Authors: Peter David
“Absolutely,” said the Artful Dodger as the hansom cab
headed
toward the outskirts of London. “If there’s one place that will never have nothin’ to do with vampyres or any matter of monsters, it’s Carfax Abbey.”
EIGHT
I
N
W
HICH IS
P
ROVIDED AS
M
UCH
B
ACKGROUND
A
BOUT
F
AGIN AS IS
R
EQUIRED TO
U
NDERSTAND
S
UBSEQUENT
E
VENTS
L
et us now shift our attention many decades and at least one century prior to the beginnings of our story, to an orphanage in central London, a place that was then—if it were even possible—a worse place to reside in than it was during the bulk of this narrative . . . and considering the level of wretchedness that we have been discussing thus far, you can certainly appreciate the degree of awfulness that was standard day-to-day existence for the poor, pathetic refugees therein.
The Black Plague, which had sent so many to a premature death, was itself in its death throes. One of the places that had been sorely decimated by the plague was a particular orphanage in one of the seedier London suburbs, and it is at that orphanage that we focus on two young men who wound up coming of age in that foul place.
One of them was named Joseph, and the other, Reuben.
Joseph
was the taller as well as the planner, the schemer, the individual with a sense of destiny that far exceeded his particular station in life. He was a muscular lad, was Joseph, and the other lads tended to steer clear of him after the several occasions when he had had the opportunity to display his considerable physical prowess. Indeed, Joseph had come to acquire the nickname of the Magistrate, for he was often asked to adjudicate over
matters
of dispute amongst the orphans—mostly because he had the strength of body and mind to enforce his rulings.
Reuben, by contrast, with red hair and furrowed brow, had no respect from anyone. He tended to think it was because he was a Jew and thus a pariah by definition, but truth to tell, even had he been the most devout of Christians, he still would have acquired the disdain of others in the same way that a pond acquires scum, because religion or race would not have altered his fundamental personality, which was more akin to that of a weasel than a man.
Yet none harassed him, for although he was not Joseph’s
brother
by blood, he was nevertheless like unto a brother in
every
other way. They had arrived in the orphanage the very same day, many years earlier, and Reuben had been a small, scrawny boy that the others were drawn to abuse. Joseph had witnessed this behavior and found himself deeply and morally offended by it, and thus had taken a strong hand in Reuben’s
defense
. Reuben had wound up returning the favor, for though he may have been pathetic at presenting any sort of physical challenge, he was second to none in his ability to spy upon others and overhear that which would have been better left unknown. Consequently, he had learned of a plot to retaliate against Joseph in his slumber and was thus able to warn his savior, enabling Joseph to thoroughly punish the miscreants and save himself some inconvenience and embarrassment. Thus had a bond been formed between the lads: one the stronger, the other his good right hand—or left hand, if you will, because there was always a touch of the sinister about him.
Neither of them knew anything of their parentage other than fleeting memories of mothers and fathers that, as they aged, were gradually beaten out of them through the miserable conditions of their personal circumstances. Eventually, they were of an age that they both sickened of the environment and so took it upon themselves to liberate themselves from their place of residence. Their departure aroused no reaction from anyone in any position of authority, save to make note of the fact that there would now be two less mouths to feed. The remaining boys, of whom there were quite a few, breathed a collective sigh of relief over the departure of the local enforcer of justice. Granted, there was some sorrow that their reviled whipping boy had likewise left the premises, because they would dearly have loved the opportunity to give him what-for had his protector ever had cause to leave him behind. But they settled for finding another youth to beat into submission and were content.
As Joseph and Reuben grew to manhood, they became
adept
at various schemes and such contrivances as were necessary for them to survive. Self-taught they were, and learned to be light fingered and quick footed. Thus did they wander the whole of Europe, developing unsavory skills and exploring unsavory lands.
It was during these wanderings that they also learned to appreciate each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Joseph continued to be the stronger of the two, and Reuben continued to need his protection, so that suited the both of them perfectly.
And then they arrived in Romania, and matters took a decided turn for the worse.
