As he worked, Artemis sensed the odd derisive comment from his younger self.
More B minor? Do you really think so?
Had he always been this obnoxious? How tiresome. Little wonder people in general did not like him.
The Present
Back in his own time, in his own house, Artemis the elder paused only to grab some clothes from the wardrobe before quickly exiting his study, warning Foaly and No1 to keep silent with a simple shhh. He moved quickly along the corridor toward the dumbwaiter shaft adjacent to the second-floor tea room. This was not the most direct route to the security center, in fact the route was circuitous and awkward, but it was the only possible way to pass through the house undetected.
Butler believed he had every square inch of the manor, apart from the Fowl’s private chambers, under surveillance, but Artemis had long since worked how to travel through the house without being picked up on camera. This route involved hiding in corners, walking on furniture, traveling in dumbwaiters, and tilting a full-length mirror to just the right angle.
It was possible, of course, that a hostile could figure out the same pathways, coordinates and trajectories, and therefore move about the house undetected. Possible, but highly improbable, and not without an intimate knowledge of nooks and crannies that did not exist on any plans.
Artemis followed a zigzag pattern down the hallway, a second behind a security camera’s sweep, then ducked quickly inside the dumbwaiter shaft. Luckily the box was on this floor, or he would have been forced to shinny down the cable, and shinnying was not one of his strong suits. Artemis reached outside and pressed the ground-floor button, whipping his hand back in before the descending box caught his wrist. While it was true that security would register the dumbwaiter descending, it would not set off any red lights.
Once at kitchen level, Artemis rolled onto the floor and opened the fridge door to shield his movement into the pantry. Deep shadows concealed him until the camera swung away from the doorway, allowing him to climb on top of the table and jump outside.
All the time, thinking. Plotting.
Assume the worst. Little Artemis is helpless, and Holly and No1 are already incapacitated. Quite possible if someone like Butler was mesmerized and doing the incapacitating. Opal is somewhere near the command center, manipulating my mother. It was Opal who could see the magic inside me. Not Mother. She peeled away the spell I had cast over my parents.
And: Of course B minor. If one starts in B minor, one finishes in B minor. Any fool knows that.
A suit of medieval armor stood in the main lobby. The same armor that Butler had put on to do battle with a troll during the Fowl Manor siege five years earlier. Artemis approached it slowly, his back flat against an abstract gray/black tapestry, which camouflaged him almost perfectly. Once concealed behind the suit of armor, he nudged the base of an adjacent mirror until it reflected a spotlight’s beam directly into the lens of the lobby camera.
Now his path to the security center was clear. Artemis strode purposefully toward the booth. This was where Opal would be, he was certain of it. From there she could monitor the entire house, and it was directly below Angeline’s bedroom. If Opal was indeed controlling his mother, closer was better.
It was clear from several yards away that he was right. Artemis could hear Opal ranting from a distance.
“There is another one. Here somewhere, another Artemis Fowl.”
Either the penny had dropped, or young Artemis had been forced to reveal their plan. “Find him,” shrieked Opal. “Find him immediately. At once.”
Artemis stepped quietly into the security control booth. A box room off the main lobby that had served in its time as a cloakroom, weapons lockup, and holding cell for prisoners. Now it housed a computer desk similar to those found in editing suites, and stacks of monitors displaying live feeds of the manor and grounds.
Huddled before the monitor bank was Opal, dressed in Holly’s LEP gear. She had wasted no time in stealing the fairy suit. It was mere minutes since Artemis had locked it in the safe.
The little pixie was multitasking furiously, scanning the monitors while maintaining remote control over Artemis’s mother. Her dark hair was sweat slicked, and her childlike limbs shook with effort.
Artemis sneaked into the room and quickly punched the code into the weapons locker.
“When this is over, I am going to destroy this entire estate just for spite. And then, when I return to the past, I shall ...”
