by Peter David
He stared down at her. “Very good. You are properly obedient.”
“And now what?” she snarled at him, showing he was not quite accurate in his assessment of the situation. “Now what are you going to do?”
He tsked, as if she were simply a child that still had things to learn. “Why, I’m going to do the only possible thing: I’m going to take you back home.”
“I have no desire to go to your home,” she said, the revulsion she was feeling warring with the compulsion in her head to simply go with him.
“You mishear me, your Highness. Not my home. Your home.”
“What?” She couldn’t quite believe she was hearing him properly.
“That’s right. I’m taking you home to your mother. She must be dreadfully worried about you by now. Returning you is certainly the only option remaining.”
“You can’t,” she said, shaking her head so violently that it threatened to topple off her neck. “She mustn’t see me like this.”
“I would not worry about that,” he assured her. “She will have far greater problems than that before she knows it. All right, Victoria. Let us away. Now,” he added when she seemed slow to respond.
Immediately, she was on her feet, and without another word she followed her lord and master off into the darkness.
Mr. Fang stood upon the roof, looking at the spires of Buckingham Palace in the near distance. Drina stood next to him. She was trembling, her lower lip distended. “I can’t go back there,” she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “They’ll see me like this . . . .”
“Like what? In clothing you took off a street whore? I will tell them of the mishap you underwent that brought you to this situation,” he assured her. “All will be well. And you, of course, will make certain of that.”
“How?”
“Why, by making me your honored guest,” Mr. Fang said. “And why would you not? I was responsible, after all, for saving you from your difficulties.”
“Saving me? You helped place me squarely in them!”
“You will not tell them that,” he told her. “You understand that, do you not? Not a word will you speak of our encounter. You ran off from the palace, you were assaulted by street individuals, and I found you in your desperate situation. You remember almost nothing beyond that. Is that clear, Victoria?”
Her face warred with what seemed a dozen different responses, but all she did was nod. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. That’s very good . . .”
His voice trailed off. Something had caught his attention. He looked away from Drina, toward a nearby rooftop, and then called out, “I see you there. No use in hiding.”
A form moved from the darkness. It was a form that Drina recognized all too readily. Despite the change in her physical position and shift in status, she nevertheless felt chilled to the bone when she set eyes upon him.
“What’s he doing here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s a good question,” said Mr. Fang. “What, may I ask, are you doing here, Fagin?”
“Ah, and where else would I be?” Fagin sauntered forward, his head tucked down, his back slumped. He seemed indifferent to their surroundings. “May I ask what yer doing ’ere?”
“Simply followin’ the plan,” said Mr. Fang. “The plan that you were instrumental in aidin’ with.”
“Aye, that I was.” Now the narrow division between the roofs was all that separated them. Fagin hesitated not at all and vaulted over the division. He landed several feet away from them and continued his slow approach. “B’cause you ordered me to, so ye did. And now I’d be int’rested t’know what is the rest of the plan.”
“Why in the world should I tell you?”
Fagin actually seemed taken aback by the question. “We go back a long ways, don’t we, brother? Long ways, we do. And nice would it be not t’feel as if I’m bein’ left behind.”
Mr. Fang stared at him silently for a long moment. “You know, Fagin, there is so much I could say right now. So much I could tell you.”
“Then pray, go ahead.”
Fagin had continued to approach him so that he was merely a foot or two away. Drina had taken refuge behind Mr. Fang. She couldn’t even bear to look Fagin in the eye.
“Very well,” said Fang, and suddenly his hand was around Fagin’s throat. He lifted Fagin into the air. Fagin grabbed at the hand, his legs kicking in the air. He tried to speak, but he was unable to.
“You know I have always had little tolerance for you, Fagin,” continued Mr. Fang. “But our joint history has kept us together for far longer than I think either of us were planning. Now, though, thanks to Victoria here, my life is about to enter a new position of power. And it is not a position that you can readily share. I’m sorry about that, but that’s just the way things go. Right here, right now, I could rip your head off your shoulders. Vampyric powers or not, you won’t be surviving that anytime soon. Yes. Yes, I think that would definitely be the best way to go.”
His grip began to tighten even more on Fagin’s neck, and we would very much delight in telling you that that was the end of Fagin right then and there, because thus far he has done nothing to enamor us of his continued presence.
But Fagin’s place in our tale was not destined to be concluded quite that quickly. So it was that Fagin wound up doing the only thing he could think of to do. His fangs snapped out and he sank them firmly into Mr. Fang’s hand. Upon doing so, he bit down as ferociously as he was able to.
Mr. Fang let out a startled gasp as blood flowed from his hand. It was not the typically red human blood, but rather a thick, black substance that moved much more slowly. Apparently, and oddly, it had not occurred to Mr. Fang that Fagin would be inclined to fight for his life. So startled was he that he lost his grip on Fagin’s throat. Fagin dropped to the rooftop and did not hesitate. Rubbing his throat as he moved, he sprinted for the edge of the roof and then leaped off it. He made no attempt to cover the distance to the adjoining roof. Instead, he allowed gravity to take command of the situation and fell straight down to the street below. He landed in a crouch, looking up toward the angry face of Mr. Fang, which peered down at him from the rooftop above.