By this point, they were both in their twenty-first year and had become—amongst other things—extraordinary thieves. Reuben had a remarkable knack for picking up languages, and during their time in the land of the Romany he had picked up a sufficient bit of their language to converse, albeit haltingly, with various of the villagers. Thus did they learn of a near-
legendary
castle, high upon a hill, set off by itself, that was reputed to be populated by “nothing save ghosts,” as it was described to
Reuben
. And the castle was said to be rife with splendid artwork, artifacts, and valuables that had remained untouched all this time by the villagers, who were staggeringly superstitious. Joseph and Reuben, by contrast, were civilized men—or as civilized as homeless thieves could be—who knew better than to be at all concerned about such ridiculous notions as ghosts.
Consequently, they boldly entered the castle during the light of day, finding the great doors unlocked. They were amazed by the splendor they encountered therein, with such ornate furniture and objects ranging from the grand, such as centerpieces, to the small, such as candlesticks. And there was money in vast amounts, sitting in drawers or cabinets, ripe for the taking;
money
of various denominations, from countries that they recognized and many that they did not. Naturally they were purely interested in that which was easily transportable, but that did not deter them from taking in the whole of the castle, from top to bottom. Everywhere save for the cellar, the door to which was locked and inaccessible, but they did not care, for there was more than enough to interest them in the upper floors.
They spent the rest of the afternoon gathering all that they could, stuffing their pockets, the sacks that they had brought with them, even their hats.
And then, as the sun set, they prepared to take their leave, and they were walking past the door that led downstairs, when suddenly they heard a loud click that echoed violently through the vast cathedral of the main room. They froze in their tracks when they should have by rights scampered, but that was how startled they were, and they remained with their feet anchored much in the same way that prey is prompted to stand stock-still upon hearing the roar of a lion.
The door that led downstairs swung open, and a cadaverous man emerged from the depths of blackness.
“You have entered freely and of your own will,” said he, “but you will not depart that way.”
And then, with a speed and strength that would have seemed more suitable to a wolf than a man, he was across the room and upon Joseph in less time than is required to describe it. Reuben emitted a high-pitched shriek, and Joseph reached out to him, screaming for succor, for aid, but Reuben would have none of it. He dropped everything he had upon him that would have slowed him, and he bolted from the castle, Joseph’s screams resounding in his ears.
Reuben ran, and kept running, and it seemed to him that he did not cease fleeing until near to the sun’s rising, at which point he collapsed and fell into a stupor of sleep. He slept much of the day and then, once rested, he kept on going, stealing food where he could, snatching rest whenever possible, but in short determined to put as much distance between himself and that
Godforsaken
castle as humanly possible.
It was on the third day of his travels, late one night, that Joseph overtook him.
Reuben was moving through a thick forest, and suddenly there was a cracking of branches from overhead, and he thought at first that a great beast was descending upon him. As it so happened, he was right, but he had not expected it to be of the two-legged variety.
He gasped in shock as a dark form landed squarely in front of him and then slowly stood, uncoiling like a serpent. He saw red eyes glowering in the darkness and could scarcely conceive that they belonged to his erstwhile companion. “Joseph?” he
whispered
.
“Did you regret, even for a moment, abandoning me?” asked Joseph.
“A-a-abandoning you? Nay, you do me ill, my brother! I was . . . I was seeking help, yes, I was. Seeking help with which I would return so as to—”
Joseph grabbed him by the front of his coat and snarled in his face, “You dare lie to me?
To me?
Ingrate! Traitor! I should tear your miserable life from your throat!”
“Please, Joseph, no! You know that I have wanted nothing in my life save to be just like you! To emulate you in every way! If I had a moment of weakness, attribute it only to my human
frailty
, and condemn me not!”
“You wish to be like me, do you?” There was an awful smile upon Joseph’s face when he said that, which, if Reuben had had more presence of mind, he would have noticed. “Just like me?”
“Yes! Just like you!”
And if, with his actions, Reuben had doomed himself, it was with his words that he provided his final condemnation. For
Joseph
sank his newly grown fangs deep into Reuben’s throat, and Reuben let out a scream.
Thus did he join his brother in death and in the eternal life that followed it.
Now . . .
Here is what you must understand about vampyres.
