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CHAPTER I: ESPRESSO AND TREACLE

Artemis sat on an ox-blood leather armchair, facing Beckett and Myles. His mother was in bed with a slight case of the flu, his father was with the doctor in her room, and so Artemis was lending a hand in entertaining the toddlers. And what better entertainment for youngsters than some lessons.

He had decided to dress casually in a sky-blue silk shirt, light grey woolen trousers and Gucci loafers. His black hair was swept back from his forehead, and he was putting on a jolly expression, which he had heard appealed to children.

‘Artemis need toilet?’ wondered Beckett, who squatted on the Tunisian rug, wearing only a grass-stained vest, which he had pulled down over his knees.

‘No, Beckett,’ said Artemis brightly. ‘I am trying to look jolly. And shouldn’t you be wearing a nappy?’ ‘Nappy,’ snorted Myles, who had potty-trained himself at the age of fourteen months, building a stepladder of encyclopedias to reach the toilet seat.

‘No nappy,’ pouted Beckett, slapping at a still-buzzing fly trapped in his sticky blond curls. ‘Beckett hates nappy.’ Artemis doubted if the nanny had neglected to put a nappy on Beckett, and he wondered briefly where that nappy was now.

‘Very well, Beckett,’ continued Artemis. ‘Let’s shelve the nappy issue for now, and move on to today’s lesson.’ ‘Chocolate on shelves,’ said Beckett, stretching his fingers high to reach imaginary chocolate.

‘Yes, good. There is sometimes chocolate on the shelves.’

‘And espresso,’ added Beckett, who had a strange set of favourite tastes, which included espresso sachets and treacle. In the same cup, if he could manage it. Once Beckett had managed to down several spoons of this concoction before it was wrestled away from him. The toddler hadn’t slept for twenty-eight hours.

‘Can we learn the new words, Artemis?’ asked Myles, who wanted to get back to a mould jar in his bedroom. ‘I am doing speriments with Professor Primate.’ Professor Primate was a stuffed monkey, and Myles’s occasional lab partner. The cuddly toy spent most of his time stuffed into a borosilicate glass beaker on the speriment table. Artemis had reprogrammed the monkey’s voice box to respond to Myles’s voice with twelve phrases, including It’s alive! It’s alive! and History will remember this day, Professor Myles.

‘You can go back to your laboratory soon,’ said Artemis approvingly. Myles was cut from the same cloth as himself, a natural-born scientist. ‘Now, boys. I thought today we might tackle some restaurant terms.’ ‘Sneezes look like worms,’ said Beckett, who wasn’t one for staying on topic.

Artemis was nearly thrown by this remark. Worms were most definitely not on the menu, though snails might well be. ‘Forget about worms.’ ‘Forget worms!’ said Beckett, horrified.

‘Just for the moment,’ said Artemis reassuringly. ‘As soon as we have finished our word game, you may think on whatever pleases you. And, if you are really good, then I may take you to see the horses.’ Riding was the only form of exercise that Artemis had taken to. This was mainly because the horse did most of the work.

Beckett pointed to himself. ‘Beckett,’ he said proudly, worms already a distant memory. Myles sighed. ‘Simple-toon.’ Artemis was beginning to regret scheduling this lesson, but having begun he was determined to forge ahead.

‘Myles, don’t call your brother a simpleton.’

“S OK, Artemis. He likes it.You’re a simple-toon, aren’t you, Beckett?’ ‘Beckett simple-toon,’ agreed the small boy happily.

Artemis rubbed his hands together. ‘Right, brothers. Onwards. Imagine yourself seated at a cafe table in Montmartre.’ Tn Paris/ said Myles, smugly straightening the cravat he had borrowed from his father.

‘Yes, Paris. And, try as you will, you cannot attract the waiter’s attention. What do you do?’ The infants stared at him blankly, and Artemis began to wonder if he wasn’t pitching his lesson a little high. He was relieved, if a little surprised, to see a spark of comprehension in Beckett’s eyes.

‘Urn . . . tell Butler to jump-jump-jump on his head?’