“As you wish,” called Mr. Fang. “We have been together far too long, Fagin. Our business is done. If you are fortunate, this will be the last time you look upon me. Do we understand each other?”
“Far too well, me love,” said Fagin. Curiously, under the circumstances he did not sound the least bit upset. Curious indeed, considering what Mr. Fang had just both done and attempted to do, but there is no discerning the thought process of such a creature as Fagin, even if he were human—which he most certainly was not.
Mr. Fang didn’t seem overly concerned by any of that, and ignoring his former brother on the street, he turned his attention to Victoria. He extended a hand. “Let us get you home, Princess. And let us introduce me to your mother.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Drina. Ironically, to her at that point it did sound wonderful. Mr. Fang had just disposed of the vampyre whom she feared more than any other. The one who had invaded the abbey and taken her out of safe environs to her new master. Granted, she felt her adoration for her new master growing by the moment, but even if Fagin was responsible for that union, she still sorely resented him. Seeing him disposed of in such an offhand fashion naturally elevated her spirits somewhat.
Thus it was that she and Mr. Fang descended from the rooftop, secure in Fagin’s having departed the area, and headed for Alexandrina Victoria’s former home.
FOURTEEN
IN WHICH THE ARTFUL DODGER IS ARRESTED, BUT BY DESIGN
The Artful Dodger knew every square foot of London town, which is to say that he knew the areas that were bountiful with police officers; the areas where police officers were rarely, if ever, to be seen; and every other a
rea, particularly in how it related to the population of the police, which one has to admit makes a great deal of sense, considering the various and assorted unlawful activities that tended to occupy the Dodger’s time.
Normally, he restrained his activities to the areas less populated by police. His reasoning was simple: Anyone who was stupid enough to wander around in such unpatrolled areas—and there were quite a few anyones—deserved whatever happened to him or her.
And if there was one thing that Dodger had learned quite early on, it was to give a wide berth to Mutton Hill.
He still remembered vividly when he had endeavored to pick some gent’s pocket in that particular neighborhood. Oliver Twist had been in tow, and Dodger’s actions had been spotted and immediately called out. This had caught him utterly flatfooted, because in most sections of London, people were far too busy with their own business to pay attention to anything anyone else had to say. But when he and Charley Bates had taken it upon themselves to pick the pocket of Mr. Brownlow, the results had been nothing less than disastrous. Mr. Brownlow had shouted, “Stop, thief!” in full voice, and in many other parts of London, such bellows would go unattended. Not in Mutton Hill, though, where the cry had immediately been taken up by absolutely everyone in the area. The Artful and Master Bates had managed to vanish into nearby doorways and elude pursuit, but young Oliver had been borne down by an accusatory crowd and moments later dragged off to the domain of the police magistrate, one Mr. Fang. It had been Dodger’s introduction to Mr. Fang, witnessing Oliver’s quick and unfair trial, and he had made a mental note that he would be wise to stay away from the area.
That, however, was no longer an option. He needed to confront Mr. Fang. Ideally, he had to kill Mr. Fang. He had no idea how he was going to go about that, but he knew it had to be done. It was Drina’s only chance.
Their coach had brought them to Mutton Hill, and Dodger and Bram disembarked from it. Bram looked around curiously. “Quite a busy market. Surprising that it’s so occupied, considering the hour.” The hour was at that point closing on nine o’clock. The Artful was aware of their deadline, and his mind was racing with how to cope with it. “So what do we do now?” asked Bram.
“We steal something,” said Dodger. “We steal something, we get caught, and we get dragged in front of Mr. Fang.”
“And then?”
“You still have your cross?”
“Naturally.”
“All right,” said Dodger. “Here’s the plan then. When we’re brought before Mr. Fang, you will bring out the cross. If he’s like any other non-Jewish vampyre, he will shrink back from it. We use his screaming and hating the cross to get the other police officers to realize what he is. They help us kill him, and the problem is solved.”
Bram was silent.
“What?” Dodger asked impatiently when he saw that Bram did not seem enamored of the scheme.
“We’re counting on the help of the police? Is that wise? I mean, won’t they just see us as thieves and street urchins and not be especially inclined to give us aid?”
“I don’t care what they sees us as,” said Dodger. “All I care is what I sees us as. And I sees us as Drina’s last hope. So let’s get on it and do it right.”
“All right,” said Bram with the tone of a verbal shrug. “So where do we start then?”
“We start with getting caught, as I said. And the easiest way to get caught is to nick a copper.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said. We find a police officer, try to take something from him, and get caught doing it. Just need to find . . . ah—there’s a likely subject.”
The object of Artful’s interest was the most rotund police officer that Bram had ever seen. He was standing by a corner, idly tapping his club against his leg, looking around and trying to see someone who might be interested in causing some problems. As fate—or perhaps Dodger’s simply wise positioning—would have it, he was looking in more or less every direction except at the individual who was in fact planning on engaging in some mischief.
