Holly glanced sideways at Artemis, who was studying the stage through a pair of opera glasses. She would never tell him, but if a human had to be involved with saving the Fairy People, then Artemis was probably the best man, or boy, for the job.
The Island of Hybras, Limbo
No1 struggled up toward the first rocky ridge on the side of the volcano. Several demons passed him on the trail, but not one tried to talk him out of it. In fact, he’d bumped into Hadley Shrivelington Basset, who had offered to scratch a map on a piece of bark for him. No1 suspected that if he did take the big dimensional jump, no one would miss him any more than they would miss their favorite crossbow target. Except perhaps the demoness with red markings who smiled at him. The one from the compound. Maybe she would miss him a little. No1 stopped in his tracks when he realized that the only demon who would care when he was gone was one he had never spoken to.
He moaned aloud. How depressing was that!
No1 trudged onward past the final warning, which, with typical demon subtlety, was in the form of a blood-reddened wolf skull mounted on a stick.
“What’s that even supposed to mean?” muttered No1 as he passed the sign. “A wolf’s head on a stick. Big wolf barbecue tonight. Bring your own wolf.”
Barbecue. Another word from Lady Heatherington Smythe.
No1 sat on the ridge, wiggling his rump to dig a little trench for his tail. Might as well be comfortable before jumping the few hundred feet into the mouth of a steaming volcano. Of course, even if he didn’t get whisked away to the New Country, he still wouldn’t be vaporized by the lava. No, he would probably be dashed against the rocks on the way down. What a cheery thought.
From his seat on the ridge, No1 could see the jagged mouth of the crater and the rhythmic wisps of smoke that drifted skyward like the breath of a sleeping giant. It was the nature of the time spell that things progressed as though Hybras were still attached to the rest of the world, albeit at a different pace. So the volcano still bubbled and occasionally burped up a skinny column of flame even though there was no earth beneath it.
If No1 were honest with himself, his resolve was wavering. It was easy to imagine hopping into an inter-dimensional crater when you were rolling your cocooned classmates into a becrusted dung pit. It had seemed then, as the flakes of ash had fluttered down on him, that things could not get any worse. And there had been something in Abbot’s voice that made the idea seem irresistible. But now, sitting on the ridge, with a gentle wind cooling his chest plates, things didn’t seem quite as bleak. At least he was alive, and there was no guarantee that the crater led anywhere except into the belly of the volcano. None of the other demons had made it back alive. They came back, all right. Some encased in blocks of ice, some burned to a crisp, but none hale and hearty like the pride leader. Although, for some reason, when No1 thought about Abbot, the many moments of cruelty he had suffered at the pride leader’s whim seemed hazy, hard to focus on. All he could remember was that beautiful insistent voice telling him to cross over.
Moon madness. That was the heart of the matter. Demonkind were attracted to the moon. It sang to them, agitating particles in their blood. They dreamed of it at night and ground their teeth at its absence. At any hour of the so-called day here on Hybras, demons could be seen stopping in their tracks to gaze at the space where the moon used to be. It was part of them, a live organic part; and on an atomic level, they belonged together.
There were threads of the time spell still in the crater. Wisps of magic that curled about the mountaintop snagging any demon stupid enough to be caught without silver. And coded inside the magic was the song of the moon, calling the demons back, enticing them with visions of white light and weightlessness. Once those pale tendrils had a grip on a demon’s mind, he would do anything to be closer to the source. The magic and moon madness would pour energy into the atoms of his being, vibrating his very electrons to a new orbit, changing his molecular structure, pulling him through time and space.
But there was only Abbot’s word that this journey would end on Earth. It could end on the moon, and as much as demons loved the moon, they knew that nothing survived on its barren surface. The elders said that sprites could not fly close without freezing to death, spiraling to earth with frozen wings and blue faces.
For some reason, No1 wanted to take the journey today. He wanted the moon to call him into the crater, then deposit him somewhere where another warlock existed. Someone who would teach him to control his strange powers. But, he miserably admitted, he didn’t have the courage. He could not just hurl himself into a rocky crater. The volcano’s base was littered with the charred corpses of those who had imagined the moon calling to them. How could he know if the moon’s power was truly beckoning, or if it was simply wishful thinking.
No1 rested his face in his hands. Nothing for it but to return to the school. The imps in the pit would need turning, or their hides could suffer dung lividity marks.
He sighed. This was not the first time he had made this desperate journey. But now No1 really thought he would do it. Abbot was in his head, urging him on. This time he could almost bear the idea of the rocks rushing toward him. Almost.
No1 toyed with the silver bangle on his wrist. It would have been so easy to slip off this trinket and just disappear.
Slip it off, then, little one, said a voice in his head. Slip it off and come to me.
No1 was not surprised by the voice. Actually, it was more a feeling than a voice. No1 had supplied the words himself. He often conversed with voices in his head. There was no one else to talk to. There was Flambard the shoemaker, and Lady Bonnie the spinster, and his favorite, Bookie the lisping gossip.
This voice was new. More forceful.
A moment without silver, and a new world could be yours.