Myles was impressed. T agree with simple-toon.’

‘No!’ said Artemis. ‘You simply raise one finger and say clearly, “hi, garcon!” ‘Itchy what?’

‘What? No, Beckett, not itchy! Artemis sighed. This was impossible. Impossible. And he hadn’t even introduced the flashcards yet or his new modified laser pointer, which could either highlight a word or burn through several steel plates, depending on the setting.

‘Let’s try it together. Raise one finger and say, “Ici,garcon” All together now . . .’ The little boys did as they were told, eager to please their deranged brother.

lIci, garcon,’ they chorused, pudgy fingers raised. And then from the corner of his mouth Myles whispered to his twin, ‘Artemis simple-toon.’ Artemis raised his hands. ‘I surrender. You win—no more lessons. Why don’t we paint some pictures?’ ‘Excellent,’ said Myles. ‘I shall paint my jar of mould.’

Beckett was suspicious. ‘I won’t learn?’

‘No,’ said Artemis, fondly ruffling his brother’s hair and immediately regretting it. ‘You won’t learn a thing.’ ‘Good. Beckett happy now. See.’ The boy pointed to himself once more, specifically to the broad smile on his face.

The three brothers were stretched on the floor, up to their elbows in poster paint, when their father entered the room. He looked tired from his nursing duties, but otherwise fit and strong, moving like a lifelong athlete in spite of his bio-hybrid artificial leg. The leg used lengthened bone, titanium prosthetics and implantable sensors to allow Artemis Senior’s brain signals to move it. Occasionally, at the end of the day, he would use a microwaveable gel pouch to ease his stiffness, but otherwise he behaved as if the new leg were his own.

Artemis climbed to his knees, smudged and dripping.

T abandoned French vocabulary and have joined the twins in play.’ He grinned, wiping his hands. ‘It’s quite liberating, actually. We are finger-painting instead. I did try to sneak in a little lecture on Cubism, but received a splattering for my troubles.’ Artemis noticed then that his father was more than simply tired. He was anxious.

He stepped away from the twins, walking with Artemis Senior to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase.

‘What is the matter? Is Mother’s influenza worsening?’

Artemis’s father rested one hand on the rolling ladder, lifting his weight from the artificial limb. His expression was strange, and one that Artemis could not recall ever seeing.

He realized his father was more than anxious. Artemis Fowl Senior was afraid. ‘Father?’ Artemis Senior gripped the ladder’s rung with such force that the wood creaked. He opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to change his mind.

Now Artemis himself grew worried. ‘Father, you must tell me.’

‘Of course,’ said his father with a start, as if just remembering where he was. ‘I must tell you . . .’ Then a tear fell from his eye, dripping on to his shirt, deepening the blue.

‘I remember when I first saw your mother,’ he said. ‘I was in London, at a private party in the Ivy. A room full of scoundrels and I was the biggest one in the bunch. She changed me, Arty. Broke my heart, then put it together again. Angeline saved my life. Now . . .’ Artemis felt weak with nerves. His blood pounded in his ears like the Atlantic surf.

‘Is Mother dying, Father? Is this what you are trying to tell me?’ The idea seemed ludicrous. Impossible. His father blinked, as if waking from a dream. ‘Not if the Fowl men have something to say about it, eh, son? It’s time for you to earn that reputation of yours.’ Artemis Senior’s eyes were bright with desperation. ‘Whatever we have to do, son. Whatever it takes.’ Artemis felt panic welling up inside him.

Whatever we have to do?

Be calm, he told himself. You have the power to fix this.

Artemis did not yet have all the facts, but nonetheless he was reasonably confident that whatever was wrong with his mother could be healed with a burst of fairy magic. And he was the only human on Earth with that magic running through his system.

‘Father,’ he said gently, ‘has the doctor left?’

For a moment the question seemed to puzzle Artemis Senior, then he remembered.

