In the corner, a girl sat hunched on folding chair. She cradled her head in both hands, her shoulders hitching gently with sobs.
Artemis cleared his throat. “Why are you crying, girl?”
The girl jerked upright, and it became immediately obvious that this was no normal girl. In fact, she appeared to belong to a totally different species.
“Pointed ears,” noted Artemis, with surprising composure. “Prosthetic or real?”
Holly almost smiled through her tears. “Typical Artemis Fowl. Always looking for options. My ears are very real, as you well know . . . knew.”
Artemis was silent for several moments, processing the wealth of information in those few sentences.
“Real pointed ears? Then you are of another species, not human. Possibly a fairy?”
Holly nodded. “I am a fairy. Actually, an elf. I’m what you would call a leprechaun too, but that’s just a job.”
“And fairies speak English, do they?”
“We speak all languages. The gift of tongues, it is part of our magic.”
Artemis knew that these revelations should send his world spinning on its axis, but he found himself accepting every word. It was as though he had always suspected the existence of fairies, and this was simply confirmation. Although, strangely, he could not remember ever having even thought about fairies before this day.
“And you claim to know me? Personally or from some kind of surveillance? You certainly seem to have the technology.”
“We’ve known you for a few years now, Artemis. You made first contact, and we’ve been keeping an eye on you ever since.”
Artemis was slightly startled. “I made first contact?”
“Yes. December, two years ago. You kidnapped me.”
“Is this your revenge? That explosive device? My ribs?” A horrible thought struck the Irish boy. “And what about Butler? Is he dead?”
Holly did her best to answer all of these questions. “It is revenge, but not mine. And Butler is alive. I just had to get you out of there before another attempt was made on your life.”
“So we’re friends now?”
Holly shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
All of this was slightly confusing. Even for a genius.
Artemis crossed his legs in the lotus position and rested his temples against pointed fingers.
“You had better tell me everything,” he said, closing his eyes. “From the beginning. And leave nothing out.”
So Holly did. She told Artemis how he had kidnapped her, then released her at the last moment. She told him how they had journeyed to the Arctic to rescue his father, and how they had foiled a goblin rebellion bankrolled by Opal Koboi. She recounted in great detail their mission to Chicago to steal back the C Cube, a super computer constructed by Artemis from pirated fairy technology. Finally, in a small quiet voice, she told of Commander Root’s death and of Opal Koboi’s sinister plot to bring the fairy and human worlds together.
Artemis sat perfectly still, absorbing hundreds of incredible facts. His brow was slightly creased as if the information were difficult to digest. Finally, when his brain had organized the data, he opened his eyes.
“Very well,” he said. “I don’t remember any of this, but I believe you. I accept that we humans have fairy neighbors below the planet’s surface.”
“Just like that?”
Artemis’s lip curled. “Hardly. I have taken your story and cross-referenced it with the facts as I know them. The only other scenario that could explain everything that has happened, up to and including your own bizarre appearance, is a convoluted conspiracy theory involving the Russian Mafiya and a crack team of plastic surgeons. Hardly likely. But your fairy story fits, right down to something that you could not know about, Captain Short.”
“Which is?”
“After my alleged mind wipe, I discovered mirrored contact lenses in my own eyes and Butler’s. Investigation revealed that I myself had ordered the lenses, though I had no memory of the fact. I suspect that I ordered them to cheat your mesmer.”
Holly nodded. It made sense. Fairies had the power to mesmerize humans, but eye contact was part of the trick, coupled with a mesmeric voice. Mirrored contact lenses would leave the subject completely in control, while pretending to be under the mesmer.
“The only reason for this would be if I had planted a trigger somewhere. Something that would cause my fairy memories to come rushing back. But what?”
“I have no idea,” said Holly. “I was hoping that just seeing me would trigger recall.”
Artemis smiled in a very annoying way. As one would at a small child who had just suggested that the moon was made of cheese.
“No, Captain. I would guess that your Mister Foaly’s mind-wiping technology is an advanced version of the memory-suppressant drugs being experimented with by various governments. The brain, you see, is a complex instrument; if it can be convinced that something did not happen, it will invent all kinds of scenarios to maintain that illusion. Nothing can change its mind, so to speak. Even if the conscious accepts something, the mind wipe will have convinced the subconscious otherwise. So, no matter how convincing you are, you cannot convert my altered subconscious. My subconscious probably believes that you are a hallucination or a miniature spy. No, the only way that my memories could be returned to me would be if my subconscious could not present a reasonable argument; say, if the one person that I trust completely presented me with irrefutable evidence.”
Holly felt herself growing annoyed. Artemis could get under her skin like nobody else. A child who treated everyone like children.
“And who is this one person that you trust?”
Artemis smiled genuinely for the first time since Munich. “Why, myself, of course.”
Munich
Butler woke to find blood dripping from the tip of his nose. It was dripping onto the white hat of the hotel chef. The chef stood with a group of hotel kitchen staff in the middle of a destroyed storage shed. The man gripped a cleaver in his hairy fist, just in case this giant on the tattered mattress wedged into the rafters was a madman.
“Excuse me,” said the chef politely, which is unusual for a chef, “are you alive?”
Butler considered the question. Apparently, unlikely as it seemed, he was alive. The mattress had saved him from the strange missile. Artemis had survived, too. He remembered feeling his charge’s heartbeat just before he passed out. It wasn’t there now.
“I am alive,” he grunted, a paste of tile dust and blood spilling from his lips. “Where is the boy who was with me?”
The crowd assembled in the ruined shed looked at one another.
“There was no boy,” said the chef finally. “You fell through the roof all on your own.”
Doubtless, this group would like an explanation or they would inform the police.
“Of course there was no boy. Forgive me; the mind tends to wander after a three-story fall.”
The group nodded as one. Who could blame the giant for being a touch rattled?
“I was leaning against the railing, sunning myself, when the railing gave way. Lucky for me, I managed to grab the mattress on the way down.”
This explanation was met with the mass skepticism it thoroughly deserved. The chef voiced the group’s doubts.
“You managed to grab a mattress?”
Butler had to think quickly, which is not easy when all the blood in your body is concentrated in your forehead.
“Yes. It was on the balcony. I had been resting in the sun.”
This entire sun business was extremely unlikely. Especially considering that it was the middle of winter. Butler realized that there was only one way to dispel the crowd. It was drastic, but it should work.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small spiral pad.
“Of course, I intend to sue the hotel for damages. Trauma alone should be worth a few million euros. Not to mention injuries. I presume I can count on you good people as witnesses.”
The chef paled, as did the others. Giving evidence against one’s employers was the first step to unemployment.
“I . . . I don’t know, sir,” he stammered. “I didn’t actually see anything.” He paused to sniff the air. “I think I smell my Pavlova burning. Dessert will be ruined.”
The chef hopped over the chunks of shattered tile, disappearing back into the hotel. The remaining staff followed his lead, and within seconds, Butler was on his own again. He smiled, though the action sent a flare of pain down his neck. The threat of a lawsuit generally scattered witnesses as effectively as any gunfire.