No1’s bottom lip jutted as he considered. He could remove the bangle, he supposed, just for a moment. What harm could it do? He was nowhere near the crater, and the magic rarely strayed beyond the volcano.
No harm. No harm at all. One little tug.
The ridiculous notion had No1 now. Taking off the bangle could be like a practice run for the day when he finally worked up the courage to feel the moon madness. His fingers traced the runes on the bangle. They were precisely the same as the markings on his chest. A double charm. Repelling the moon magic. Removing one meant that the force of his own markings was reversed, pulling him straight toward the moon.
Take it off. Reverse the power.
No1 watched his fingers grip the bangle’s rim. He was in a daze, a buzzing fugue. The new voice had coated his mind with fog and was in control.
We will be together, you and I. You will bask in my light.
Bask in my light? thought the last conscious sliver of No1. This new voice is quite the drama queen. Bookie is not going to like you.
Take it off, little one.
No1 watched his hand tug the bangle over his knuckles. He was powerless to stop himself, not that he wanted to.
Moon madness, he realized with a jolt. All the way over here. How can that be?
Something in him knew. The warlock part of him, perhaps.
The time spell is breaking down. No one is safe.
No1 saw the bangle, his dimensional anchor, slip from his fingers and spin to the ground. It seemed to happen in slow motion—the silver flowed and rippled like sunlight through water.
No1 felt the tingle that comes when every atom in your body is overloaded with energy and boosted into a gaseous form. It really should be terribly painful, but the body doesn’t really know how to respond to this kind of cell damage, and so throws up a pathetic tingling.
There was no time to scream. All No1 could do was disappear into a million flashing pinpoints of light, which quickly wound themselves into a tight band following a path to another dimension. In seconds there was nothing left to show that No1 had ever been there but a spinning silver bangle.
It would be a long time, relatively speaking, before anyone missed
him. And no one would care enough to come looking.
The Bellini Theatre, Sicily
To look at Artemis Fowl, you would have thought that he was here simply for the opera. One hand trained a pair of opera glasses on the stage, the other hand conducted expertly, following the score note for note.
“Maria Callas is the acknowledged seminal Norma,” he said to Holly, who nodded politely, then rolled her eyes at Butler. “But I have a confession: I actually prefer Montserrat Caballé. She took the role on in the seventies. Of course, I have only heard recordings, but to me, Caballé’s performance is more robust.”
“Really,” said Holly. “I’m trying to care, Artemis. But I thought it was all supposed to be over when the fat lady sings. Well, she’s singing, but it doesn’t appear to be over.”
Artemis smiled, exposing his incisors. “That’s Wagner you’re thinking of.”
Butler did not participate in the opera-related chitchat. To him it was just another layer of distraction to be zoned out. Instead he decided to test the night-vision filter on Holly’s new helmet. If it could indeed overcome the whiteout problem, as Holly claimed, then he would have to ask Artemis to procure one for him.
Needless to say, Holly’s helmet would not fit on Butler’s head. In fact, it would barely slot over his fist, so the bodyguard folded the filter’s left wing out until he could squint through it by holding the helmet to his cheek.
The effect was impressive. The filter successfully equalized the light throughout the building. It boosted or dimmed so that every person in the building was seen in the same light. Those on the stage appeared caked in makeup, and those in the boxes had no shadows to hide in.
Butler panned across the boxes, satisfying himself that there was no threat present. He saw plenty of nose-picking and hand-holding, sometimes by the same people. But nothing obviously dangerous. But in a second-tier box adjacent to the stage, there was a girl with a head of blond curls, all dressed up for a night of theater.
Butler immediately recalled seeing the same girl at the materialization site in Barcelona. And now she was here, too? Coincidence? There was no such thing. In the bodyguard’s experience, if you saw a stranger more than once, either they were following you, or you were both after the same thing.
He scanned the rest of the box. There were two men behind the girl. One, in his fifties—paunchy, expensive tuxedo—was filming the stage with his cell phone camera. This was the first man from Barcelona. The second man was there, too—possibly Chinese, wiry, spiked hair. He had apparently not yet recovered from his leg injury and was adjusting one of his crutches. He flipped it around, removed a rubber grip from the foot, then nestled it against his shoulder like a rifle.
Butler automatically stepped between Artemis and the man’s line of fire. Not that the crutch was aimed at his charge; it was pointed stage right, three feet from the soprano. Just where Artemis was expecting his demon to show up.
“Holly,” he said in a low, calm voice, “I think you should shield.”
Artemis lowered his opera glasses. “Problems?”
“Maybe,” replied Butler. “Though not for us. I think somebody else knows about the new materialization figures, and I think they’re planning to do more than just observe.”
Artemis tapped his chin with two fingers, thinking fast. “Where?”
“Tier two. Beside the stage. I see one possible weapon trained on the stage. Not a standard gun. Maybe a modified dart rifle.”
Artemis leaned forward, gripping the brass rail. “They plan to take the demon alive, if one turns up. In that case, they will need a distraction.”
Holly was on her feet. “What can we do?”