‘Left? No. He is in the lobby. I thought you might talk to him. Just in case there’s a question I have missed . . .’ Artemis was only mildly surprised to find Doctor Hans Schalke, Europe’s leading expert on rare diseases, in the lobby and not the usual family practitioner. Naturally, his father would have sent for Schalke when Angeline Fowl’s condition began to deteriorate. Schalke waited below the filigreed Fowl crest, a hard-skinned Gladstone bag standing sentry by his ankles like a giant beetle. He was belting a grey raincoat across his waist and speaking to his assistant in sharp tones.

Everything about the doctor was sharp, from the arrowhead of his widow’s peak, to the razor edges of his cheekbones and nose. Twin ovals of cut glass magnified Schalke’s blue eyes and his mouth slashed downwards from left to right, barely moving as he talked.

‘All of the symptoms ,’ he said, his accent muted German. ‘On all of the databases, you understand?’ His assistant, a petite young lady in an expensively cut grey suit, nodded several times, tapping the instructions on to the screen of her smartphone.

‘Universities too?’ she asked.

‘All,’ said Schalke, accompanying the word with an impatient nod. ‘Did I not say all? Do you not understand my accent? Is it because I am from Germany coming?’ ‘Sorry, Doctor,’ said the assistant contritely. ‘All, of course.’

Artemis approached Doctor Schalke, hand outstretched. The doctor did not return the gesture.

‘Contamination, Master Fowl,’ he said, without a trace of apology or sympathy. ‘We have not determined whether your mother’s condition is contagious.’ Artemis curled his fingers into his palm, sliding the hand behind his back. The doctor was right, of course.

‘We have never met, Doctor. Would you be so good as to describe my mother’s symptoms?’ The doctor huffed, irritated. ‘Very well, young man, but I am not accustomed to dealing with children, so there will be no sugar coating.’ Artemis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Sugar coating.

‘Your mother’s condition is possibly unique,’ said Schalke, banishing his assistant to her work with a shake of his fingers. ‘From what I can tell, her organs seem to be failing.’ ‘Which organs?’

‘All of them,’ said Schalke. ‘I need to bring equipment here from my laboratory at Trinity College. Obviously your mother cannot be moved. My assistant, Imogen, Miss Book, will monitor her until my return. Miss Book is not only my publicist, but an excellent nurse too. A useful combination, wouldn’t you say?’ In his peripheral vision, Artemis saw Miss Book scurry round a corner, stammering into her smartphone. He hoped the publicist/nurse would display more confidence when caring for his mother.

T suppose. All my mother’s organs? All of them?’

Schalke was not inclined to repeat himself. ‘I am reminded of lupus, but more aggressive, combined with all three stages of Lyme disease. I did observe an Amazonian tribe once with similar symptoms, but not so severe. At this rate of decline, your mother has days left to her. Frankly, I doubt we will have time to complete tests. We need a miracle cure, and in my considerable experience miracle cures do not exist.’ ‘Perhaps they do,’ said Artemis absently.

Schalke picked up his bag. ‘Put your faith in science, young man,’ advised the doctor. ‘Science will serve your mother better than some mysterious force.’ Artemis held the door for Schalke, watching him walk the dozen steps to his vintage Mercedes-Benz. The car was grey, like the bruised clouds overhead.

There is no time for science, thought the Irish teenager. Magic is my only option.

When Artemis returned to his study, his father was sitting on the rug with Beckett crawling along his torso like a monkey.

‘May I see Mother now?’ Artemis asked him. ‘Yes,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘Go now; see what you can find out. Study her symptoms for your search.’ My search? thought Artemis. There are difficult times ahead.

Artemis’s hulking bodyguard, Butler, waited for him at the foot of the stairs wearing full Kendo armour, the helmet’s faceguard folded away from his weathered features.

‘I was in the dojo, sparring with the holograph,’ he explained. ‘Your father called and told me I was needed immediately. What’s going on?’ ‘It’s Mother,’ said Artemis, passing him. ‘She’s very ill. I’m going to see what I can do.’ Butler hurried to keep pace, his chest plate clanking. ‘Be careful, Artemis. Magic is not science. You can’t control it. You wouldn’t want to accidentally make Mrs Fowl’s condition worse.’ Artemis arrived at the top of the grand stairway, tentatively reaching his hand towards the bedroom door’s brass knob, as though it were electrified.