Opal froze. Something had made a clicking noise. She turned to find Artemis Fowl pointing a weapon of some kind at her. She immediately abandoned all other spells, throwing her efforts into a desperate mesmer.
“Drop that gun,” she intoned. “You are my slave.”
Artemis felt instantly woozy, but he had already pressed the trigger, and a dart loaded with a Butler special concoction of muscle relaxants and sedatives buried its inch-long needle in Opal’s neck, where there was no protection from the suit. This was a shot in a million, since Artemis was not proficient with firearms. As Butler put it: Artemis, a genius you may be, but leave the shooting to me, because you couldn’t hit the backside of a stationary elephant.
Opal concentrated furiously on the puncture wound, dousing it with magical sparks, but it was too late. The drug was already entering her brain, loosening her control on the magic inside her.
She began to sway and flicker, alternating between her real pixie self and Miss Book.
Miss Book, thought Artemis. My suspicions were correct. The only stranger in the equation.
Intermittently Opal disappeared altogether, shield buzzing in and out. Magical bolts shot from her fingers, frying the monitors before Artemis could get a look at what was going on upstairs.
“Now I can do the bolts,” she slurred. “I’ve been trying to focus enough magic all week.”
The magic shifted and swirled, finally etching a picture in the air. It was a rough picture of Foaly, and he was laughing.
“I hate you, centaur!” screamed Opal, lunging toward, and then through, the insubstantial image. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed, snoring, on the floor.
Artemis straightened his tie.
Freud, he felt certain, would have a field day with that.
Artemis hurried upstairs to his parents’ room. The rug was coated in a pool of lumpy fat. Two sets of fairy footprints led from the turgid pearlescent puddle into the en suite bathroom. Artemis heard the power shower drilling against the tiles.
Opal used animal fat to suppress No1’s magic. How despicable. How horrible.
Young Artemis was studying the spreading mass of goo. “Look,” he said, noticing his older self. “Opal used animal fat to suppress No1’s magic. How ingenious.”
Under the noise of the shower were the sounds of retching and complaining. Butler was hosing down Holly and No1, and they were not happy or healthy.
But alive. Both alive.
Angeline lay on her bed, wrapped in a goose down duvet. She was pale and dazed, but was it Artemis’s imagination or had just a tinge of color crept back into her cheeks? She coughed gently, and immediately both Artemises were at her side.
Artemis the elder raised an eyebrow at his younger self. “You can see how this might be awkward,” he said pointedly.
“I can indeed,” conceded the ten-year-old. “Why don’t I have a poke around in your . . . in my study. See what I come up with.”
This is a problem, Artemis realized. My own inquisitiveness. Perhaps I should not have promised not to mind-wipe my younger self. Something will have to be done.
Angeline opened her eyes. They were blue and calm, peering out from tired, dark sockets.
“Artemis,” she said, her voice the rasp of fingers on tree bark.“I dreamed I was flying. And there was a monkey ...”
Artemis shook with relief. She was safe; he had saved her.
“It was a lemur, Mother. Mom.”
Angeline smiled wanly, reaching up to stroke his chee
k. “Mom. I have waited so long to hear you say that. So long.”
And with that smile on her face, Angeline lay back and drifted off into deep, natural sleep.
Just as well, Artemis realized. Or she may have noticed the fairies in the bathroom, or the contents of a fat barrel on the rug. Or a second Artemis lurking shiftily by the bookcase.
Butler emerged from the bathroom dripping wet, shirtless, paddle marks scorched into his skin. He was paler than usual, and had to lean against the door frame for support.
“Welcome back,” he said to Artemis the elder. “This little one is quite a chip off the old block. Gave me one hell of a jump start.”
“He is the old block,” said Artemis wryly.
Butler jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Those two didn’t enjoy their dip in the barrel.”
“Animal fat is poison to fairies,” explained Artemis. “Blocks the magical flow. Turns their own power rancid.”