The Artful slowly crept up on him, gesturing for Bram to join him in his advance. Bram dutifully did so, although he was still clearly looking a bit unsure about the entire endeavor. Very, very carefully Dodger came up behind the police officer. The man’s purse was visible, bulging in his pocket. Artful slipped his hand into the pocket, and as he did so, made a point of bumping up against the man so that the thrust would be felt.
Instantly, the police officer reacted exactly as Dodger expected him to. He whipped around, grabbing Dodger by his wrist, and demanded, “What’s all this!” Or at least that is what he began to say. The words, however, caught in his throat as he took one look at Dodger. His eyes widened in shock, and he let out a thunderous, infuriated roar. “You!” he practically bellowed.
Dodger had no idea whence came the recognition or why the police officer was reacting in such a manner. “Here now,” said Dodger. “What’s all—?”
He did not manage to get out another word. The police officer’s stick flew almost as if it were alive and struck Dodger on the side of the head. It caught Dodger completely off guard. He had seen his fellows arrested any number of times. He himself had been brought down low on one occasion that he despised thinking about. Never, in any instance, had there been this sort of brutality and outright fury. He could not comprehend it. Then again, considering his mind was whirling, it’s entirely possible that reciting the alphabet might have presented a serious challenge to him at that moment.
Passersby were stunned as they saw the policeman batter the stunned Dodger to his knees. It was astonishing. The purse fell from his hand, forgotten, and his walking stick fell from the other. All he could think about was trying to backpedal from the infuriated police officer.
“Did ye think I’d ever forget ye?” demanded the police officer. “Years may have passed, but your face ain’t changed that much.”
“What’re you . . .?” Dodger started to say, but suddenly he realized whom he was facing. The officer had been wearing a different uniform back in the day, but it was unquestionably the same man: the jailer from whom Dodger had managed to escape back when he was supposed to be shipped to the far-off country of Australia.
“Do you have any idea what you did t’my career?” demanded the police officer. He continued to swing the club. This time he didn’t get quite so clear a shot at Artful because the lad brought his arms up and managed to shield his head from direct contact. Nevertheless, the blows landed on his upper arms, shaking the flesh, jarring the bones. Dodger prayed that one or more of those bones wouldn’t be shattered from the impact. “Six months! Six months I spent in a cell ’cause of you! Fired from the best job I ever had! Stuck as a bloody street officer, that’s what I am! Because of you! You!” The blows continued to rain down.
Fearing for Dodger’s life, Bram did the only thing he could think of. He charged forward and leaped off his feet. The police officer’s back was to him, and Bram landed squarely on it. His small fists started pounding on the officer’s shoulders and the back of his head.
“What now!?” demanded the befuddled officer. None of the blows were of sufficient strength to hurt, but they certainly served as a distraction. He reached around with his overlarge arms and finally managed to pry the angry Bram off his back. “And who are you now! A friend of Dawkins’s!”
“That’s right,” said Bram. “A friend of the bravest, truest young man I’ve ever met.”
The Artful was on the ground, still moaning softly from the beating he had sustained and not quite sure if he had heard correctly. Nevertheless, he managed to whisper, “Thanks, Bram. Much ’preciated.”
The officer did not waste time; instead, he slammed Bram to the ground with as much force as he could muster. A bystander picked up the fallen purse and handed it to the police officer, who managed to utter a brusque thank-you before tur
ning his attention back to the lads. He shoved his baton into his belt and grabbed up the thrown-down Bram by the back of his neck. “You will be dealt with in time. As for Dawkins, he’ll be dealt with now.”
Dodger still hadn’t moved from where the police officer had dropped him. Partly, that was because, naturally, he wanted to be apprehended. But it was also partly from inability. The beating he had sustained had been so severe that at the moment he was incapable of getting to his feet. He managed to feel his face. The right half was starting to swell, and he felt a warm, salty taste in his mouth that he spat out. A red puddle spread on the sidewalk in front of his face. Then he was being hauled to his feet. At first, his knees gave way, and he would have fallen had not the police officer been holding him upright. He had lifted Dodger upward and was actually holding him a few inches in the air. “No struggling now!” he snarled.
“No struggling,” Dodger managed to say. He coughed up a bit more blood, but was relieved to see that that appeared to be the end of it.
We would love to tell you that the police officer brought them to the police station with no more discourse, but that was most definitely not the case. Instead, the officer continued to excoriate Dodger for the entire angry walk, telling him that with any luck there would be no extradition this time, but instead a direct walk straight to the noose. Australia would doubtless be the destination for Dodger’s accomplice—that much was sure. And perhaps finally, after all this time, the police officer—whose name was Hudgens, we should mention, because we have been remiss in not telling you that until this moment—would be able to reacquire the job from which he had been summarily dismissed.
The Artful paid little to no attention to the police officer’s speech. He had his own priorities, such as retaining consciousness. The last thing he wanted to do was pass out and find himself awakening in a jail cell, having bypassed his confrontation with Mr. Fang and been sent straight to whatever unfortunate fate was awaiting him.