A/N: S'up people. I shouldn't be posting this, I should be preparing a presentation on sixteenth-century German witchcraft trials but hey, I suck.

Cheers to Snakequeen-in-Norway for beta-ing this story - you should all go check out her story 'Road to Recovery' (though I'm guessing most of you already have) once you're done here, because it's awesome :)

But yes, here it is, chapter ten.

Soundtrack: 'Missing' by Flyleaf

Disclaimer: Why does anyone bother with this?

'She is not a story, Commander. She was Artemis's most persistent imagining: the figure of a young girl stood in the corner of the room – burning.'

Chapter 10 - Slipping

The rain soon slackened off and drifted farther west, staining the horizon an angry fuchsia and shielding the winter sunset from sight. It was growing darker and colder. The wind was threatening in the trees. And beneath them, a rain-streaked Land Rover drove on into the night.

'What do you want me to tell your father?' asked Butler, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. 'He'll be asking for my first report soon.'

Artemis didn't answer. He was tapping his phone slowly against his lips, his eyes lost in shadow.

'Artemis?'

The teenager drew a sharp breath. 'Sorry, what did you say?'

Butler frowned. 'I said that your father will want to know what you've been up to. I'll only tell him what you want me to.'

He is making a peace offering. He feels he has betrayed me by agreeing to this arrangement with Father and so he is giving me back control.

'Tell him what you like,' said the teenager, turning his head back towards the window. 'It is no concern of mine.'

Butler's expression became strained. 'It is your every business, Artemis. My loyalty lies with you.'

The teenager snorted softly. 'Clearly...'

The instant they pulled up outside Fowl Manor Artemis got out of the car. He strode up the main steps and through the open doors, bypassing a waiting footman without a word. He crossed the entrance hall and mounted the main stairs, climbing two flights and traversing a corridor before reaching the doors to his bedroom. He flung them wide. The maid had already been in to draw the curtains and light the fire, making the room dark but very warm – just how the young master liked it. A fresh pot of tea was waiting for him on a table beside the hearth and clean clothes had been laid out on the bed.

Artemis walked over to them. 'Exquisite,' he muttered, studying a yellow, cotton T-shirt with the legend "RANDOMOSITY" emblazoned across the chest. 'Does she seriously think I'll wear this now I'm mentally stable?'

Butler appeared in the open doorway. 'It's Tuesday, Artemis,' he said quietly, 'casual day.'

'Casual day?' The teenager sneered and went back to inspecting the remainder of his clothes. 'What shall the next shirt read I wonder? "My mother was possessed by Opal Koboi and all I got was this stupid mental disease"?'

Butler's eyes narrowed but he remained silent.

The teenager turned from the bed and began pouring his tea, adding sugar, then milk, and stirring with a silver cutty. He tapped the spoon delicately against the rim. 'You are dismissed.'

The manservant remained where he was, glaring at the dark silhouette of his principle's head. He needed to say something, he would say something. 'Artemis–'

'Butler.' The teenager's interruption was quiet but firm. 'You are dismissed.'

Silence fell again.

'Yes, Artemis.'

Artemis waited for the click of the door before closing his eyes.

Alone.

The flames from the hearth flickered behind his eyelids.

Alone at last.

'Not ashamed are you, Art?'

'Ashamed?'

His brow contracted.

'Of fraternising with a known criminal,seducing me like you did...and just when you'd been so good.'

His eyes opened and the crackle of the flames returned to his ears.

Tuley.

He seated himself in the chair beside the hearth, his calm rankled. But it wasn't long before his eyes slipped closed again.

Holly Short smiled down at him. 'You did some bad things, Artemis. But you wouldn't do them again. Let them go.'

'Really? You can just let things go?'

Then Artemis Senior's face was in front of hers. 'Wake up, boy!' it bellowed. 'Our family has spent the best part of eight centuries building the Fowl name to be one associated with felony and corruption! It is not something easily renounced in six years!'

There was a muted smash as the tea-cup fell to the floor. The teenager's hands were trembling, his breath quickened in his chest. For a moment the face lingered and then – 'Get a hold of yourself,' he snapped. 'Look at you. Insensible fool…'

He reached toward the broken china when yet another voice spoke.

'Come here, my hero.'

He felt the warmth of his mother's arms as they folded around him.

'You have done so much. Risked everything.'

'I didn't do so much, Mum–'

The embrace vanished.

'People are afraid of you.'

Artemis flinched, his hand retracting.

'You're a fifteen-year-old in a bespoke suit, and nobody died.'

Then another face appeared, bright eyed and dark haired. It was on fire.

He sat up sharply.

'Stop it,' he said firmly. 'Just stop it.'

He forced his brain to focus on something else. What was it he needed? He felt the cold, tea-sodden material of his trousers. Yes, some new clothes.

