I N F E R N O

- Dim Aldebaran -

Chapter Two

:i:

Artemis came down from his room forty minutes later, having performed the Emperor Concerto to his satisfaction. He refused to have an audience, but Holly and Juliet crowded into the next room over, ears pressed against the wall. Neither were fans of classical music, so they departed to the kitchen, chattering over carrot sticks and fresh spring water.

Artemis found them running through all the old jokes:

"Have dolphin yet?" Holly cracked.

"In the freezer," Artemis replied, slipping through the ajar door, "next to the tenderloin."

Holly was sitting on the green-blue countertops, so they were at eye level. "Dolphin?" she asked, her legs dangling. "Freshwater or marine?"

Artemis selected a carrot from the bowl. "Check it yourself."

Holly looked at Juliet, leaning against the counter across from her—she shrugged, and pointed towards the meat freezer, to Holly's right

Disbelieving, Holly leaned over and opened; whatever it was she saw, it made her turn around very quickly and glare.

Artemis could only smile. "Juliet's suggestion," he replied. "I had… expected you to come on my birthday." When Holly opened her mouth, he waved his hand flippantly. "It's alligator. They have similar appearances, I am told."

Holly nodded, then cracked a smile. "That's an awful joke."

"I don't make 'jokes'."

"Apology accepted." Holly grinned, then slid off the countertop. She had to crane to see Artemis' face; really, it didn't seem right that he could be so tall. There should be some circulation problems with his brain or something.

Part of the problem was that she hadn't seen him in person since Certain Events. They had talked plenty of times via video conferencing, but it simply wasn't the same—sitting down talking to a four-inch version on her computer screen was considerably different than the adult-proportioned version before her now.

It was difficult to relate that insufferable boy with the young man with an easy smile on his face; not just in size, but in attitude. 'Normal' still wasn't a good word for him, but it was a slightly better fit than it was four years ago. At least it didn't slip over his shoulders to the floor; they were a little broad for that, now. He had an air of knowing not just books, but what he was going to do in life, and, perhaps most importantly, why.

She was quite proud of this new model, if not of his jokes.

Holly emerged from her reverie; Juliet was outlining the situation to Artemis:

"...and he was wearing this jumpsuit thing in black, the sort people in movie wear. Now, I'm flashy, but not that flashy. Definitely a guy."

"How do you know?" Artemis interrupted.

Juliet gave him a Look, and continued: "Also short—" seeing Artemis' mouth open "—but not that short. Light build. Caucasian, by his skin. Knew his way out of the gardens, and was able to climb the wall before I even got there. Damn fast runner, too, but I can't say much about his aim."

Artemis nodded, and turned to Holly. "What do you think?"

Holly shrugged. "Sounds like an amateur. Hired by someone without much of a budget, but could plan. Do you still have, er, connections?"

Artemis hated lying, so he didn't even try. "Yes, but if I'm not careful they'll alert Father."

Silence to that. Even Holly had an inkling of their relationship: Artemis had sworn legitimacy. In his mind, art thieveries were perfectly aboveboard; however, his father might not take things that way. Their relationship had ever been a delicate thing, and both were too prideful to bloody their hands picking up the shards of a shattered relationship.

"I'll check into it," Holly said at last. It would be more difficult for her, snooping into affairs that weren't ever typed into a computer or captured by a camera would be difficult for a PI who relied on a combination of hacking and charisma.

Artemis shook his head—he, too, realized the impossibility of the situation. She could hardly walk up, the size of a truant fourth grader, and demand an interview regarding assassins for hire. "I can't ask that of you," he said. "I'll manage."

"Then I'm coming with you," Holly insisted.

"No—"

"Yes."

Artemis sighed, accepting this—but then, upon seeing the look on Juliet's face, he shook his head. "No, Juliet, Dom might need assistance going thro—"

Nothing could dissuade either. Artemis was not in the mood for argument; he'd rather have this matter solved quickly. Girl in Solitude awaited.

:i:

Butler remained at Fowl Manor with the clean-up effort. He didn't mind it, really, he understood why Artemis would want younger, more capable people going with him to Dublin. He didn't think there'd be much danger considering Juliet would be there; though perhaps not following the Butler path, she was still a damn good fighter.

He had already dealt with the bloodied sheets on Juliet's bed. He had moved a beanbag chair to hide the worst of the bloodstains on the carpet; he washed away the ones on the grass with a quick hosing. The glass had been swept and cleaned; they now lay in the trash like butterflies, wings broken, lightless, but brilliant nonetheless, crowded as they were in a sort of mass graveyard.

However, the stained glass windows from which these jewels came could never be perfectly replaced; Artemis himself had designed these for his parents' anniversary a few years back, and were completely one-of-a-kind. Granted, there were only two panes of them, regaling the couple's bedroom, but they would be conspicuous losses; and Artemis could not afford to have this attempt on his life be noticed.

Artemis must have surely kept the design; if Butler could find it, he could order new ones from the handyman from Limerick, and pay whatever it would take to have them finished within three days—money would hardly be a problem, especially with trust 'on the line.

