much time he had been silent.

“How can you tell?”

“You seem lost in thought.”

“Can you blame me?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust to the constant swaying as the carriage made its way down the road. “We have to get into Bedlam, find the future queen, and rescue her. What are we doing here, Bram? Why can’t we just turn this over to the authorities and bow out like right gen’lemen?”

“Is that what you really want to do?”

The Artful thought about it for a moment and was surprised at how quickly the answer came:

“No. They took Drina from us. It’s our responsibility to get ’er back. Hell, the authorities would probably think we’re nutters. This is our job and no one else’s. Besides,” he added grimly, “I still want to dish out some personal payback for what they did to the nuns.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Bram. “I was starting to get a bit worried there for a minute. You’re the hero of this adventure, Dodger. I hope you understand that.”

“Bloody right, I do. So let’s get it done.”

Dodger allowed his head to slump back. This time when sleep came pounding for him, he did nothing to resist it. Despite the bumping and swaying of the coach, he was unconscious in a matter of seconds.

The next thing he knew, Bram was shaking his shoulder, and Dodger realized that the coach had ceased its forward motion. “We’re here,” said Bram in a low tone, his eyes narrowed as if he were concerned that a vampyre might somehow sneak up on them during broad daylight.

Except the daylight was not, in fact, as broad as it had been. It was not quite sundown, but nevertheless the sun was most definitely approaching the horizon line. This fact alone was enough to put a sense of dread into Dodger’s awareness, but he quickly shoved this fact out of his brain as hurriedly as he could. He could simply not allow for any distraction.

He twisted the handle of the door and swung it open, clambering out of the coach, with Bram right behind him. Quinn had been in the process of climbing down from his perch. “We’re here,” he told them, as if they were unaware.

The Artful didn’t let Quinn know that the fact he was standing on the ground was indication that such a pronouncement was unnecessary. He simply offered a brief nod.

The large building popularly referred to as Bedlam stretched out in front of them. It was a vast, two-story brick structure with windows dotting the exterior; Dodger could not help but notice they were barred. That did not bode well for endeavoring to undertake an escape attempt.

“All right,” Bram said briskly. “If this is where she’s being kept, then in we go.”

The Artful looked to Quinn. “Lend a lad a crown?” he said with a tone crossed between genuine hope and mild sarcasm.

With an unamused grunt, Quinn reached into his pocket and carefully pulled out a change purse. Opening it, he fished around for a moment or two before extracting a gleaming crown. “Should I assume I’m never going to get this back?”

“I wouldn’t make that assumption,” said Dodger. “Life is full of twists and turns that—”

“Am I getting it back?” demanded Quinn.

“Not bloody likely, no.”

Quinn grunted once more and then flipped it to Dodger, who caught it easily enough. “Well, at least ye were honest about it.”

Without another word, Dodger and Bram headed toward the large entrance to Bethlem Hospital. As they approached,
Artful
imagined that he could hear distant screams emanating from within . . . .

No. You’re not imagining it.

From within the halls of Bedlam, he could indeed hear the mournful cries of residents. England’s sickest and most depraved people had been herded into one spot, and there they were being kept clustered together like rabid and depraved animals.

“Dodger . . .?”

The Artful wondered why Bram sounded puzzled, and then realized that he, Dodger, had stopped walking. He had been so overwhelmed by the depressed howling coming from within that it had halted his progress completely.

“Dodger,” Bram said again, plucking at the sleeve of his coat. “Are you coming?”

The Artful stared at him. “How do you do it?” he said, and only when he spoke did he realize his voice was just above a whisper. “How do you just deal with everything? There’s nothing what throws you for a loop. How is that possible?”

“You keep asking me things like that. Haven’t I given you an answer you can accept?”

“No.”

Bram stared at him for a long moment and then said, “My
father
didn’t give me any other choice. Do you think I
wanted
this? That I wanted to be this way? I didn’t get to be a boy,
Dodger
. My father made sure of that. I just want to go to school, to be with other children, to be normal. Instead, I hunt monsters and, right now, try to save England. That’s not a life—that’s just existence. But it’s all I’ve got, so that’s the way things are. And you can waste both our times asking me about it, or you can buckle down and do what needs to be done. All right?”