It is believed by some that they are immortal, and by human standards, that is so. But they also continue to age, for nothing is forever, and the human body certainly no more exempt from that rule than anything else.
So it was that Joseph and Reuben did not remain perpetually men in their early twenties.
As the years passed, they aged. They did so far more slowly than if they had remained mortal, but older they did become. And over time, they aged into the individuals that we have come to know them as in this narrative, and we shall proceed to spell matters out in further detail.
NINE
I
N
W
HICH IS
C
ONTINUED A
R
ELUCTANT
B
UT
N
ECESSARY
F
OCUS ON
F
AGIN
H
aving presented Fagin’s sullied distant past, we now turn to a more recent past, and in short order his present, so that his future will become clear, and so we turn our attentions to Fagin’s having been summarily shunted away from London at the behest of Mr. Fang, and to his current activities, as they will be extremely germane to the history that is being recounted in the pages of this volume.
Upon his departure, Fagin endeavored to convince himself that he was enthused about the prospects that were before him. That excitement dwindled in short order, however, for all that Fagin could dwell upon was the life that he was leaving behind, rather than anything that he might be accomplishing in the future.
What will become of my beauties?
he asked himself, for he was more of a father to the boys who thieved for him than any of their actual fathers had ever been, and thus felt righteous in his concern for them. He had not yet fully learned of the dismantling of his old gang, or perhaps learned and simply refused to believe it, which amounted to much the same thing.
Taking Mr. Fang’s advice, which had been less advice than it was a direct order, Fagin had left London behind and sought his fortune in the outlying regions and later up into the wilds of
Scotland
. Ultimately, he had decided that the horse and carriage were too much trouble to maintain, plus they had a tendency to attract notice wherever he went, and Fagin was not one for
attracting
notice if it could be helped. So he sold both horse and carriage for a tidy sum and made his way on foot. He traveled exclusively at night, which was natural enough, considering his vampyric status, and was quite adept at finding somewhere to take refuge during the daylight hours.
Wherever he went, however, he found it difficult to set down roots, for every place that he encountered seemed nothing more than a pale reflection of London. Never did he feel comfortable, nor did the suspicion with which he was regarded help significantly.
He had known a life of thievery for so long that he actually endeavored to try more legitimate endeavors for a time. He had a knack for tailoring and stitching, born from so many years of meticulously removing monograms from snatched handkerchiefs. He would set up a makeshift shop in the midst of busy markets and attempt to garner business, but people would steer clear of him. It was difficult to blame them, really. The fact that he was a Jew was off-putting to some of the less enlightened, but it did not help that he was only open for business during daylight hours when the sky was overcast and forbidding, and even then he would tend to stick to the shadows. Dressed in black, with a broad-brimmed hat, and hunched over like a great vulture, his was not a figure that encouraged a great deal of patronage. Yet though we can see him from the outside looking in, Fagin did not discern the same viewpoint from the inside looking out, and so it was that as more time passed, the more foul and darksome his mood became. He did not attribute his poor business to logical reasons, but instead to such motives as unreasoning hatred for the circumstances of his birth.
For much of the time, it was directed toward the rest of the world, but that only aggravated his inability to earn a living. It really didn’t matter what part of England he was in, or
Scotland
, because geography and topography and accents might vary from place to place, but no matter where he went, no one who was not a criminal desired to do business with a glowering, black-clad man in the shadows.
With the abject failure of any legal pursuits, Fagin drifted back toward more illegal ones. But slowly he discovered that he had lost the taste for it. He had become long accustomed to using children as his cat’s paws and thus not having to risk his own neck, and as his own neck had already been stretched once, he wasn’t entirely anxious to risk a second, and possibly less fortuitous, engagement with the hangman.
So when the opportunities to relieve others of their handkerchiefs, purses, and other valuables presented themselves, he was lackluster in his endeavors, so much so that on two
occasions
he was actually spotted in the attempt by passersby or
onlookers
, and had to flee the scene before the authorities could be
summoned
.
Thus did Fagin, over a period of many months, find himself slipping deeper and deeper into despair and frustration, for he could not leave behind the life he had once had, but could not conceive of a new life that he could embrace.
