I N F E R N O

- Dim Aldebaran -

Chapter Thirteen

:i:

Butler was on the second story when he heard the gunshot.

The siblings met each other's eyes, and the reaction was immediate.

Juliet tossed Natalie out the window; Butler caught her and slung her over his shoulder in one smooth motion. Her head slapped against the wall, but a little concussion never hurt anyone.

With that, he jumped. Gravity does not make exceptions for Butlers, however much it may appear to the contrary. Butler fell twenty feet to the ground, landing with a sort of grace that might have disgraced Madame Ko, but, all things considered, wasn't bad for a man in his upper sixties.

His ankles jarred sharply upon impact, and his knees folded. It would hurt like Hell tomorrow—but for now, there was only the cold clarity of thought:

The Principle is in danger.

He dropped Natalie to the ground, a mere rag doll. The bruises wouldn't be pretty, but he didn't care. Bruises built character.

He vaulted himself to the vent opening, and pushed himself a half meter into the shaft. The opposite wall of the room was visible through the shaft; but he could hear nothing further from the room, nothing besides the roar of the refrigerator unit recording.

He paused. Inside—a bodyguard could be waiting with a round for whoever came through the vent first—the vent could close behind him and he would be trapped, trapped like Artemis—

Possibilities.

No matter what the case, Butler knew he could not afford to enter the room.

A dead Butler would be useless to his Principle.

Slowly, Butler slid back out of the vent, and dropped to the ground.

Juliet was there, waiting, waiting for him and waiting for an answer to that most terrible question. When he turned and faced the forest, her eyes filled with tears. "Dom—Artemis—we can't just leave him there—"

He gave his sister a long, hard look. "We aren't," he replied slowly. "We'll come back for him—"

"When?" Juliet demanded. "When he's already bled to death on the floor, or after his body has been strung up on the Manor's gates for display? We don't even know if he's alive now—"

She was turning back towards the vent; Butler grabbed her by the shoulder. "Juliet, whoever goes into that room will be shot and killed. They're expecting us, do you understand? We're useless to him dead."

Juliet's face was twisted in helpless rage. "So, we'll wait until they're fully fortified and surprise is no longer our advantage."

Butler searched her eyes; the tears were spilling over onto her cheeks. He remembered what it was like, that first failure… "We wait until we can think clearly," he said eventually, and released her.

Juliet clenched her fists; but her shoulders were slumped, and there was defeat in the tears trickling down her face. She thought she was killing him, through inaction…

Butler slung Natalie's body over his shoulder, and began to jog back to the Lear. Perhaps they were, perhaps Artemis would die, perhaps he would hate himself in the weeks and years to come… but inaction was the only way, and Butler could only follow it.

:i:

Artemis awoke slowly, as anyone might wake on a lazy Sunday morning.

When he had summoned the energy, he opened his eyes. Strange, he thought, blinking at the ceiling, there are no metal ceilings in Fowl Manor—

There was a sharp throbbing in his head; and it all came rushing back.

The paintings—variations on Medea Atreus—

Natalie—Natalie, she's mine now, she's mine

Aspyrtus, Ryan—he's coming, he's coming for me—

he's here

He sat up sharply; there was a rush of dizziness from the blood loss. Blood loss—he had been shot in the leg, upper thigh, and the blood loss—he had gone into shock—he could have died—

Panic added a sharp flavor to his thoughts. It was a new sensation, something Artemis was not acquainted with, something Artemis didn't know how to deal with…

The world was tipping about like some sort of cosmic seesaw, the walls, the chair, the door—

the door. The thought of escape rippled through his mind, and he tried to stand. The world bucked, and he gripped the cot to retain his balance.

The door was across the room, some four meters.

When he regained equilibrium, he let go of the cot, and made his way across the room. The walls spun, but the door remained fixed in his vision. After an eternity of wobbling steps, he leaned heavily against it, gasping for breath; the heavy blood loss had affected more than his sensory perception.

After a moment, he reached downwards, seeking the doorknob…

…and there was no doorknob.

His hand scrabbled about, searching the entirety of the door. No doorknob, no exit, no escape. Simple as that, simple as the truth of the matter.