Other things remained to be dealt with. The blueprints for the garden would have to be found: the garden had already proved its worth to Artemis, and if having full knowledge of the garden meant Artemis' life, he could scarce afford to not bring it to his attention.

Also, he had to arrange contact with the Louvre, which wouldn't be too difficult of a thing considering how often the Fowl family donated without Artemis'… assistance in matters. There was even a Fowl Gallery, for Christ's sake. The officials would play along to the whim of a rich benefactor. What harm, after all, could it come to—it wasn't as if they could do anything with a bunch of recordings!

Butler knew that, despite the recent attempt on his life, Girl in Solitude would run forefront on his mind. It spoke to his pride, his love of fine arts, his newfound morals—whereas an assassin spoke only to petty vengeance, now buried beneath altruism and a strange sort of forgiveness. Girl in Solitude was his current obsession—perhaps not to the intensity as his father had been, or to the extent as greed, but he could sense a fervor not seen since Aurum est Potestas was ever ready on his lips.

Butler had no doubt Artemis would find out who had tried to take his life, who had nearly taken his soul: he could only hope it was not related to Girl in Solitude, for if it was, Artemis might find himself traveling down a path he had sworn to abandon all those years ago.

The prospect did not please him at all: really, he was getting too old for all that.

:i:

Juliet insisted on driving; Artemis relented, thoughhe found himself in the singularly difficult position sitting next to Holly.

There hadn't been anything too bad about it, at first: they had not had a chance to catch up on each-other's doings yet, so they 'chatted'—Artemis found himself wincing at the term—until they reached the highway when they ran out of things to say.

Trouble brewing: Holly felt an imminent need to fill in the silences with bubbly nonsense. 'Bubbly' did not suit Holly at all, and Artemis felt quite disinclined to give her credit for trying. Why try to fake a normal young-adult relationship when neither of them were normal? He preferred her irritable side that consequently punched him in the nose than the form of her that had to keep finding things to say.

When he told her this, she took it rather badly, and attempted to revert to a certain custom involving a very humiliating form of bodily harm. Fortune intervened, for she was restrained by a seat-belt, and she was too terrified of Juliet's driving (who kept forgetting which side of the road to drive on in Europe) to unbuckle to impediment.

The stewing silence was much more comfortable to him. Things felt startling normal to him, suddenly—they were on a mission that had nothing to do with anything legal, the mood was fatalistic, and everyone—himself included—could hardly wait until the action started.

It was a strange desire, to want mortal danger. He would say the need for it was especially strong only because of its deprivation in recent years, but that wasn't right either—he had always had a fascination for danger and its natural consequence: gold and the companionship of fascinating people. Over the past few years, he had had each, but without that adrenaline, it just wasn't as… real.

Watching the hills glide past the tinted windows, he could not help but muse upon this. The Fowl name had never been stronger, for Fowl was now to Ireland what China was to the world, and it had not just been Father's doing. His social bonds of 'friendship', as it was called, had never been deeper. He could name ten people off the top of his head he could trust with his very life, which, he was sure, no other aristocrat in the entire world could brag about.

But that terrifying thirst for danger remained… it seemed strange to divulge in it now, he, who had it all and have all the more if he merely reached out his hand, he would had fasted from criminality, he would had been without drink for so long. Why now? He could merely ignore the matter and bump security up another notch at Fowl Manor—or, better yet, hide the forgeries and call in Interpol to deal with it. In fact, he could probably just sit back and let Holly and Juliet handle it; they cared for his life enough, certainly.

And Girl in Solitude? Certainly, he was fond of that painting, but he was well aware it was pride and pride alone that wanted it back in the Louvre. He could pass it by, he could uncover that last Morisot he had heard rumors of in Shanghai, he could move on to other wonders. Girl in Solitude, he was sure, was not the last painting he would be infatuated with—nor had it been the first. Eurydice, Jean-Baptise Camille, had left him breathless when it was first uncovered: the fine texture to her locks, the quixotic expression on her face as she stood before Hades and Persephone, the tired, uncaring curve to her pale hands, her shroud-like dress, had captured his heart as much as Girl in Solitude had, if not more. After four weeks of paining over his forgery, he had passed it on to the Louvre; Eurydice became the celebrated companion to Orpheus and Eurydice, and people flocked to see that ghost of a goddess fade before their eyes. The only reason Girl in Solitude brought more desire to his mind was the fact it had been stolen by another who had also found it desirable; it was a challenge to return it to the public eye, where all could admire her hollow expression and ghostly blue eyes.

But what if he said he was tired of it all—what if he sat back and let the water trickle through his fingers but not even bend to take a drink?

He was Artemis Fowl.

If he wanted to thirst another day, he could.

But he didn't want to.

And so he traveled on towards Dublin, on towards where there was sweet water pouring from silver pitchers into goblets of gold, set with jewels, shining with fire as he drank in his danger and smiled.

:i:

Juliet pulled into a public parking lot; when she got out of the car, she was met with Artemis' Look for the third time that day. "I'm going with you," she stated resolutely.