A shadow settled on Butler’s brow. “Opal made me do it. She . . . Miss Book approached me at the main gates as I was leaving for the airport. I was trapped in my own skull.”
Artemis laid a gentle hand on his bodyguard’s forearm. “I know. No apologies are necessary.”
Butler remembered that he did not have his weapon, and he remembered who did have it. “What did you do with Schalke? Knockout dart?”
“No. Our paths did not cross.”
Butler staggered to the bedroom door, Artemis hot on his heels. “Opal is controlling him, though he’s making her work for it. We need to secure them both right now.”
It took them several minutes to reach the security booth, with Butler pulling himself along the walls, and by that time Opal was already gone. Artemis ran to the window just in time to see the blocky rear end of a vintage Mercedes take the bend in the driveway. A small figure bounced on the backseat. Two bounces, the first time it was Opal, the second Miss Imogen Book.
Already her power returns, realized Artemis.
Butler loomed above him, panting. “This isn’t over yet.”
Artemis did not respond to the comment. Butler was simply stating the patently obvious.
Then the engine noise increased in volume and pitch.
“Gear change,” said Butler. “She’s coming back.”
Artemis felt a chill pass over his heart, though he had been expecting it.
Of course she’s coming back, he thought. She will never have another chance like this one. Butler can barely walk. Holly and No1 will be diminished for hours, and I am a mere human. If she retreats now, Jayjay will be free of her forever. Soon Foaly’s squad will arrive from Tara and whisk the little lemur underground. For perhaps five minutes, Opal has the upper hand.
Artemis planned quickly. “I need to take Jayjay away from here. So long as he is in the manor, everyone is in danger. Opal will kill us all to cover her tracks.”
Butler nodded, sweat running in rivulets through the lines on his face. “Yes. We can make it to the Cessna.”
“I can make it to the Cessna, old friend,” corrected Artemis. “I am charging you with the protection of my mother and friends, not to mention keeping my younger self off the Internet. He is as dangerous as Opal.”
It was a sensible tactic, and Butler knew it was coming before Artemis said it. He was in such bad shape that he would slow Artemis down. Not only that but the manor would be wide open for any of Opal’s thralls to stroll in and exact her revenge.
“Very well. Don’t take her over seven thousand feet, and watch the flaps: they’re a bit sticky.”
Artemis nodded as if he didn’t know. Giving instructions comforted Butler.
“Seven thousand. Flaps. Got it.”
“Would you like a gun? I have a neat Beretta.”
Artemis shook his head. “No guns. My aim is so bad that even with Holly’s eye to help me, I would probably only succeed in shooting off a toe or two. No, all I need is the bait.” He paused. “And my sunglasses.”
CHAPTER 15
MURDER MOST FOWL
The Fowl family currently had three aircrafts. A Lear jet and Sikorsky helicopter, which were hangared at the nearby airport, and a small Cessna that lived in a small garage workshop beside the high meadow on the northern border of the estate. The Cessna was several years old and would have been recycled some time ago, had Artemis not taken it on as a project. His aim was to make it carbon neutral and cost effective, a goal that his father heartily approved of.
“I have forty scientists working on the same problem, but my money is on you,” he had confided to his son.
And so Artemis coated the entire body of the craft with lightweight superefficient solar panels, like NASA’s prototype flying wing—the Helios. Unlike the Helios, Artemis’s Cessna could still fly at its normal speeds and take passengers. This was because Artemis had removed the single engine and installed smaller ones to turn the main propeller, the four extra props on the wings, and the landing gear. Most of the metal in the skeleton had been stripped out and replaced with a lightweight polymer. Where the fuel tank had been now sat a small battery.
There were still a few adjustments to make, but Artemis believed his ship was skyworthy. He hoped so. There was a lot riding on the soundness of the little craft. He sprinted from the kitchen door, across the courtyard, and toward the high meadow. With any luck Opal would not realize he was gone until she saw the plane taking off. Of course, then he wanted her to see him. Hopefully he could draw her away long enough for LEP reinforcements to arrive.