Distantly, he heard footsteps, footsteps from outside the door…

he's coming

He smiled bitterly. He had never even considered that petty suspicion, he had flung it aside, since intuition was not fit for a Fowl

The footsteps stopped outside the door. Artemis staggered over to the cot and lay down again, pretending to sleep. A petty tactic, perhaps, but at the least, it would allow him a few moments to clear his head. It was all a rush of blood to his head so far, hardly the reaction he had expected of himself.

He heard the door open, creaking slightly. Steps—one, two, three and a stop, three steps closer to the bed, three steps closer to him... He heard the rustle of cloth, and a clicking sound—like the cocking of a gun. "Get up."

Bearing in mind what the last shot had cost him, he obliged, sitting up in bed. Facing him was a gun, gleaming in the harsh fluorescent lighting; either very new, or rarely used. After getting beyond his momentary, albeit natural fixation on the barrel of the gun, he examined the person pointing the gun.

His hair hadn't been cut in several months, at the least; it fell to a most unprofessional length at his chin, but retained an awkward, but very natural sense of aesthetics. This obscured much of his facial structure, though nothing beyond those fierce dark eyes and circumstance was required to identify him as Ryan Ferguson—or the man-child Medea had called 'Aspyrtus'.

Ryan was holding the gun in an easy one-handed grasp; the other was hooked on a belt loop. He was going for a cavalier air, it seemed. "So, you're the mighty Artemis Fowl she's always talking about."

"She?"

His fingers drummed an impatient cadence against the barrel of the gun. "Don't play stupid with me, Fowl. You and your little cronies came for her, didn't they?"

Artemis considered it for a moment; but it wasn't a question he wanted to think about. "No, I didn't come for her," he replied. "I came for the painting."

The fingers drummed faster; Artemis could make out the heavy beat of Ride of the Valkyries. "What?"

Artemis smiled condescendingly. "Let's make a deal. I won't play stupid with you, and you won't play stupid with me."

Ryan moved the gun over a few centimeters, and fired. A large dent was created in the metal siding of the room, and the bullet fell to the cot. "What painting?"

Artemis' brow arched in surprise; in all calculations of character, he had assumed Ryan had known all this. Then again, he hadn't pictured Ryan as a psychotic madman, either. "I am speaking of the Fragonard, of course. Recently stolen from the Louvre?"

Ryan's face curled in disdain. "I don't give a damn about some goddamn art stolen from some goddamn loo." His fingers began drumming again on the side of the gun. "Now, what does Natalie have to do with any of this?"

"It was your charming sister that stole it from the Louvre." Artemis spread out his hands in a gesture of peace. "I am merely trying to retrieve it."

The fingers paused in their drumming. "You're just after some fucking painting?"

"Correct."

Ryan examined Artemis intently for a few moments; then moved the gun and fired. At the opposite side of Artemis' head, a parallel dent was created, and another bullet landed on the cot. When the echoes had faded, he grinned sardonically. "Three strikes and you're out."

Artemis eyed the gun warily. Guns had not been good for his health lately. "What is it you want to know?"

"Natalie. Why." The fingers drummed faster. "Why."

"Presumably, she's on her way to Interpol headquarters right now to await trial," Artemis bluffed, then smiled coldly. "Art thievery is a hefty offense when it involves the Louvre."

Ryan seemed to consider this; his fingers moved on to the Fifth. "You are going to stop this transport, or else."

Artemis considered. 'or else', usually an empty threat, had all sorts of weight here. "It will require a phone call."

Using his spare hand, Ryan withdrew a sat phone from his pocket, and tossed it on the cot. "No funny business, or you and Natalie can both go to Hell."

Artemis nodded, and grabbed the phone. Quickly, he dialed a number—Butler's number, a number he had only used once before… "Hello?"

The reaction was calm on the other line; Butler knew full well to expect, a phone call from a captive. "Yes?"

"Keep Ferguson controlled," Artemis said quickly. "Do not get authorities involved."

There was a moment of silence. "Understood, sir."

