Artemis dug down deep, searching his extremities for the last scraps of magic inside him.
Everything. Give her every last spark.
Magic was not an intrinsic part of Artemis; he had stolen it and now he threw it off again, stuffing all he had into the attempted healing. And yet it wasn’t working. No, worse than that. Her sickness was growing stronger. Repelling each blue wave, robbing the sparks of their color and power, sending them skittering to the ceiling.
Something is wrong, thought Artemis, bile in his throat, a dagger of pain over his left eye. It shouldn’t be like this.
The final drop of magic left his body with a jolt, and Artemis was thrown from his mother’s bedside and sent skidding across the floor, then tumbling head over heels until he came to rest, sprawled against a chaise longue. Angeline Fowl spasmed a final time, then collapsed back onto her mattress. Her body was soaked with a strange, thick, clear gel. Magical sparks flickered and died in the coating, which steamed off almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Artemis lay with his head in his hands, waiting for the chaos in his brain to stop, unable to move or think. His own breathing seemed to rasp against his skull. Eventually the pain faded to echoes, and jumbled words formed themselves into sentences.
The magic is gone. Spent. I am entirely human.
Artemis registered the sound of the bedroom door creaking, and he opened his eyes to find Butler and his father staring down at him, concern large on their faces.
“We heard a crash; you must have fallen,” said Artemis Senior, lifting his son by the elbow. “I should never have let you in here alone, but I thought that perhaps you could do something. You have certain talents, I know. I was hoping . . .” He straightened his son’s shirt, patted his shoulders. “It was stupid of me.”
Artemis shrugged his father’s hands away, stumbling to his mother’s sickbed. It took a mere glance to confirm what he already knew. He had not cured his mother. There was no bloom on her cheeks or ease in her breathing.
She is worse. What have I done?
“What is it?” asked his father. “What the devil is wrong with her? At this rate of decline, in less than a week my Angeline will be—”
Butler interrupted brusquely. “No giving up now, gents. We all have contacts from our past that might be able to shed some light on Mrs. Fowl’s condition. People we might prefer not to associate with otherwise. We find them and bring them back here as fast as we can. We ignore nuisances like passports or visas and get it done.”
Artemis Senior nodded, slowly at first, then with more vigor.
“Yes. Yes, dammit. She is not finished yet. My Angeline is a fighter, are you not, darling?”
He took her hand gently, as though it were made of the finest crystal. She did not respond to his touch or voice. “We talked to every alternative practitioner in Europe about my phantom limb pains. Perhaps one of them can help us with this.”
“I know a man in China,” said Butler. “He worked with Madame Ko at the bodyguard academy. He was a miracle worker with herbs. Lived up in the mountains. He has never been outside the province, but he would come for me.”
“Good,” said Artemis Senior. “The more opinions we can call on the better.” He turned to his son. “Listen, Arty, do you know someone who might be able to help? Anyone. Perhaps you have some underworld contacts?”
Artemis twisted a rather ostentatious ring on his middle finger so that the front rested against his palm. This ring was actually a camouflaged fairy communicator.
“Yes,” he said. “I have a few underworld contacts.”
CHAPTER 2
THE WORLD’S BIGGEST
Helsinki Harbor, the Baltic Sea
The giant sea monster that is the kraken sent its finned tentacles spiraling toward the ocean’s surface, pulling its bloated body behind. Its single eye rolled manically in its socket, and its curved beak, the size of a schooner’s prow, was open wide, filtering the rushing water through to its rippling gills.
The kraken was hungry, and there was room for only one thought in its tiny brain as it sped toward the holiday ferry above.
Kill ... Kill ... KILL ...
“That is such dwarf manure,” said Captain Holly Short of the Lower Elements Police, muting the sound file in her helmet. “For one thing, the kraken doesn’t have tentacles, and as for ‘kill, kill, kill’ . . .”
“I know,” said Foaly, the voice of mission control in her communicator. “I thought you might enjoy that passage. You know, have a laugh. Remember laughing?”
Holly was not amused. “It’s so typical of humans, Foaly, to take something perfectly natural and demonize it. Krakens are gentle creatures, and the humans turn them into some kind of murderous giant squid. ‘Kill, kill, kill.’ Give me a break.”
“Come on, Holly, it’s just sensational fiction. You know those humans and their imaginations. Relax.”
Foaly was right. If she got worked up every time the human media misrepresented a mythical creature, she would spend half her life in a rage. Over the centuries Mud Men had caught glimpses of the fairy folk, and had twisted the truth of these glimpses almost beyond recognition.
Let it go. There are decent humans. Remember Artemis and Butler.
“Did you see that human movie with the centaurs?” she asked the centaur on the other end of her helmet communicator. “They were noble and sporty. ‘My sword for thee, Majesty, then off for a spot of hunting.’ Fit centaurs, now that did make me laugh.”
Thousands of miles away, somewhere in the earth’s mantle below Ireland, Foaly, the Lower Elements Police’s technical adviser, rubbed his paunch.
“Holly, that hurts. Caballine likes my belly.”
Foaly had got married, or hitched, as centaurs called the ceremony, while Holly had been away with Artemis Fowl, rescuing demons in Limbo. A lot had changed in the three years she had been away, and sometimes Holly was finding it difficult to keep up. Foaly had a new bride to occupy his time. Her old friend Trouble Kelp had been promoted to LEP Commander, and she was back working at Recon with the Kraken Watch task force.
“Apologies, friend. That was mean,” said Holly. “I like your belly too. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to see a hitching sash around it.”
“Me too. Next time.”
Holly smiled. “Sure. That’s going to happen.”
Traditionally, male centaurs were expected to take more than one bride, but Caballine was a modern fairy, and Holly doubted if she would stand for a new filly in the household.
“Don’t worry, I’m joking.”
“You’d better be,
because I’m meeting Caballine at the spa this weekend.”
“How’s the new gear?” said Foaly, hurriedly changing the subject.
Holly spread her arms wide, feeling the wind ripple her fingers, seeing the Baltic Sea flash past below in shards of blue and white.
“It’s wonderful,” she said. “Absolutely wonderful.”
* * *
Captain Holly Short of LEPrecon flew in wide lazy circles above Helsinki, enjoying the brisk Scandinavian air filtering through her helmet. It was just after five a.m. local time, and the rising sun set the Uspenski Cathedral’s golden onion dome shimmering. Already the city’s famed marketplace was strobed with headlights as vendors arrived to open up for the morning trade, or eager politicians’ aides made their way toward the blue-gray facade of city hall.
Holly’s target lay away from what would shortly be a bustling center of commerce. She adjusted her fingers, and the sensors in her armored gloves translated the movements to commands for the mechanical wings on her back, sending her spiraling down toward the small island of Uunisaari, half a mile from the port.
“The body sensors are nice,” she said. “Very intuitive.”
“It’s as close as it gets to being a bird,” said Foaly. “Unless you want to integrate?”
“No thank you,” Holly said vehemently. She loved flying, but not enough to have a LEP surgeon stick a few implants in her cerebellum.
“Very well, Captain Short,” said Foaly, switching to business mode.“Pre-op check. Three W’s, please.”
The three W’s were every Reconnaissance officer’s checklist before approaching an operation’s zone: wings, weapon, and a way home.
Holly checked the transparent readouts on her helmet visor.
“Power cell, charged. Weapon on green. Wings and suit fully functional. No red lights.”
“Excellent,” said Foaly. “Check, check, and check. Our screens agree.”
Holly heard keys clicking as Foaly recorded this information in the mission log. The centaur was known for his fondness for old-school keyboards, even though he himself had patented an extremely efficient virtual keyboard.