Artemis Fowl: The Forgotten Seal
Summary: Having a secret affair with a student is the least of Artemis's problems when a plague hits the fairy race. Worst, they suspect biological warfare-a genocide stretching to both humans and People. The cure resides in the blood of a human-fairy hybrid named Cecilia. Now it is a race against time.
In Psychology we learned that there are two types of babies.
The first is primarily the offspring of vertebrate mammals. These babies were bestowed by evolution to look cute. You know, the adorable kittens or puppies you see 50,000 times on These babies spend the first part of their life with their parents, being taken care of, and learning to face the challenges of nature.
Then there is the second kind of baby. Reptiles, amphibians, insects, ect. These newborns are hardly deemed fit to be called babies, in fact, they simply look like small versions of their parents. From day one of their birth they are left to fend for themselves. No need to have cuddly features when you are immediately shoved into the cold world alone. If you're lucky, mummy might just devour you.
Between the two types of babies, I was strongly suspicious Professor Fowl might have been the second.
The Wednesday before spring break he assigned us a twelve-paged paper over a subject we'd barely covered in class. It would be just too easy to email the final draft. No. The professor had to complicate things further by demanding a hard copy. While most of his prized students (and by this I mean they were not subject to his subtle yet vitriolic bits of sarcasm) easily finished in the small time allotted. I, however, was stuck in the library, 3:30am, desperately throwing together bullshit so that I could catch my flight and get home. I didn't know if I was just lazy, or if the rest of the class were comprised of shut-ins.
I desperately hoped for the former.
I don't recall falling asleep. I do, however, remember waking up with the pages of my book plastered against my cheek. I glanced at my phone. It was 8am. An hour before my flight took off.
"Shit," I hissed, hitting the print button multiple times. I had eight pages done. Eight. As I crammed them into my book bag and raced down the street like a fucking loon, I knew I was going to fail the course. It was inevitable. The professor thought I was a complete imbecile along with the rest of the sodding brownnosers. The paper was a testament to my lack of motivation. Had I known that, by turning in the paper, I'd discover an entire race of fairies and shortly thereafter watch the one I love die, I would not have bothered. In fact, I would have accepted my failure sooner, rather than dash into the science-building, bolt up the stairs, wrench open the door…
…and collide with Professor Fowl himself.
"Fuck!" I yelled, and then upon seeing whom it was, calmly muttered, "Eh, excuse me sir. Sorry. I uhm, have my paper…"
I handed him the crumpled mess. God. I didn't even staple it. For all I knew the eighth page was mostly gibberish that had been conceived when my arm hit the keyboard after I fell asleep.
"You seem to be in a hurry, Mrs. Andrews," the Professor said taking my paper.
"I have a flight to catch," I replied civilly, which came out sounding like an excuse. A lack of sleep doesn't do much for my manners. Combined that with the six missed messages waiting on my phone from mum and no coffee to speak of and you have someone who was on the cusp of a psychopathic break down. Or, more likely, a temper tantrum.
"Indeed," Dr. Fowl replied without interest. He was busy looking at my paper in utter disgust. I didn't blame him, really, but he didn't have to raise his eyebrow with the smarmiest look of contempt in the world.
For some reason, and I can't imagine why because the sodding bastard hated me, I expected the conversation to continue, or for him to at least to make a snide comment, or rip up the essay. However, after a slight lull, I excused myself by getting the hell out of there as fast I could, without a good day or goodbye.
Thank fucking God I will never have to see you again. The first thing I planned on doing when I got home was dropping out of his class.
Honestly, I would be more than satisfied never seeing him again.
Ever.
"Delayed? What do you mean, delayed?"
"I'm sorry, ma'm," the woman replied without much sorry in her voice. "But there is weather delay. No flights going out. Fog is too thick."
My jaw nearly dropped to the floor. "Fog? Are you serious? Fog? They're cancelling because of fog? This is London."
She said sorry again and then pretended to do something on her computer, which was probably update her facebook status to stupid flight customers won't get off my back about the damn weather I can't control.
