Chapter Six: Contact (Part Two)

The atmosphere in the Bentley was so unhealthy that it should have been quarantined- or shot. Artemis's parents had stayed home to sort out the accounts- they had discovered several deposits equaling over three million Euros made over the last few years that they couldn't account for- so they had sent their son to show Dorothea around town. Artemis preferred not to be questioned about where those mysterious deposits came from, so he had not protested too much.

Dorothea was wondering whether the fuzz on her teeth had invented the wheel yet.

And Butler was driving.

"So. . . is there anywhere in particular you would like to go?" Butler asked the mass of poingy curls sitting behind him.

Dorothea fell back down to earth with a thump. She had been thinking about the meaning of the word 'foozles'. She was pretty sure she hadn't made it up herself, because she'd heard people use it at school, and in chat rooms and stuff. Hang on, shouldn't that be seen them use it in chat rooms? And what had Butler asked again?

"Oh. . . Er. . ." Artemis broke in over top of her:

"Considering Miss Smith's. . .economic status I suggest we do not visit any of the usual shops, D- Butler." Artemis frowned. Why had his mouth pronounced a D? One would have thought that a genius would have full control of his speech. He continued; "Perhaps we could stop somewhere more suited to her budget."

Dorothea sent her companion a mental snarl. Obnoxious little nerd-boy. Yeah, so she got an amount of pocket money more suited to . . . to someone who really hated shopping, but he didn't need to be so 'look at me, I'm a snotty Irish genius-boy who spends the equivalent of your annual income on a pair of posh shoes for my snotty little feet, nyer nyer nyer'. She sulked until Butler had parked the car outside a small shop.

(Sulking is very easy; you just have conversations with the people inside your head instead of the ones outside of it).

* * *

The shop was . . . well . . . quaint. Cosy. There were small tables with doilies on them. Looking around, Dorothea saw the proprietor: a sweet-looking old lady with a doily on her head. Hearing the merry jingle of the bell above the door, Dorothea turned around and hid a snort (she disguised it as a cough). Artemis's sullen visage hardly matched the room's décor. In fact, the flowery pink wallpaper gave his pale face the disturbing hue of squished unripe strawberries.

Dorothea walked over to a display of knitted leprechauns, swishing her hips to one side to avoid knocking over a table full of fawn-brown fudge. Yes! These would be perfect gifts! Very Irish, and without the tacky factor that you got when you bought plastic shamrocks from souvenir shops. Unfortunately, they also lacked the affordable factor that generally came with those shops.

But. . . She had to have those leprechauns! They were so adorable! They were the type of thing that Dorothea's friends would coo over for hours, and that would doubtless be confiscated by a teacher. Then they would have to launch a Top Secret Rescue Mission! But. . . Money money money. . .

Must be funny. . .

In a rich man's world. Man, that was a weird old song. She must have heard it on one of her dad's old cassette tapes. But how could she get enough money to buy the leprechauns?

. . .

. . .

There must be some way. . . Ohhh. Dorothea gave herself a mental tap on the head as she thought up an answer to her financial problem.

She looked over at Artemis. He looked very dead. No, make that very undead. Like an evil teenage vampire but without the sexiness usually attributed to the species. Good looks, yeah, but that was sort of completely nullified by everything else about him, starting with his scowl. Some fellahs could make scowls look nice, but not Artemis. This wasn't helping Dorothea's failing stock of courage as she ambled up to him.

"Hey, Artemis. . ." Dorothea bit back the urge to call him 'Mr Fowl'. He looks like a teacher! He honestly looks like a teacher who thinks that students are brainless blobs but gives you 30-page essays on The Origin of Commas anyway! she thought. "Hey, um. . . wassup?"

Both teenagers winced. Artemis winced because he despised being addressed in such an insolent manner and Dorothea winced because some things are just winceable.

Dorothea stood silently for a few moments before realizing that Artemis wasn't going to answer. Well, fine. She'd be posh, then.

She had just opened her mouth to inquire as to the young man's state of health when a hooded figure burst through the shop doors and shot her in the arm.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Author's Note, don'tchaknow: I grovel at your feet and beg forgiveness for not updating in so long. My excuse: So much has been happening! Pirates of the Caribbean and Finding Nemo finally came out! I had a 3-hour long Maths exam! I had a French oral NCEA internal worth 3 credits! I had homework! I have a life! . . . no, wait . . .

Er, anyway. Kittyrainbow, if you're out there (if you're on fanfiction.net. . .) here is an official note of recognition that YOU and only YOU are the creator of the whole "Looks dead . . . No, make that undead" thing. I couldn't resist.

Kittyrainbow created the whole "Dead. . . No, undead" thing. Go you!