by Peter David
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 for 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. Inst
antly, 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.
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
IN WHICH THE ADVANTAGE OF IT BEING TUESDAY IS MADE CLEAR TO OUR HEROES
There 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?”