‘I fear that her condition couldn’t be worse . . .’

Artemis went inside alone, leaving the bodyguard to strip off the Kendo headgear and Hon-nuri breastplate. Underneath lie wore a tracksuit instead of the traditional wide-legged trousers. Sweat blossomed across his chest and back, but Butler ignored his desire to go and shower, standing sentry outside the door, knowing that he shouldn’t strain too hard to listen, but wishing that he could.

Butler was the only other human who knew the full truth of Artemis’s magical escapades. He had been at his young charge’s shoulder throughout their various adventures, battling fairies and humans across the continents. But Artemis had made the journey through time to Limbo without him, and he had come back changed. A part of his young charge was magical now, and not just Captain Holly Short’s hazel left eye the time stream had given him in place of his own. On the journey from Earth to Limbo and back, Artemis had somehow managed to steal a few strands of magic from the fairies whose atoms were mixed with his in the time stream. When he had returned home from Limbo, Artemis had suggested to his parents, in the compelling magical mesmer, that they simply not think about where he had been for the past few years. It wasn’t a very sophisticated plan, as his disappearance had made the news worldwide, and the subject was raised at every function the Fowls attended. But until Artemis could get hold of some LEP mind-wiping equipment, or indeed develop his own, it would have to suffice. He suggested to his parents that if anyone were to ask about him they should simply state it was a family matter and ask that their privacy be respected.

Artemis is a magical human, thought Butler. The only one.

And now Butler just knew Artemis was going to use his magic to attempt a healing on his mother. It was a dangerous game; magic was not a natural part of his make-up. The boy could well remove one set of symptoms and replace them with another.

Artemis entered his parents’ bedroom slowly. The twins charged in here at all hours of the day and night, flinging themselves on the four-poster bed to wrestle with his protesting mother and father, but Artemis had never experienced that. His childhood had been a time of order and discipline.

Always knock before entering, Artemis, his father had instructed him. It shows respect.

But his father had changed. A brush with death seven years earlier had shown him what was really important. Now he was always ready to hug and roll in the covers with his beloved sons.

It’s too late for me, thought Artemis. I am too old for tussles with Father.

Mother was different. She was never cold, apart from during her bouts of depression when his father was missing. But fairy magic and the return of her beloved husband had saved her from that and now she was herself again. Or she had been until now.

Artemis crossed the room slowly, afraid of what lay before him. He walked cautiously across the carpet, careful to tread between the vine patterns in the weave.

Step on a vine, count to nine.

This was a habit from when he was little, an old superstition whispered lightly by his father. Artemis had never forgotten and always counted to nine to ward off the bad luck should so much as a toe touch the carpet vines.

The four-poster bed stood at the rear of the room, swathed in hanging drapes and sunlight. A breeze slipped into the room, rippling the silks like the sails of a pirate ship.

One of his mother’s hands dangled over the side. Pale and thin.

Artemis was horrified. Just yesterday his mother had been fine. A slight sniffle, but still her warm, laughing self.

‘Mother,’ he blurted on seeing her face, feeling as though the word had been punched out of him.

This was not possible. In twenty-four hours, his mother had deteriorated to little more than a skeleton. Her cheekbones were sharp as flint, her eyes lost in dark sockets.

Don’t worry, Artemis told himself. In a few short seconds Mother will be well, then I can investigate what happened here.

Angeline Fowl’s beautiful hair was frizzed and brittle, broken strands criss-crossing her pillow like a spider’s web. And there was an odd smell emanating from her pores.

Lilies, thought Artemis. Sweet yet tinged with sickness.

Angeline’s eyes opened abruptly, round with panic. Her back arched as she sucked breath through a constricted windpipe, clutching at the air with clawed hands. Just as suddenly she collapsed, and Artemis thought for a terrible moment that she was gone.

But then her eyelids fluttered and she reached out a hand for him.

‘Arty,’ she said, her> voice no more than a whisper. ‘I am having the strangest dream,’ A short sentence, but it took an age to complete, with a rasped breath between each word.