It happened, then, that one night, so long after the encounter with Sanguine Harry that it seemed a lifetime ago—an odd happenstance, really, considering the number of lifetimes he had led—Fagin found himself walking a road that he realized, if followed to its inevitable conclusion, would return him to London. He wondered if sufficient time had passed so that such a return would not result in his being arrested or fled from, considering that he was believed long dead. After some deliberation, he came to the decision that he really didn’t care.
And that was when he came to the startling realization that he did not care about anything.
This sudden revelation would have come across to another almost as a burst of light behind the eyes, so forceful was it.
Because
he was what he was, though, it was instead an explosion of blackness, albeit in the same locale.
He stopped dead in his tracks, next to a large tree, and the night waited to hear what he had to say.
“Is this what it has come to then, after so many years? Me, what’s got no true life to propel me, after all. Willpower is what fuels me, and if I don’t have the will to go on, then how do I do it? What’s the point of it all? Of any of it?”
Overcome by a sense of blinding ennui, he sank to the ground and stared at London in the distance, a great silhouette against the night sky, simultaneously seeming to beckon him and urging him to keep away.
“I miss the sun,” he said, beset with melancholy, “and tire of the shadow. There are so many who are given greatness even though they are not entitled to it. And me, what has dwelt at the bottom of society’s dregs for so long that I can’t rightly guess what the top would even look like . . . what’s the bloody point of it all, is what I’m sayin’. Look at me: a creature of the night, and people fear the night, but nobody fears old Fagin. Despise me, yes. Hate me. Want to see me strung up they did, and I was, and they cheered to see a ripe old villain get what’s comin
’
to him. But why can’t I be doin
’
more than that? Why can’t I—?”
How long his discourse might have continued unabated is unknown. Instead, he was interrupted by a loud, brusque voice
that said
, “All right, Jew! On your feet!”
For an instant, Fagin froze, naturally believing that officers of the law had fallen upon him. A thorough terror of how Mr. Fang
would react upon a general discovery that Fagin was close to
London
, having ignored his banishment, hurtled through him. He put his hands over his head and slowly turned, and then
puzzlement
registered upon his face as he saw a curious figure facing him.
It was an extraordinarily sharply dressed man, attired in a most splendid suit, and he cut an extraordinary figure in it. He wore a riding cape of deepest purple, which was an extraordinary fashion decision for him to make, considering that he seemed most unlikely to have any claim to royalty. His extraordinary suit was similarly well turned out, and the one allowance made for his environment was that there was dirt on the rims of his boots. Even the boots were extraordinary, of fine black leather, and
Fagin
regarded
him with a sideways cock of the head and arched eyebrow. Before he could stop himself, Fagin breathed, “Extraordinary.”
“Indeed,” the man said. He was holding a pistol on Fagin, but Fagin paid it no mind.
“Who might you be, my dear?” Fagin inquired.
“I,” said the gunman, “am giving you the
extraordinary
honor of being robbed by none other than the renowned highwayman, Jack Sheppard. Now”—and he waved his pistol impatiently—“I’ll be havin’ your purse.”
“Jack . . . Sheppard?” Fagin said the name slowly to make certain that he had heard it properly. “Jack Sheppard the highwayman died over a century ago. Executed for his crimes. You claim to be he?”
“I do. Now . . .”—he waved the pistol again—“I should hate to waste a shot on you, but I will if you continue to prolong this encounter.”
Although the highwayman did not notice it, Fagin’s nostrils flared as he took in the scent of the man facing him. The logical assumption to make was that this man, Sheppard, was a creature similar to Fagin, a vampyre. Or perhaps some other manner of ambulatory corpse, if such there was. But such creatures produce an aroma that is distinctive to others of the undead, for in truth, they are really nothing more than slowly rotting meat, and thus can be perceived as such by those with the peculiarly sharp olfactory senses that vampyres possess. Furthermore,
human
beings perspire, another scent that Fagin would easily be able to perceive and thus determine whether he was truly looking at one of his own kind.
He was quickly able to determine that he was not, for the highwayman produced the sort of aromas typical for humans, and none of those that the undead possessed.