“It’s too late to stop them,” said Artemis, a frown slashing his brow. “If we interfere, we may upset the distraction, in which case the demon will be exposed. If these people are clever enough to be here, you may be sure their plan is a good one.”
Holly claimed her helmet, slotting it over her ears. Air pads automatically inflated to cradle her head. “I can’t just let them kidnap a fairy.”
“You have no choice,” snapped Artemis, risking the audience’s displeasure. “Best-case—and most likely— scenario, nothing happens. No materialization.”
Holly scowled. “You know as well as I do that fortune never sends the best-case scenario our way. You have too much bad karma.”
Artemis had to chuckle. “You’re right, of course. Worstcase scenario, a demon appears, they anchor it with the dart rifle, we interfere, and in the confusion the demon is swept up by the local polizia and we all end up in custody.”
“Not good. So we just sit back and watch.”
“Butler and I sit back and watch. You get over there and record as much data as possible. And when these people go, you go after them.”
Holly activated her wings. They slid from her backpack, crackling blue as the flight computer sent a charge through them.
“How much time do I have?” she asked as she faded from sight.
Artemis checked the stopwatch on his watch.
“If you hurry,” he said, “none.”
* * *
Holly launched herself out over the audience, controlling her trajectory by using the joystick built into the thumb of her glove. Invisible, she soared above the gathered humans. With the aid of her helmet’s filters, she could clearly see the occupants of the stage-side box.
Artemis was wrong. There was time to stop this. All she had to do was throw the shooter’s aim off a little. The demon would never get anchored, and Section Eight could track these Mud Men at their leisure. It was simply a matter of touching the marksman’s elbow with her buzz baton to make him lose control of all his motor functions for a few seconds. Plenty of time for a demon to appear, then disappear.
Then Holly smelled burning ozone and felt heat on her arm. Artemis was not wrong. There was no time. Someone was coming.
No1 appeared on the stage, more or less intact. The trip had cost him the last knuckle on his right index finger, and about two gigabytes’ worth of memories. But they were mostly bad memories, and he had never been very good with his hands.
Dematerialization isn’t a particularly painful process, but materialization happens to be a thoroughly enjoyable one. The brain is so happy to register all the body’s essential bits and bobs coming together again that it releases a surge of happy endorphins.
No1 looked at the nub where his previously whole index finger used to be.
“Look,” he said, tittering. “No finger.”
Then he noticed the humans. Scores of them, arranged in rings, rising up to the heavens. No1 knew instantly what this must be.
“A theater. I’m in a theater. With only seven and a half fingers. I have only seven and a half fingers, not the theater.” This observation brought on another fit of giggles, and that would have been about it for No1. He would have been whisked off to the next stop on his interdimensional jaunt, had not a human near the stage aimed a tube at him.
“Tube,” said No1, proud of his human vocabulary, pointing with the finger that wasn’t altogether there.
After that, things happened very quickly. A flurry of events blurred like mixed stripes of vivid paint. The tube flashed; something exploded over his head. A bee stung No1 on the leg, a female screamed piercingly. A herd of animals, elephants perhaps, passed directly below him. Then most disconcertingly, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet and everything went black. The blackness was rough against his fingers and face.
The last thing No1 heard before his own personal blackness claimed him was a voice. It was not a demon’s voice, the tones were lighter. Halfway between bird and boar.
“Welcome, demon,” said the voice, then sniggered.
They know, thought No1, and he would have panicked had the chloral hydrate seeping into his system through a leg wound allowed such exertions. They know all about us.
Then the knockout serum caressed his brain, tipping him off a cliff into a deep dark hol
e.
Artemis watched events unfold from his box. A smile of admiration twitched at the corners of his mouth as the plan unrolled smoothly, like the most expensive Tunisian carpet. Whoever was behind this was good. More than good. Perhaps they were related.
“Keep your camera pointed at the stage,” Artemis said to Butler. “Holly will get the box.”
Butler was squirming to cover Holly’s back, but his place was at Artemis’s side. And after all, Captain Short could look after herself. He made sure his watch crystal was trained on the stage. Artemis would never let him forget it if he missed even a nanosecond of the action.
Onstage, the opera was almost over. Norma was leading Pollione to the pyre, where they were both to be burned. All eyes were upon her. Except those involved in a drama of the fairy kind.
The music was lush and layered, providing an unwitting sound track to the real-life drama unfolding in the theater.
It began with an electric crackle downstage right. Barely noticeable, unless you were expecting it. And even if some patrons did notice the glow, they were not alarmed. It could easily be a reflected blotch of light, or one of the special effects these modern theater directors were so fond of.
So, thought Artemis, feeling the excitement buzz in his fingertips. Something is coming. Another game begins.
The something began to materialize inside the crackling blue envelope. It took on a vague, humanoid shape. Smaller than the last one, but definitely a demon, and definitely not a reflected blotch of light. Initially the shape was insubstantial, wraithlike, but after a second it became less transparent and more of this world.
Now, thought Artemis. Anchor it, and tranquilize it, too.