Artemis felt the tiredness in his legs before he had gone a hundred yards. He had never been the athletic type, and the recent time-stream jaunts had done nothing for his physique, even though he had concentrated hard on his muscles during the trips, willing himself to tone up. A little mind-over-matter experiment that sadly had not yielded any results.
The old farm gate to the meadow was closed, so Artemis scaled it rather than struggle with the heavy bolt. He could feel the heat from the simian’s body high inside his jacket, and its little hands were tight on his neck.
Jayjay must be safe, he thought. He must be saved.
The garage doors were sturdier than they looked, and were protected with a keypad entry system. Artemis tapped in the code and threw open the doors wide, flooding the interior with the deep orange rays of the early evening sun. Inside, nestled in a horseshoe of benches and tool trolleys, was the modified Cessna, hooked up to a supplementary power cable. Artemis snapped the cable from its socket on the fuselage and clambered into the cockpit. He strapped himself into the pilot’s seat, remembering briefly when he had first flown this plane solo.
Nine years old. I needed a booster seat.
The engines started immediately and virtually silently. The only noise came from the whirring of the propellers and the clicks of switches as Artemis ran through his preflight check.
The news was generally good. Eighty percent power. That gave the small plane a range of several hundred miles. Easy enough to lead Opal on a merry dance along the Irish coast. But the flaps were sticky and the seals were old.
Don’t take her over seven thousand feet.
“We’re going to be fine,” he said to the passenger inside his jacket. “Absolutely fine.”
Was this the truth? He could not be certain.
The high meadow was wide and long, and sloped gently upward to the estate wall. Artemis nudged the Cessna from her hangar, swinging the nose in a tight turn to give himself maximum runway. Under ideal circumstances the five-hundred-yard grass runway was more than ample for a takeoff. But there was a tailwind, and the grass was a few inches longer than it should have been.
Despite these considerations we should be okay. I have flown in worse conditions than this.
The takeoff was textbook. Artemis pulled back on the nosewheel at the three-hundred-yard mark and comfortably cleared the north wall. Even at this low altitude he could see the Irish sea to the west, black with scimitars of sunlight slicing across the wave tips.
<
br /> He was tempted, for the merest fraction of a moment, just to flee, but he didn’t.
Have I changed utterly? Artemis asked himself. He realized that he was running out of palatable crimes. Not so long ago, nearly all crime had been acceptable to him.
No, he decided. There were still people who deserved to be stolen from, or exposed, or dropped in the deep jungle with only flip-flops and a spoon. He would just have to put more effort into finding them.
Artemis activated the wing cameras. There was one such person on the avenue below. A megalomaniacal, cold-hearted pixie. Opal Koboi. Artemis could see her striding toward the manor, jamming Holly’s helmet down over her ears.
I was afraid of that. She thought to take the helmet. A most valuable tool.
Still, he had no alternative but to attract her attention. The lives of his family and friends were at stake. Artemis took the Cessna down a hundred feet, following Opal’s path to the manor. She may not hear the engine, but the sensors in Holly’s helmet would throw up a dozen red lights.
On cue, Opal stopped in her tracks, throwing her gaze skyward and capturing the small plane in her sights.
Come on, Opal, thought Artemis. Take the bait. Run a thermal.
Opal strode purposefully toward the manor until she snagged the toe of one LEP boot under the heel of another.
Stupid tall elf, she thought furiously, righting herself. When I am queen . . . No . . . when I am empress, all tall fairies will have their legs modified. Or better still, I will have a human pituitary gland grafted to my brain so that I shall be the tall one. A giant among fairies, physically and mentally.
She had other plans too: An Opalesque cosmetic face mold that could give any of her adoring fans the Koboi look in seconds. A homeopathic hoverchair covered in massage bars and mood sensors that would read her humor and spray whatever scents were needed to cheer her up.

