Chapter Seven, anyone?


CHAPTER SEVEN

Cynthia Brunswick sighed, pulling her auburn hair down from its regulation bun and putting away the tools of her trade: mop, broom and washrag all neatly tucked away in the supply closet. She hadn't felt this good in days; that bastard Elais Martin practically gave her a heart attack every time he spoke or looked in his direction. He was a cold-hearted fiend. It was a wonder people worked for him at all, she thought to herself, before remembering that she had done the same. She also remembered that he was the most popular author in America right now, and it all made sense. If it wasn't for the money or the prestige, at the very least girls strove for the job just to look at the man. He was an asshole, but she wasn't blind. He was beautiful, in an ethereal sort of way that only few people could claim—and the worst part of it was, he wasted that beauty shamelessly. In the six days that she had worked there she had only seen one woman in his house, and that had been his crotchety editor. Somehow, she got the feeling that they weren't romantically involved.

"Hey, Cyn? There's, um…some people outside wanting to talk to you." One of her co-workers, Tanya, yelled back from her spot at the reception desk. She huffed impatiently.

"Could you tell them to wait? I'm kind of changing here."

"Well…hurry." She obliged, quickly pulling on a white blouse and a pair of acid-washed jeans, both of which having origins in the mid-eighties. Her mother had been a child of that era, and she hated wasting perfectly good clothing. Style wasn't high on Cynthia's list of priorities.

"Alright." She entered the lobby. "Who is…?" Her gaze immediately stuck to the enormous man that stood before her. He was easily skirting seven feet tall, and what made him seem even more imposing was the fact that his companion couldn't have been over four. "Hello, there. Um…er, can I help you today?"

"Yes." The short one spoke first. She was pretty, in a pointy sort of way, and her sparkling eyes held no nonsense. "We would like to talk to you about someone. One of your former employers?"

"Is this about Mr. Martin? Look, if you want an interview or autographs or whatever, I can't get them. He hated me; he hates all of his maids. It's like he can't stand looking at us." The small one continued, unhindered by Cynthia's discouragement.

"Please, this will only take a moment, I promise. We aren't paparazzi. We think that he may be somebody that we know." Cynthia laughed.

"Are you kidding? Everybody knows Mr. Martin, he's the most popular author in the country."

"Personally?" That caught Cynthia's attention. Never in her life did she see Elais Martin in any sort of personal relationship: no friends, no lovers, not even polite acquaintances. Nobody was safe from his pointed tongue. She sighed, sitting on the patchy couch that rested in the lobby.

"Okay, what's this all about?" Thankfully, the gigantic man finally sat down, and Cynthia felt at least a bit more at ease. However, his deep blue eyes still pierced into her, and she looked quickly away.

"My name is Sally Hutchinson. This is my associate, Richards. We're looking for Mr. Martin because we believe him to be involved in a conspiracy." The short one flashed a badge. "LEP. Special organization in the government. We need your help."

"Whoa, whoa. Wait just a minute, here. You're saying that Mr. Martin is a criminal?" Agent Hutchinson shook her head, flipping the badge case shut and stowing it in her tiny pocket.

"No, we are saying that he is a suspected criminal. We just need to learn a bit more about him before we can actually make any real accusations. We happen to know that you worked closely to him."

"If cleaning up his little messes counts as close. Besides, I only worked for him for six days." Hutchinson nodded.

"And during those six days, did you notice any odd behavior? Anxiety? Anything that could be considered abnormal?" Again, Cynthia had to laugh.

"Mr. Martin is abnormal. Everything about that man is…strange. He has no heart. I don't think I have ever seen him really smile at anyone, and when he would flash that grin at me…" She shivered. "I thought that he was going to…I don't know, eat me. He's a monster."

"I see."

"Look, I don't know anything personal about the guy, only that he is a jerk. If you really wanna know something…well, I can give you the name of his editor. But that's it, really!" Cynthia nodded. "That's all I know." Hutchinson pulled a notepad from her back pocket.

"Can you give me that name?"

"Her name is Lillian McKee." The tiny agent scribbled down the name. "She has an office in New York City, but I don't know where she lives privately." Before they could get away, Cynthia piped up. "Hey—what does LEP stand for?" The two agents looked at each other, and the one called Richards finally spoke, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to rattle her bones.

"It's better if you don't know, Ms. Brunswick." She nodded, unsatisfied with his answer but too afraid to question the big man who bored into her with his fearsome blue eyes. "Thank you, Ms. Brunswick. You've been a big help." The two agents left Cynthia sitting on the old couch, her eyes wide. From the bathroom, Tanya poked her head out.

"Shee-it. What was all that about?"

"I have no idea." She shook her head, still baffled and intimidated by the frightening Mr. Richards. If Mr. Martin really had caused those people trouble, she actually pitied him.


Elais sighed, the pinpricks of warmth from the shower, taking away the tension in his arms and back, leaving tiny welts on his ivory skin. He had lost control last night; he detested lack of control. It was no matter, though: it had seemed that that very lack of control was what had gotten him the information that he had desired. Now he knew exactly where to find the man who had orchestrated the greatest tragedy of his life. Now…he could properly thank him. He had spent the rest of the night, straight until morning, searching the Moscow area for men or women who could have the influence needed to control the Russian Mafiya. There had been only one possibility: a man known as Britva.

