Artful: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

matters.”
    “True. I am an agent of altogether a different nature.”
    “And what nature would that be?”
    At that moment, the horse suddenly reared up, astounding Mr. Sowerberry, who would have guessed the animal had as much ability to make such a movement as did the wagon’s cargo. The horse’s panic distracted Sowerberry from the man who had been blocking him, and so it was with astonishment that he discovered the man was no longer in his path, but at his side on the rig.
    “The nature of which will bring about your death,” said the man, who had actually known the entire time what Mr. Sowerberry’s destination was and had simply been engaging him in conversation until the sun was sufficiently receded for him to be at his full power. With this declaration of his agency , he drew back his lips to reveal a pair of glistening fangs that seemed to elongate as Mr. Sowerberry looked upon them, and now he could see the man’s eyes, burning red with the power of inner fires that reflected his hellish origins. Sowerberry’s mouth moved, but no words emerged, which was a tragedy because a man’s last words are important, and Mr. Sowerberry’s were the utterly forgettable inquiry as to his killer’s nature from moments earlier.
    The man’s head speared forward, his fangs sinking deep into Sowerberry’s neck. Interestingly, the horse calmed, as if realizing that it was not the target of the monster’s appetites and thus was content to let matters run their course.
    Blood trickled down the sides of the man’s face, and Sowerberry was too terrified to do anything other than provide a small, pathetic whimper of protest. Then his head slumped to one side, and his skin went ghastly pale, drained of the juice of life, and in less than a minute, he was gone.
    The new commander of the vehicle wasted no time at all. He tossed the empty sack of meat and bones that had once been Sowerberry in the nearest alley and turned his attention to the back of the wagon.
    The sun, already low upon the horizon, had set completely, leaving the shadows to lengthen at will and consume the entirety of the street. Yet the man within moved with the assurance as one might if he were striding through daylight or—more accurately in this instance, because a stroll under the nurturing rays of the sun would be less than salutary to him—a cat padding through the midnight hour.
    Yanking open the back of the hearse, the man gripped the end of the simple coffin within and pulled. It was a mere pine box with handles on either end, and yet one would have thought it would have some weight. But the man did not grunt or exert the slightest effort. The coffin slid out, and he angled it so that one end rested upon the street and the box leaned upright against the wagon that had been its conveyance.
    The top was fastened with a simple padlock, and the man gripped it firmly and snapped it off with his bare hand. Then he threw open the cover and looked inside.
    The deceased lay within, his head at an odd angle, the imprint of the noose still fresh and impressed upon his throat. His blazing red hair was sticking out untamed in a variety of directions, and his beard was bristling. His eyes were closed. His chest was not moving. He wore black, threadbare clothing upon a frame so thin and frail that it was a wonderment he had ever been alive at all.
    “Fagin!” snarled the man.
    The corpse started awake, his red-rimmed eyes snapping open.
    Yes, they snapped open. We know that this may well be startling for the reader who was unprepared for this moment, despite all our previous warnings. This constitutes our first actual foray into the world of the living dead. If the more faint-minded of you need to take a few moments to compose yourselves, we will wait.
    There. That should constitute sufficient wait time. Onward.
    The eyes actually moved independently of each other for a few moments before finally coming to focus upon the man in front of him. “Sanguine