Artemis took his mother’s hand. How slender it was. A parcel of bones.

‘Or perhaps I am awake and my other life is a dream.’

Artemis was pained to hear his mother speak like this; it reminded him of the turns she used to suffer from.

‘You’re awake, Mother, and I am here. You have a light fever and are a little dehydrated, that’s all. Nothing to be concerned about.’ ‘How can I be awake, Arty,’ said Angeline, her eyes calm in black circles, ‘when I feel myself dying? How can I be awake when I feel that?’ Artemis’s feigned calm was knocked by this.

‘I-it’s the . . . fever,’ he stammered. ‘You’re seeing things a little strangely. Everything will be fine soon. I promise.’ Angeline closed her eyes. ‘And my son keeps his promises, I know. Where have you been these past years, Arty? We were so worried. Why are you not seventeen?’ In her delirium, Angeline Fowl saw through a haze of magic to the truth. She realized that he had been missing lor three years and had come home the same age as when he went away.

‘I am fourteen, Mother. Almost fifteen now, still a boy for another while. Now close your eyes and when you open them again all will be well.’ ‘What have you done to my thoughts, Artemis? Where has your power come from?’ Artemis was sweating now. The heat of the room, the sickly smell, his own anxiety.

She knows. Mother knows. Ifyou heal her, will she remember everything?

It didn’t matter. That could be dealt with in due course. I lis priority was to mend his parent.

Artemis squeezed the frail hand in his grip, feeling the hones grind against each other. He was about to use magic on his mother for the second time.

Magic did not belong in Artemis’s soul, and gave him lightning-bolt headaches whenever he used it. Though he was human, the fairy rules of magic held a certain sway over him. He was forced to chew motion-sickness tablets before entering a dwelling uninvited, and when the moon was full Artemis could often be found in the library, listening to music at maximum volume to drown out the voices in his head. The great commune of magical creatures. The fairies had powerful race memories and they surfaced like ,1 lidal wave of raw emotion, bringing migraines with them.

Sometimes Artemis wondered if stealing the magic had been a mistake, but recently the symptoms had stopped.

No more migraines or sickness. Perhaps his brain was adapting to the strain of being a magical creature.

Artemis held his mother’s fingers gently, closed his eyes and cleared his mind.

Magic. Only magic.

The magic was a wild force and needed to be controlled. If Artemis let his thoughts ramble, the magic would ramble too and he could open his eyes to find his mother still sick but with different-coloured hair.

Heal, he thought. Be well, Mother.

The magic responded to his wish, spreading along his limbs, buzzing, tingling. Blue sparks circled his wrists, twitching like shoals of tiny minnows. Almost as if they were alive.

Artemis thought of his mother in better times. He sawr her skin radiant, her eyes shining with happiness. Heard her laugh, felt her touch on his neck. Remembered the strength of Angeline Fowl’s love for her family.

That is what I want.

The sparks sensed his wishes and flowed into Angeline Fowl, sinking into the skin of her hand and wrist, twisting in ropes round her gaunt arms. Artemis pushed harder and a river of magical flickers flowed from his fingers into his mother.

Heal, he thought. Drive out the sickness.

Artemis had used his magic before, but this time was different. There was resistance, as though his mother’s body did not wish to be healed and was rejecting the power. Sparks fizzled on her skin, spasmed and winked out.

More, thought Artemis. More.

He pushed harder, ignoring the sudden blinding headache and rumbling nausea. Heal, Mother.

The magic wrapped his mother like an Egyptian mummy, snaking underneath her body, raising her fifteen centimetres from the mattress. She shuddered and moaned, steam venting from her pores, sizzling as it touched the blue sparks.

She is in pain, thought Artemis, opening one eye a slit. In agony. But I cannot stop now.

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, more than that. Her sickness grew stronger. Repelling each blue wave, robbing the sparks of their colour 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 on to 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 vigour.

‘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 Knest crystal. She did not respond to his touch or voice. 1 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 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, if 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 linger 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.