This was a bloody awful mess. You would have thought by now they'd have built a tunnel linking America and Europe. But no. Now, I'd have to call mum, and explain why I wasn't coming to Boston. Then I'd get an earful of how she begged me not to go back to England because naturally it's my fault for leaving home, not the weather. And when I tell her I have nowhere to stay because dorms are closed over break, well. That would be cheery.
"Ma'm," I said, steadily as possible. "When do you think the flights will be going again?"
At this point the woman did give me a look of pity. "I'm sorry. But I'm just not sure."
Defeated, I left the terminal and headed for the Gold Club Bar, the exclusive waiting area for rich folk and their ass kissers. My dad, having been who he was, got a membership for me on my eighteenth birthday. I guess he'd decided to give me a head start on the family tradition: medical school and alcoholism.
"Coke and rum," I ordered, preparing for the drinking binge to come.
"You know, this isn't a college watering hole, Ms. Andrews."
Of course he'd be here. How could he not? After all, this was turning out to be the third most stressful day of my life. The universe just had to keep in rhythm.
"What are you doing here, Dr. Fowl?" I asked bitterly. The fretful politeness had vanished. I was in no mood. No mood at all.
He eloquently sipped his chardonnay and responded, "I'm waiting for the runways to clear so I can take my private jet to Italy."
"Private jet?" I laughed. "How much are they paying professors at Oxford these days?"
"Not enough to read the drivels of a hung over student," the professor replied. I saw that he was waving my sorry excuse for a paper around, already marked to the brim in red.
Indifferent, I tapped the bar for another drink. "No worries. I'm dropping your class anyway."
He smiled. A taunting, malicious smile, the kind my brother used to give me when he knew I was at the edge, about to lose my temper because I just couldn't win. I tapped the bar again.
"I know who you are," the professor continued. "You're the daughter of Dr. Andrews, the hematologist who found the cure for AIDS and the sister of the geneticist who helped him."
I supposed he was expecting me to be bitter. Expecting me to have this great hole I felt the need to fill in the place of my heroic family. But it wasn't like that.
"My father was a great man. He was a martyr for science. So was my brother. Perhaps moreso. Gin and tonic please," I ordered. "And what about you, professor? I know of you. Your family is practically made of money. I bet your dad pisses a million dollars every morning. Why are you a damn professor for a course you clearly hate?"
He smirked, sipping chardonnay. "You could say I'm being punished."
Before I could inquire any further, the loudspeaker came on. "Attention. All flights going out of Gatwick and Heathrow have been cancelled due to inclement weather. Please make arrangements accordingly."
The announcement was repeated in French, Spanish, German, Arabic, and Chinese. I swore bitterly and checked my phone. The messages were up to nine. Dr. Fowl raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"
"Yes," I said furiously. I was mad at him. I knew I shouldn't be. After all, had I just turned in the paper sooner, or better yet simply not done it, I would have caught an earlier flight and been home by now. Yet I stayed to finish the bloody thing, which I didn't even end up completing. So the entire affair was a huge waste of time and energy.
To top it all off I had no money. Probably fifty-six dollars in cash, if that. Considering I didn't know how long I'd be waiting in London I knew it wouldn't get me far. I could hear my mother now. Harvard offered a full ride!
Imagining her voice was the breaking point. I started to cry. Yes. Cry. In front of Professor Fowl, and probably the President of France, and other people of semi-notable importance who appear in Forbes.
"Come," he said, gripping me firmly by the arm. Despite my pure and utter hated of the man I let him lead me out of bar, and into the bathroom. I should have found that odd him taking me into an empty restroom. One would have thought so, anyway. But I was so overwhelmed I didn't have time to process his actions, nor suspect why the room was slowly disappearing, and voices were getting smaller, more distance.
"Hit her in the head. Just for good measure."
I didn't feel the pain.
I woke up in a small, dimly lit room. My hands were tied, mouth dry, head aching. Slowly, the world came into focus, but all I could make out was a shadowy figure.
It asked me a question. "Tell me how your brother got the genetic mutation, Ms. Andrews."
"I…I don't know what you're talking about."
"The genetic mutation."
"I don't know."
The figure stepped into view.
It was the professor.
"Tell me," he repeated. "Your life depends on it."
I glared at him. "I don't know."