I mustn’t let that dwarf get me down, she told herself, ascending with blinding speed toward the surface. My hips are most definitely not wobbly.
Opal’s ascent was blinding and divine in appearance, like a supernova that shot toward the ocean’s surface, the fierce heat of her black magic repelling the walls of Atlantis and the crushing ocean with equal offhandedness, reorganizing the atomic structure of anything that stood in her way.
She rode her corona of black magic onward and upward toward the Fowl Estate. She did not need to think about her destination, as the lock called to her. The lock called, and she was the key.
Ériú, a.k.a. The Fowl Estate
Buried in a descending spiral around the lock, the Berserkers grew agitated as magic was let loose in the world above.
Something is coming, Oro, captain of the Berserkers, realized. Soon we will be free and our swords will taste human blood once more. We will bake their hearts in clay jars and call forth the ancient dark forces. We will infiltrate what forms we must to hold the humans back. They cannot kill us, for we are already dead, held together by a skein of magic.
Our time will be short. No more than a single night after all this time; but we will cover ourselves in glory and blood before we join Danu in the afterlife.
Can you feel the shift? Oro called down to the spirits of his warriors. Be prepared to push forward when the gate is opened.
We are ready, replied his warriors. When the light falls upon us, we will seize the bodies of dogs, badgers, and humans and subvert them to our wills.
Oro could not help thinking: I would rather inhabit a human than a badger.
For he was proud, and this pride had cost him his life ten thousand years ago.
Gobdaw, who lay to his left, sent out a shuddering thought that could almost be a chuckle.
Yes, he said. But better a badger than a rat.
If Oro’s heart had been flesh and blood, it would have burst with a new pride, but this time for his warriors.
My soldiers are ready for war. They will fight until their stolen bodies drop, then finally be free to embrace the light.
Our time is at hand.
Juliet Butler was holding the fort, and not just in the sense of looking after things while Artemis’s parents were away at an eco-conference in London—she was actually holding a fort.
The fort in question was an old Martello tower that stood sentry on a hill overlooking Dublin Bay. The fort had been worn down to a nub by the elements, and strange black ivy had thrown tendrils along the walls as though trying to reclaim the stone for the earth. The would-be conquerors were Artemis Fowl’s brothers: four-year-old Myles and his twin, Beckett. The boys had rushed the tower several times with wooden swords but were rebuffed by Juliet and sent gently tumbling into the long grass. Beckett squealed with laughter, but Juliet could see that Myles was growing more and more frustrated at the failure of his assaults.
Just like Artemis, that one, Juliet thought. Another little criminal mastermind.
For the past ten minutes the boys had been rustling behind a bush, plotting their next attack. Juliet could hear muffled giggles and terse commands as Myles no doubt issued a complicated series of tactical instructions to Beckett.
Juliet smiled. She could just imagine the scenario.
Myles would say something like:
You go one way, Beck, and I go the other. ’S called flanking.
To which Beckett would respond with something like: I like caterpillars.
It was true to say that the brothers loved each other more than they loved themselves, but Myles lived in a state of constant frustration that Beckett could not, or would not, follow the simplest instruction.
Any second now Beckett will grow bored with this tactical meeting, thought Butler’s younger sister, and come wandering from the bush brandishing his toy sword.
Moments later, Beckett did indeed stumble from the bush, but it was not a sword that he brandished.
Juliet swung her leg over the low parapet and called suspiciously.
“Beck, what have you got there?”
Beckett waved the item. “Underpants,” he said frankly.
Juliet looked again to confirm that the grubby triangle was indeed a pair of underpants. Because of the knee-length Wimpy Kid T-shirt he had worn for the past forty-eight days, it was impossible to ascertain whether or not the underpants were Beckett’s own, though it seemed likely, given that the boy’s legs were bare.
Beckett was something of an unruly character and, in her few months as nanny/bodyguard, Juliet had seen a lot worse things than underpants—for example, the worm farm that Beckett had constructed in the downstairs bathroom and fertilized personally.
“Okay, Beck,” she called down from the tower. “Just put the underpants down, kiddo. I’ll get you a clean pair.”
Beckett advanced steadily. “Nope. Beckett is sick of stupid underpants. These’re for you. A present.”
The boy’s face glowed with innocent enthusiasm, convinced that his Y-fronts were about the best present a girl could get—besides a pair of his Y-fronts with a handful of beetles cradled inside.
Juliet countered with: “But it’s not my birthday.”
Beckett was at the foot of the worn tower now, waving the pants like a flag. “I love you, Jules—take the present.”
He loves me, thought Juliet. Kids always know the weak spot.
She tried one last desperate ploy. “But won’t your bottom be chilly?”
Beckett had an answer for that. “Nope. I don’t ever feel cold.”
Juliet smiled fondly. It was easy to believe. Bony Beckett gave off enough heat to boil a lake. Hugging him was like hugging a restless radiator.
At this point, Juliet’s only way to avoid touching the underpants was a harmless lie. “Rabbits love old underpants, Beck. Why don’t you bury them as a gift for Papa Rabbit?”
“Rabbits don’t need underpants,” said a sinister little voice behind her. “They are warm-blooded mammals, and their fur is sufficient clothing in our climate.”
Juliet felt the tip of Myles’s wooden sword in her thigh and realized that the boy had used Beckett as a distraction, then circled around to the back steps.
I didn’t hear a thing, she mused. Myles is learning to creep.
“Very good, Myles,” she said. “How did you get Beckett to follow your instructions?”
Myles grinned smugly, and the resemblance to Artemis was uncanny. “I didn’t give him soldier’s orders. I ’gested to Beck that his bum might be itchy.”
This boy is not yet five, thought Juliet. Wait till the world gets a load of Myles Fowl.
From the corner of her eye she saw something triangular sail through the air toward her and instinctively snatched it. No sooner had her fingers closed on the material than it dawned on her what she was holding.
Great, she thought. Hoodwinked by two four-year-olds.
“Righto, boys,” she said. “Time to go back to the house for lunch. What’s on the menu today?”
Myles sheathed his sword. “I would like a croque madame, with chilled grape juice.”
“Bugs,” said Beckett, hopping on one foot. “Bugs in ketchup.”
Juliet hiked Myles onto her shoulder and jumped down from the tower’s low wall. “Same as yesterday, then, boys.”
Memo to self, she thought. Wash your hands.
The boys were waist high in the pasture when the faraway chaos began. Beckett paid the sudden distant cacophony little attention as his internal soundtrack generally featured explosions and screaming, but Myles knew something was wrong.
He headed back to the Martello tower and clambered up the stone steps, displaying a lack of motor skills reminiscent of Artemis, which amused Beckett greatly, as he was sure-footed to the same extent his brothers were not.
“Armageddon,” Myles announced when he reached the top step. “The end of the world.”
Beckett was dismayed. “Not Disneyland too!”
Julie
t ruffled his sun-bleached hair. “No, of course not Disneyland.” In her stomach she felt a growling of disquiet. Where were these noises coming from? It sounded as though there was a war zone nearby.