Artful: A Novel by Peter David

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