So Artemis kicked, punched, and gouged. He buried his knee in Kronski’s ample stomach and blinded him with his fists.
All very superficial blows that had little lasting effect—except one. Artemis’s right heel brushed against Kronski’s chest. Kronski didn’t even feel it. But the heel connected briefly with the oversize button on the remote control in the doctor’s pocket, releasing the dock trapdoor.
The second his brain registered the loss of back support, Artemis knew what had happened.
I am dead, he realized. Sorry, Mother.
Artemis fell bodily into the pit, breaking the laser beam with his elbow. There was a beep, and half a second later the pit was filled with blue-white flame, which blasted black scorch marks in the walls.
Nothing could have survived.
Kronski braced himself against the dock rails, perspiration dripping from the tip of his nose into the pit, evaporating on the way down.
Do I feel bad about what just happened? he asked himself, aware that psychologists recommended facing trauma head-on in order to avoid stress later in life.
No, he found. I don’t. In fact, I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
Kronski raised himself up with a great creaking and cracking of knees.
Now, where’s the other one? he wondered. I still have some weight to lose.
Artemis saw the flames blossom around him. He saw his skin glow blue with their light and heard their raw roar, then he was through, unscathed.
Impossible.
Obviously not. Obviously these flames had more bark about them than bite.
Holograms?
The pit floor yielded beneath his weight with a hiss of pneumatics, and Artemis found himself in a sub-chamber, looking up at heavy steel doors swinging closed above him.
The view from inside a swing-top bin.
A very high-tech swing-top bin, with expanding gel hinges. Fairy design, without a doubt.
Artemis remembered something Kronski had said earlier.
This is not how she said it would go. . . .
She ... She ...
Fairy design. Endangered species. What fairy had been harvesting lemur brain fluid even before the Spelltropy epidemic?
Artemis paled. Not her. Please, not her.
What do I have to do? he thought. How many times must I save the world from this lunatic?
He scrambled to his knees and saw he had been funneled onto a padded pallet. Before he could roll off, octobonds sprang from recessed apertures along the pallet’s steel rim, trussing him tighter than a tumbled rodeo cow. Purple gas hissed from a dozen overhead nozzles, shrouding the pallet.
Hold your breath, Artemis told himself. Animals don’t know to hold their breath.
He held on until it felt as though his sternum would split, and then just as he was about to exhale and suck in a huge breath, a second gas was pumped into the chamber, crystallizing the first. It fell onto Artemis’s face like purple snowflakes.
You are asleep now. Play possum.
A small door sank smoothly into the floor, with a sound like air being blown through a straw.
Artemis peeked through one half-closed eye.
Magnetic field, he thought dully, a band of steel creasing his forehead.
I know what I will see, but I have no wish to see it.
A pixie stood framed by the doorway, her tiny, beautiful features twisted with their customary pouting cruelty.
“This,” squealed Opal Koboi, pointing a vibrating finger, “is not a lemur.”
CHAPTER 13
THE HAIRY ONE IS DEAD
The Leather Souk
Butler jogged from the Extinctionists’ compound to the leather souk. Artemis was waiting in the building where they had planned the previous day’s exchange. Police presence in Fez amounted to no more than a couple of two-man patrols, and so it was easy for someone of Butler’s experience to sneak around without being detected. Though it was hardly illegal to visit a medina, it was certainly frowned on to stroll around a tourist area with a large rifle strapped to one’s back.
Butler ducked into a dark corner and quickly broke down his dart rifle into almost a dozen parts, slotting them into various garbage bins. It was possible that he could slip the Fez Saïss Airport customs men some baksheesh and simply stow the weapon under his seat, but these days it was better to be safe than sorry.
Ten-year-old Artemis was sitting at a prearranged spot in one of the sniper windows, picking nonexistent lint from his jacket sleeve, which was his version of nervous pacing.
