Author's Note: Well hello there, everyone. I'm tremendously sorry for the long wait. To be honest, it probably won't be the last one, because I've always believed that a rushed project is a bad project, and I'd rather do it right than do it fast. I needed to answer some long term questions about my story before I could write any further, and now that I know those answers, I should be able to proceed through the next three or four chapters, at least, without more than a week between them for people to absorb the new stuff. I do very, VERY much appreciate all the good feedback I've gotten so far, I've been reading it (and feeling a little guilty) as it comes in and it is what keeps me going when a project gets hard, like this one inevitably does because of all the research involved in writing someone as intelligent as Arty. :) So, sit back, hope you enjoy.
Darell Mason was, purportedly, the smartest student in Saint Bartleby's. At least that's what the grade average reflected, and that was quite good enough for Darell's parents back in London, who were already bragging about his academic success.
Darell was a smart boy, but it was the ability to get his hands on the tests in advance that was the determining factor. He had a passion for climbing that could only be described as inborn – in fact, he was probably more comfortable moving vertically up a wall or a tree than he was walking on the ground – and that trait came in particularly handy when dealing with Bartleby's Tower of Excellence, the five-story conclave which housed the faculty dormitory and private studies. It was quite a way off from the student houses, so as to avoid the appearance of impropriety between teachers and students, even though such stalwart guard of said appearance has historically always been a sure sign that impropriety was, in fact, occurring anyway.
To get to the tower, one had to sneak out of the student houses and cut across an eighteen hole golf course and a football field (the Americans, of course, referred to it as a soccer field). Then, at the tower's base, Darell would take the last hole's flagpole and use it to pole vault five feet to the first floor windowsill, from there knowing adequate foot and hand holds to ascend all the way to the fifth floor windows of the appropriate teachers and obtain the answers. Ironically, the daredevil british youth did this more for the fun of it than for the actual test answers, as he could easily score in the nineties without the answers and had, on several occasions, done so when the teachers demanded a retest to prove that he hadn't cheated. Presently he was considering dropping the practice altogether or passing the answers on to some other student. All this valedictorian stuff had been fun for him at first, but he'd discovered over his first couple of weekends out with his parents that it was a real cramp on his lifestyle. Anytime he wanted to play, it was, "Not now, Darell, you've got to learn up proper and keep that first place spot, haven't you?" Perhaps the only thing to a young boy more boring than studying for school is pretending to study for school.
While Artemis Fowl was brushing back Covey's hair and marveling at the similarities between the boy and the fictitious lover in his manuscript, Covey was slipping along the grounds again for another good climb up the Tower. There was no test coming up, and it was raining hard, but the higher altitudes inexplicably beckoned to him, even moreso than normal, and he simply couldn't resist the jaunt. As he crossed the golf course, he once again took a long look at the sixteenth and seventeenth holes, searching for signs of habitation. One of the popular stories going around the school lately was that there was a giant living on the golf course, and that on rainy nights, like this one, a student could look out their dorm window and see his outline against the flashes of lightning along the Irish countryside. Whether it was a folk tale spread by the teachers to keep unruly students from doing just what he was attempting, or whether it was a genuine monster, Darell could never help but feel like he was being watched when he passed the spot. It was enough to make him hurry his pace whenever he passed it.
As he clung to the side of the tower wall, weathering himself against the raindrops on the building, Darell found himself thinking about a girl he'd seen on the last weekend outing. His youthful hormones were just coming into high gear and, of course, being British, he'd had no conversations whatsoever with anyone on the subject. Ignorant of all things sexual, he found himself wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with him, that he had all these irrational ideas about how fun it would be if she were here, climbing with him. Or even if she were watching from the grass, egging him on. Climbing had always been a private sport for him, something he didn't even tell his parents that he did. But the thought of her being there was enough to make his heart beat faster, for him to put extra emphasis into every grip, every pull, every dare against the inclement weather as his slim little body made it's way to the top. Distractedly, he shot past the fifth floor windows to settle himself up on the roof of the tower, swinging his left and then right legs over the edge as he came up flat on his stomach on the tower roof.
Then, another lightning flash came, and he saw that he was not alone.
"Your will," a voice whispered to him melodically, "is mine."
Later that night, just before dawn broke over the ancient school, Darell's unconscious, battered form was found lying at the base of the tower, blood spattered along the walls on the first and third floors. The teacher who discovered it began to scream.