He emerged from his shower, toweled off his skin, which was now a pleasant pink, and slipped into his attire of choice: a pair of grey slacks and a blue sweater, not quite periwinkle. Despite the fact that spring approached, the little town of Scarsdale was still quite chilly in the daytime and worse at night; sweaters were still practical. Later, he would need the comfort provided by these clothes to put him in the right mood for scheming. He still wasn't used to doing it alone, even after six years.

"Elais?" It was Lillian's voice, but why was she here so early? Eight o'clock was early, especially for her. "I brought you some of those muffins you like. Coffee and tea, believe it or not, is not enough nourishment for a man of your age. Now, eat up, huh?" He walked into the kitchen to find her setting out the muffins, taking a couple of saucers out of the cabinet.

"Don't use those for muffins, Lillian. They are for tea only." She rolled her eyes.

"Fine. What do you use for muffins, then?" Elais smiled.

"Muffin plates." He thought he heard her say something quite rude under her breath, but he went to the shelf and pulled down two small plates, clearly not saucers. He sat them down on the table. "Lillian…"

"What?" He sat across from her, pouring himself some coffee into the cup that she had set out for him. Something was bothering him, she could tell from the look in his eyes.

"Thank…you for your concern." Elais wouldn't meet her gaze. If he had, he would have seen her face go red with a blush.

"Hey, don't worry about it, kiddo. You don't take care of yourself well enough, so somebody has to look out for you, right?" He didn't answer. "Elli? Elais?"

"Lillian. I will be leaving on a research trip in a few days. Make sure everything is still standing when I get back, will you?" This surprised her; she hadn't known that Elais needed to make research trips. His state-of-the-art computer always seemed to have the right answer.

"Um, sure. Can I ask where you're going?" He pulled apart one of the muffins with his long fingers and pursed his lips together. "Guess not. Well, listen, just…be careful, alright?" Elais nodded, and she leaned over the table to look into her. "This trip…it's not for research, is it?"

"That is ridiculous, Lillian, and you will never bring up such a ludicrous possibility." The quickness of his tone silenced her.

"Alright, alright." She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "I just wanted to make sure that you were fed for a few days, okay? The muffins will stay good if you make sure to close up the container properly." Starting out, she paused to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Be careful, kid." His eyes widened and she winked at him with one of her own, a vibrant green.

"Lillian?"

"See ya, Elli." She made her way out to her Jaguar, leaving her client genuinely confused.


New York City sucked Holly and Butler in once more, and she tried to ignore the terrible fumes that had only worsened in the morning light. She looked up at her bodyguard friend, trying her best not to smile at the happiness in his eyes. She, on the other hand, couldn't hope for much from this "agent". If she was anything like any of the other city-dwelling Mud Men that she had met, she wouldn't be helpful at all.

"So, this Lillian McKee. Do you think we can get an…ah, "appointment" to see her, Butler?" He smirked, and Holly knew that he had it all figured out.

"I grabbed a couple of my old fake IDs before leaving the manor. One of them should work." He pulled it from his pocket and produced a pair of cards enclosed in leather cases. It was Butler, there was no doubt about that, but he was in military uniform, and his dark eyes were shielded by a pair of half-moon glasses. The name read Colonel Xavier Lee. She raised an eyebrow curiously.

"How are you planning to use this?"

"Artemis and I used it once to steal a painting a couple of years back. However, it is inferred that Colonel Xavier Lee is very wealthy. If we go in under the assumption that we are making a donation to their cause, we shouldn't have any trouble. Money talks, after all."

"Especially to you Mud Men, it seems." Butler raised an eyebrow. "No offense."

"None taken, but it's a good thing that Artemis isn't here. He'd argue with you until the sun fell from the sky." She nodded. It was still amazing to her how much that the little Mud Brat had changed since she had first met him. Where once she had actually been a little afraid of him, now she was afraid for him. She just hoped that he wasn't in over his head.

"So…how am I going to figure into this picture?" Butler chuckled, and a very bad feeling grew in the pit of her stomach.

"Traditionally, Artemis had played the part of my teenage son, Alfonse. However, it could be assumed that Alfonse had a little sister…"

Oh yes. Artemis was going to hear about this.


"Goddammit!!" Britva raged into the telephone receiver. "Can you idiots not handle anything correctly?!" He paused, breathing heavily, letting the sniveling voice on the other end give his piddling excuses. "I don't give a damn how smart this fool is! He's stupid enough to mess with the Mafiya—that is enough for me! Find him and kill him!!" He hung up the phone roughly, and leaned back into his chair, rubbing his temples. Outside, snow was falling. He cursed; he had hoped that by May the snow would have already stopped.

"Boss?" His new second, Kamar, stepped in. "The charges that you wanted were delivered today." An eerie smile spread across his face. Something, at least, had gone right today. He was close now, close to removing one of their biggest obstacles: that do-gooder Artemis Fowl. He should have killed him while he had the chance years ago, but it didn't matter now. He would just blow his whole family sky-high. The thought made the grin on Britva's thin lips grow.

"Good. Load them up. Tomorrow, deliver them to our men in Ireland. In three days time, we'll be submerging the charges. After that, there won't be anything that anybody can do to stop us." Britva sighed. He loved it when a plan came together. The loss of Vassikin was unfortunate, but it wasn't important now. He was a casualty of war, a war whose end was in sight. It was just a matter of pulling the trigger, and this time, he wouldn't miss.


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