“Well?” he asked, steeling himself for the answer.
“The female got out,” said Butler. He thought it better not to mention that the long-haired male had everything under control until Artemis’s video arrived.
Artemis caught the implication.“The female? The other one was there too?”
Butler nodded. “The hairy one is dead. He attempted a rescue, and it didn’t work out.”
Artemis gasped.
“Dead?” he said. “Dead?”
“Repeating the word won’t change its meaning,” said Butler sharply. “He tried to rescue his friend, and Kronski killed him for it. But what’s done is done, eh? And at least we have our diamonds.”
Butler checked his temper. “We should move out for the airport. I need to run the preflight checks.”
Artemis was left stunned and silent, unable to take his eyes from the bag of diamonds, which winked accusingly from their slouched perch on his lap.
Holly was not having any luck. Her shield was so weak that she switched it off to save her last spark for a small healing if it was needed; and no sooner had her image solidified than one of Kronski’s goons spotted her and walkie-talkied his entire squad. Now she was running for her life through the medina, praying that Artemis was at the meeting point and that he had thought to bring the scooter.
No one was taking potshots at her, which was encouraging, unless Kronski wanted to do the potshotting himself.
No time to think about that now. Survival was the priority.
The medina was quiet this late in the evening, with only a few straggling tourists and die-hard merchants still walking the streets. Holly dodged between them, pulling down whatever she could reach to get in the way of the stampede of security men behind her. She tugged over towers of baskets, upended a kebab stand, and shouldered a table of spices, dashing a white wall with multicolored arcs.
The thunder of footsteps behind her did not recede in the least. Her tactics were not working. The security guards were simply too large and were bustling past the obstacles.
Dodge and weave, then. Lose them in the alleyways.
This tactic was no more succesful than the last. Her pursuers were familiar with the medina’s layout and coordinated their pursuit on handheld radios, herding Holly toward the leather souk.
Where I’ll be in the open. An easy target.
Holly raced on, Artemis’s loafers cutting into her heels. A series of cries and curses arose behind her as she barged without apology through bands of tourists and shoulder-slammed tea boys, sending trays flying.
I am corralled, she thought desperately. You’d better be waiting, Artemis.
It occurred to Holly that she was leading the posse directly to Artemis, but there was no other option. If he was waiting, then he could help; if not, she was on her own anyway.
She jinked left, but four huffing guards blocked the alleyway, all hefting vicious long-bladed knives.
The other way, I think.
Right, then. Holly skidded into the leather souk, heels throwing up dust fans.
Where are you, Artemis?
She cast her gaze upward toward their observation point, but there was nothing there. Not even the telltale shimmer of a hide.
He’s not here.
She felt panic scratch at her heart. Holly Short was an excellent field officer, but she was way out of her jurisdiction, her league, and her time.
The leather
souk was quiet now, with only a few workers scraping skins on the surrounding rooftops. Lanterns crackled below the roofline, and the giant urns lurked like alien pods. The smell was just as bad as it had been the previous day, possibly worse, as the vats had had longer to cook. The stench of droppings hit Holly like a soft, feverish glove, further addling her mind.
Keep running. Find a nook.
Holly spent half a moment considering which body part she would trade for a weapon, then sprinted for a doorway in the adjacent wall.
A guard appeared, dragging his knife from its sheath. The blade was red. Maybe blood, maybe rust. Holly switched direction, losing a shoe in the turn. There was a window one floor up, but the wall was cracked: she could make the climb.
Two more guards. Grinning. One held a net, like a gladiator.
Holly skidded to a halt.
We’re in the desert! Why does he have a fishing net?
She tried again. An alleyway barely broad enough for an adult human. She was almost there when a fat guard with a ponytail to his waist and a mouthful of yellowed teeth wedged himself into the avenue, blocking it.