Artemis shook his head, slipping his watch on; she could only imagine what fun lay in that.

"Holly's going," Juliet persisted. "Why can't I?"

Artemis began to walk away; a haze at his side bobbed up and down to keep up to his long strides. "Holly has camfoil. Go—shopping, or something."

Juliet stared after them with a definite pout. Everyone knew Dublin had awful boutiques.

Artemis was making his way towards an apartment complex on the upside of Dublin. His associate had no particular name; upon their first… arrangement, he was told to call him Monsieur.

Now, Monsieur had a French accent, as his name predicted, but besides that Artemis knew little. He was the Mafia's kingpin in Ireland, and he had a fondness for post-Modernist aesthetics. He had a deep voice—probably a big man—and he was quite paranoid, keeping not just his face but his entire body wreathed in shadows. He had two known servants in his immediate household, both chocolate-eyed Indian maids with brilliant crimson sakis. His apartment suite occupied the top few floors of the complex; beyond that, Artemis knew only what hijacked satellites could provide about Monseiur's home. The blueprints had been tactfully wiped from the public view, as Fowl Manor had been.

Monsieur had never given Artemis any reason to suspect conspiracy; for a bad guy, he was pretty good. He had paid Artemis no attention until the six-year-old informed him of the state of Monsieur Monseiur's bank account. Monsieur agreed cooperation, in exchange for his silence on the matter of his account being stolen by a beardless boy. Since then, they had proved invaluable to each other on several occasions: Artemis had been almost regretful to sever contacts with Monsieur, along with the criminal world at large.

He entered the lobby; the first time he had come there, he had thought the decorator had aesthetic issues. Now, having read the I Ching, he knew the feng shui devotee didn't have aesthetic but mental issues. Crystals and colors, as according to whatever book she had been self-taught from, managed to make a energy-balanced room look quite unbalanced to his eyes.

The haze at his side tapped her foot impatiently; he knew this only because it landed on the toe of his Armani loafer.

After a time, the elevator opened; a Swede woman exited, wearing Nina Ricci's idea of a jumpsuit: skintight, white, covering all skin but for her hands and face. It managed to look more (Artemis hated using this word) erotic than a bikini ever could. Her form was especially slim, and her tan managed to compliment the snowy regalia, along with moderate make-up that seemed entirely inconspicuous. She beckoned towards him; he followed. He was elbowed sharply in the mid-thigh.

The door closed; the elevator moved upwards on its own accord. The haze shuffled behind him, brushing against the back of his legs.

The woman turned towards him, facing him completely. He was four inches taller, nd deeply regretted the view.

She moved closer. He was against the wall; he couldn't move back. Besides, there were only her eyes, gray-blue like thawing paternoster lakes, dusted with mascara that made them look all the deeper, like fjords in the winter; her cheekbones were sharp and high, giving her an angular, almost elfin appearance; and below, below that whip of a nose, her lips, plush, parted, pale pink like the blush in Butler's roses—

They moved, startling him from his disturbing reverie. "Weapons check, Master Fowl."

He nodded, looking up at the ceiling. A miniature of the Sistine Chapel sustained his mind while she bent down and patted down his legs. When she started on his thighs, Michelangelo was no longer sufficient: he turned to Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, and the philosophy of stoicism.

He happened to glance down when she started on his torso; the view made him look up again, distracted only momentarily by the ceiling. His ears began to burn; he doused them with Tragic Sense of Life, Unamuno, the philosopher obsessed with Don Quixote in a most quixotic fashion.

They raged again as she ran her hands across his chest. He thought of Nietzsche, So Spoke Zarathustra: but why, why in Virgil's name could he not remember a line of it, though he had read it scarce a week ago?

Her hands moved up the nape of his neck, cool against his flushed skin; and began to run through his hair. It was a few inches long, combed back, and he could scarce resist as she mussed it up. Her fingers were firm and long. Surely she felt the heat of his skin—D'Arvit, was she enjoying this?

The elevator beeped; and the ordeal was over. She stepped out first and walked towards the end of the corridor presented.

Artemis blinked. Was she swaying her hips?

He stepped out; the woman stopped at a door, gesturing for him to follow. "Arrêtes-toi!" he muttered in French; the haze shuddered at his side as she tried to withhold her laughter.

:i:

Sorry about the weird hiatus! First I died for a few weeks, and then the power died. I had meant to post this Saturday, but… Sorry! I have lots of ficlets to makey up for it. Mostly drabbles, which I've been experimenting in lately. Check them out!

I'll have chapter two, dealing with Artemis' encounter with Monsieur, on Saturday. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.

Oh: was the thing with Artemis in the elevator over-the-top? I couldn't resist, you see, but it's easy to take out in later revisions. I was wondering how he might, er, react in a situation like that.

As always, constructive criticism is the best thing you can do for me. I always go back and revise stuff, so don't think you'll just be spewing stuff or anything… I'm really bad at editing my own things, so I need you guys. If you don't have any CC, at least tell me what I'm doing right here. S'il te plaît? (I have fallen in love with French, in case you haven't noticed.)