Artemis snapped the phone shut, and tossed it on the ground near Ryan's feet. "Done. Now—"

"—you will lie down again on your cot until I leave," Ryan interrupted. His fingers drummed faster.

Artemis obliged. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ryan reach down and grab the sat phone; and then he left, shutting the door behind him.

It was only then Artemis allowed a word to escape: "D'Arvit."

:i:

The Lear Jet was on the move.

Butler had been the one to make the decision. "They will be looking for the Jet," he had told them, "and once they find us, there will be nothing we can do for Artemis."

They had both argued; Holly even cried a bit. In the end, however, they could only go along with him. Logic trumps emotion when it comes to being a Butler.

Holly was the one piloting; it was the only thing she was good for, in that sulky mood. Blasting apart cumulus clouds did the heart much good. Butler was patiently working his way through the airport underbelly to secure a hanger for the Lear Jet under the pretense that the Lear was to be "going into the public market". False, of course, but no one cared after a bit of financial lubricant was applied.

That left Juliet to deal with Natalie.

While Natalie was still unconscious, they had cleared Artemis' private quarters out of anything "dangerous". After, they had installed a makeshift lock on the door, and assigned Juliet to check on her every few minutes to make sure she didn't try anything clever like escape.

Juliet grimaced. Natalie. It was herfault that they were even in this mess! She had been the one to steal the painting, she had been the one to deal with Monsieur, she had been the one to be to burst in on her like that—

And she wasn't even all that interesting.

All she had done so far was sleep. Juliet knew she had awakened, but only because she moved from the floor to the bed. Else, it would have been as if she was just a regular feature of Artemis' room—of either sort.

She looked through the window in the door. The girl was wearing the same clothes as she had when she had first seen the levitating tubes: a pair of too-big, too-old khakis, and a loose blue blouse that gave her the vague appearance of a manikin. The only thing that detracted from this image was her face: a bright red cut shredded its way across her cheek, the only remnant of the rough treatment she had suffered in her unconscious state. Holly hadn't bothered with healing it, yet; Juliet was willing to bet that Holly would just let it scar over and ruin the girl's otherwise smooth skin.

But—there was still Artemis.

Artemis

She had nearly forgotten.

Artemis had wanted Natalie in captivity—he had wanted to question her—he had wanted to understand her—

Some temptation rose within her. Butler—Butler didn't want anything to do with Natalie, he thought she would be useless to their plans—Holly was itching for the excuse to render her unconscious again—

No one had tried talking to her yet.

Juliet stood. She hadn't taken off her catsuit yet; she moved with a sort of oily grace towards the door. She undid the latch—primitive, but effective—and entered.

Natalie was curled on the bed facing the wall, like a child. As a child; at seventeen, no one really knew what was going on. Slow, even breaths made her slight form rise and fall slightly, and her body was otherwise still.

Both were misleading; it was only the illusion of sleep.

Juliet closed the door behind her; being soundproof, it would prevent the others from overhearing. "Wake up, sleeping beauty."

Natalie rolled over and observed Juliet calmly with those pale eyes. Strange, really, how they just observed so serenely, so coolly, that their situations could have been flipped, Juliet the captive, and Natalie the captor…

Juliet shivered inwardly, but she retained her confidant exterior. "Now, look here Natalie, a friend of mine has been taken captive by your family, and we—"

"Medea."

Juliet blinked. "Excuse me?"

Natalie continued with that long, unblinking stare. "It's Medea. Not Natalie."

Juliet waved her hand flippantly. "Whatever. The point is, you need to cooperate with us—"

Natalie had rolled back over, facing the wall. Angry, Juliet moved to flip her over, to teach her some respect, but then—then, she was impaled by that gaze, long and solemn and cold and confidant and calculating and tranquil and a thousand other adjectives, a thousand other adjectives she had once used to describe Artemis…

Juliet left as quickly as she could, and shut the door behind her. The latch slammed shut.

As she resumed her post, she could only blink back tears of helpless rage.

:i:

So, Fergusonness. :P I don't think is as good as it should have been, but it was fun for me, at least... snuck a lot of forshadowing in there. :D

In any case, I was having problems with Ryan's characterization, which was why this is late. New chappie sometime next weekish.