Trapped. Trapped. No escape and not enough magic to shield. Not even enough to mesmerize.
It was difficult to stay calm, in spite of all her training and experience. Holly could feel her animal instincts bubbling in the pit of her stomach.
Survive. Do what you have to do.
But what could she do? One unarmed child-size fairy against a squadron of armed muscle.
They formed a ragged circle around her, weaving between the urns in a slow-motion slalom. Each set of greedy glittering eyes focused on her face. Closer and closer they came, spreading their arms wide in case their prey made a dart for freedom.
Holly could see their scars and pockmarks, see the desert in their nails and on their cuffs. Smell their breath and count their fillings.
She cast her eyes toward the heavens.
“Help,” she cried.
And it began to rain diamonds.
Below the Extinctionists’ Compound
“That is not a lemur,” repeated Opal Koboi, drumming a tiny toe on the floor. “I know it is not a lemur because it has no tail and it seems to be wearing clothes. This is a human, Mervall. A Mud Boy.”
A second pixie appeared in the doorway. Mervall Brill. One of the infamous Brill brothers who would break Opal out of her padded psych cell some years later. His expression was a mixture of puzzlement and terror. Not pretty on any face.
“I don’t understand it, Miss Koboi,” he said, twiddling the top button on his crimson lab coat. “It was all set up for the lemur. You mesmerized Kronski yourself.”
Opal’s nostrils flared. “Are you suggesting this is somehow my fault?” She clutched her throat as if the very idea caused her breath to fail.
“No, no, no,” said Mervall hurriedly. “It could not be Miss Koboi’s fault. Miss Koboi is, after all, perfection itself. Perfection does not make mistakes.”
This outrageous statement would be recognized as blatant toadying by right-minded people, but Opal Koboi found it fair and rational.
“Exactly. Well said, Mervall. A pity your brother does not have a tenth of your wisdom.”
Mervall smiled and shuddered. The smile was in acceptance of the compliment; the wince was because the mention of his twin had reminded him that his brother was at this moment locked in a cage with a red river hog, as punishment for not complimenting Opal’s new boots.
Miss Koboi was having a bad day. Currently, two out of seven were bad. If things got any worse, even though the wages were astronomical, the Brill brothers would be forced to seek alternative employment.
Mervall decided to distract his boss. “They’re going crazy up there. Firing weapons. Dueling with cutlery. Those Extinctionists are an unstable lot.”
Opal leaned over Artemis and sniffed gently, wiggling her fingers to see if the human was awake.
“The lemur was the last one. I was this close to being all-powerful.”
“How close?” asked Mervall.
Opal squinted at him. “Are you being funny?”
“No. I sincerely wondered. . . .”
“It’s an expression,” snapped the pixie, striding back toward the main chamber.
Mervall nodded slowly. “An expression. I see. What should I do with the human?”
Opal did not break her stride. “Oh, you might as well harvest him. Human brain fluid is a good moisturizer. Then we pack up and find that lemur ourselves.”
“Should I dump his drained corpse in the animal pit?”
Opal threw up her arms. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Must I tell you how to do everything? Can’t you show a little initiative?”
Mervall wheeled the pallet after his boss.
The animal pit it is, then, he thought.
The Leather Souk
Diamonds rained down in glittering showers. Falling stars twinkling in the lamplight.
Young Artemis’s fee, Holly realized. He is throwing me a lifeline.
For a moment the guards were transfixed. Their faces wore the dazed expression of children who have woken and are surprised to find themselves in a good mood. They stretched out their fingers, watching the diamonds bounce and tumble.
Then one broke the spell. “Des diamants!” he cried.
Hearing the word spoken aloud galvanized his companions. They dropped to their knees, patting the dusky ground for the precious stones. More dived into the pungent vats as they registered tiny plops made by stones impacting on liquid.
Mayhem, thought Holly. Perfect.
She glanced upward just in time to see a small hand withdraw into the black rectangle of a window.