“You are Jack Sheppard in name only,” said Fagin. “You are not truly he.”
For the first time, the highwayman’s veneer of suavity seemed to slip a notch or two. “Are you feeble-minded? Of course, I’m not the
original
. But,” he said with determination, “I have read of him, and know of him, and am keeping his legacy alive.”
“His . . .
legacy
.” It had never been a word that Fagin would have associated with those that practiced his particular calling, but it fascinated him. “A
legacy
. I never considered such a thing.
Legacies
. . . why, they’re for those what are looking to see somethin’ lastin’ beyond their lifetimes, are they not?” He was talking more to himself than to the highwayman. “But that makes so much sense, does it not, now? When one is faced with endless nights, why, then it’s just a matter of trying to get through every one of ’em. But if one sees the cutoff in the road, one thinks beyond one’s own immediate needs. One seeks immortality in name, as body cannot provide it. But immortality in mind distracts from what the name can achieve.”
“What in God’s name are you blathering about?” The highwayman had completely lost his patience as well as his panache. “Right, then. I have had more than enough of this nonsense.”
He approached Fagin quickly, assuming that Fagin could not possibly present any manner of threat. He grabbed Fagin by the throat and put the gun against the older man’s skull, cocking the hammer. “I am going to count to three,” he said.
“No need for that, my dear,” said Fagin, and his hand moved so quickly that Jack Sheppard, or whatever his true name might have been, never saw it. All he knew was that one moment the gun was in his hand, and then it was in Fagin’s. Had he been at all aware of what he was faced with, he would have backed off, backed away, and perhaps there would have been an outside chance that Fagin might have let him escape. Instead, he made a terrible mistake and lunged for the pistol that Fagin was holding securely. He grabbed the barrel, yanking upward, and the hammer slammed home. Its fatal lead discharged and lodged itself straightaway into Jack Sheppard’s stomach.
He let out an alarmed shriek of pain and stumbled backward, banging into a crooked tree and sliding to the ground. His eyes were wide with horror, and he clutched at his gut, feeling the spreading warmth against it. “Am . . . am I killed?” he managed to say, and with all of his bravado gone, he sounded as if he were little more than a child.
“Aye, my dear, I’m afraid so,” said Fagin, and his hands were clasping and unclasping rapidly. “And sad to say, because it’s a shot to the stomach, you won’t have a quick or easy time of it. A day, two, maybe three of slow agony, and there’s nothing to be done.” He licked his lips hungrily. “You know what a drunkard is, Jack, me boy?”
“What? I . . .” He shook his head, uncomprehending.
“A drunkard is him what can’t help himself. What drinks too much for his own good. It’s a sad, sad thing, being unable to control oneself. And the only way to stop being that way . . . is to stop being that way.”
“Oh my God . . . oh my God, I’m shot . . . I . . . I’m going to die . . . .”
“Yes, yes, we’ve established that, my dear,” said Fagin with an impressive attempt at sympathy that still fell well short of the genuine article. “But we’re on to
my
problems now, and my problem . . . I was a drunkard of a sort, ya see. I had my own drink that I craved, and I didn’t like what drinkin’ it did to me, and what it did to others. You might believe an old criminal like me, that I’d have no conscience, but that’s wrong thinkin’, it is. Just wrong. I have a conscience, I does, and a heart, even if it is a withered and useless thing, and so I quit. I quit, even though every single night without it pained me. My kind, we don’t need the drink to survive, not really. Just to thrive and be what
nature
—or unnature, I’m thinkin’—wants us to be.
“But if I’m goin’ to leave a legacy, then I’m goin’ to have to be so much more than I am, and I can’t do that without your help, I’m afraid, Jack.” His body was trembling with the need that he had long ago thought he could control. But the smell of the blood that was seeping from Jack’s wound was simply irresistible. It pervaded his very being, became more than he could stand, and really, why should he have to stand it? Why turn away from what he was clearly meant to be? Certainly there was no answer to this question that presented itself to him, although admittedly he did not strive too greatly to discern it. He returned his attention to the catalyst of his epiphany. “But if it’s of any consolation to you, why . . . in your helpin’ me, I’m goin’ to be able to help you as well.”