What made him do it? she wondered. That was a most un-Artemislike gesture.
A guard diving past her leg reminded her that things were still pretty dire.
In their greed, they have forgotten me, but perhaps they will remember their duty when the stones are pocketed.
Holly spared a moment to salute up at young Artemis’s window, then raced out of his view toward the nearest alley, only to be flattened by a puffing Damon Kronski.
“Two for two,” he huffed. “I got both of you. This must be my lucky day.”
When will this end? thought Holly incredulously. How can these things continue to happen?
Kronski pressed down on her like an enraged elephant, frown lines framing his tinted glasses, sweat flowing in sheets down his face, dripping from his pouting lip.
“Except, this is not my lucky day, is it,” he shouted, a keen note of hysteria on the edge of his tone. “You saw to that. You and your accomplice. Well, my gas chamber took care of him. Now I will take care of you!”
Holly was stunned.
Artemis dead?
She would not believe it. Never. How many people had written Artemis Fowl off and lived to regret it? Plenty. She was one of them.
Holly, on the other hand, was proving easier to kill. Her vision was blurring, her limbs were treading water, and the weight of the world was on her chest. The only sense firing on all cylinders was her sense of smell.
What a way to go. Inhaling motes of pigeon droppings with your last breath.
She heard her ribs groan.
I wish Kronski could smell this.
An idea sparked in her brain, the last ember in a dying grate.
Why shouldn’t he smell it? It’s the least I can do.
Holly reached deep into her core of magic, searching for that last spell. There was a flicker deep inside. Not enough to shield, or even mesmerize, but perhaps a minor healing.
Usually healing spells were used on recent wounds, but Kronski’s anosmia was a lifelong ailment. Fixing it now could be dangerous and would almost certainly be painful.
Oh well, thought Holly. If it hurts him, it hurts him.
She reached up a hand past the forearm on her throat, inching it along Kronski’s face, willing the magic into her fingertips.
Kronski did not feel thre
atened. “What’s this? Are you playing ‘got your nose’?”
Holly did not answer. Instead she closed her eyes, jammed two fingers up Kronski’s nostrils, and sent her last sparks of magic down those channels.
“Heal,” she said. A wish and a prayer.
Kronski was surprised but not initially upset.
“Hey, what the . . .” he said, then sneezed. The sneeze was powerful enough to pop his ears and roll him off his captive. “What are you, five years old? Sticking fingers up my nose.” Another sneeze. Bigger this time. Blowing a trumpet of steam from each nostril.
“This is pathetic. You people are really—”
A third sneeze, this one traumatizing the entire body. Tears streamed down Kronski’s face. His legs jittered and his glasses shattered in their frames.
“Oh my,” said Kronski, when he had his limbs under control. “Something’s different. Something has changed.”
Then the smell hit him.
“Aarrgh,” said Kronski, then began to squeal. His tendons tightened, his toes pointed, and his fingers ripped holes in the air.
“Wow,” said Holly, massaging her throat. This was a stronger reaction than expected.
The smell was bad, but Kronski acted like he was dying. But what Holly did not fully grasp was the power of the doctor’s awakened sense of smell. Imagine the joy of seeing for the first time, or the euphoria of a first step. Then square that feeling and make it negative. Take a ball of poison, dip it in thorns and manure, wrap it in a poultice of festering bandages, boil the whole lot in a cauldron of unspeakably vile excretions, and shove it up your nose.
This is what Kronski could smell, and it was driving him out of his mind.
He lay flat on his back, flinching and pawing the sky.
“Foul,” he said, repeating the word over and over. “Foul, foul. Fowl, Fowl.”
Holly crawled to her knees, coughing and spitting onto the dry sand. Her entire being felt battered and bruised from back to spirit. She looked at Kronski’s expression and realized that there was no point in asking him questions. The president of the Extinctionists was beyond logical conversation for the time being.