But he had taken only a few steps towards his wardrobe when the voices started again.

'Promise me you'll use them.'

'What are they?'

'Promise me, honey.'

The bed caught in the corner of his eye.

'You promised, Arty.'

He crossed the room, stripping in same the motion, ripping his school shirt over his head and kicking off his sodden trousers. The t-shirt lay before him on the bed, crumpled and toxic in colour. He snatched it up and jammed it over his head. Next he pulled on the jeans, struggling to get them on over his still-damp legs.

He stared into the mirror.

The t-shirt was baggy and the neckline stretched, showing far more of his throat and collar-bone than he would usually have preferred. The jeans were tight, emphasizing how thin his legs were, but bunched with material at the ankles, betraying how short he was. His hair, usually so neat and calm, had been roughed in the process of yanking on the shirt causing thick black spikes to protrude from his scalp like loose feathers from a crow's nest.

Is this really how Mother wishes I looked?

He twisted to view himself in profile before facing the mirror straight on again. He tilted his chin, only to find Tuley's finger marks still plainly visible against the underside of his jaw. He stroked at them grimly.

Probably not.

With an unpleasant jolt he realised that Butler must have noticed the marks as well. He quickly withdrew his hand.

'Normal,' he spat angrily. 'What does anyone in this house know about normal?'

He met his reflection's eyes.

'I shall never be normal.'

He glared at the mirror for a moment more and then, with an incredulous snort, tore the T-shirt over his head and hurled it across the room.

It flew, high and far, and landed straight in the flames of the fireplace.

The shirt burnt with demon-like speed, the "S" in "Randomosity" swiftly becoming a molten hole. He watched as the flames spread, consuming hem, collar and sleeve, the three-fingered figure finally melting out of all recognition.

He could smell it now. The unnatural smoke: a sharp twist to the usual, comforting smell of wood-burn.

'You promised,' whispered the voice in his mind.

He walked slowly closer to the fireside.

I promised.

He looked into the flames.

I promised to wear them and use them.

He hesitated before snatching up a long poker from the stand beside the hearth.

'I have worn them,' he said, jabbing the rod into the fire, helping the last scrap of yellow to ignite. 'And now… I am using them.'

Buzzzz.

Holly woke.

Buzzzz.

She lay there, on her back, eyes open.

Buzzzz.

Her ankle was tingling.

Buzzzz.

Her communicator was vibrating atop her coffee table, slowly jittering its way to the edge. She reached out and picked it up.

'Hello?'

'Holly, it's Trouble.'

'Oh.'

'Look, I know you probably don't want to see me right now but I've got news about your suspension and I thought I'd better deliver it in person. Will you let me round?'

She glanced about her apartment. It was a domestic bomb site.

'Yeah.'

'Can I come now?'

'…Yeah.'

'I'll be there in two minutes.'

The communicator cut off with a snap.

So it was Annie who had given her the acorn; Annie, who had been well aware of Holly's existence almost a decade before Holly had become aware of hers; Annie, who was well aware of fairies.

Another one of Artemis's dirty little secrets.

Holly sat up slowly. She looked down and, after a brief pause, touched a finger to her ankle.

LEP boots were tight. They were designed for combat, sealed, water-tight. Things didn't just fall down them – certainly not things as big as acorns.

A tendril of cold stroked back at her finger and she swiftly retracted her hand.

'Holly!' Trouble's voice squawked from her intercom. 'Holly!'

For a moment she remained there, staring at her ankle.

'Holly!'

She struggled from her bed, jamming on a nearby hoodie to cover her night vest. She punched her fist against the release button and heard Trouble's heavy footfalls on the stairs. Leaving the door open she sat back down on her futon, making no effort to straighten the sheets. When Trouble finally arrived she just sat there, her arms clasped around her legs.

'Hi,' she said quietly.

Trouble just stood there for a moment, framed in the doorway. His eyes took in the unmade bed and the dirty crockery on almost every surface. 'Holy shit, Holly,' he said, almost with awe. 'This place is a tip.'

She didn't answer for a moment, and then – 'I thought you had something to tell me?'

He tore his eyes away from a take-away tray that had nearly been completely colonised by some new form of fungi and finally stepped into the room. 'Yes I… I managed to get the council to give you a full hearing. It's this weekend. Saturday.'

Something whispered in Holly's ear.

'I won't be here Saturday.'

The commander frowned. 'I'm sorry?'

'I… I won't be here, Saturday.'

'You're under orders to stay in this house, Captain, until a verdict is delivered. Where else do you think you'll be?'

Holly didn't answer.

'Holly?'

Trouble's eyes narrowed. He had seen Holly in some states over the decades he'd known her – from drunk to mortally injured – but this… this was different.

'Holly?'

Her head drooped and her shoulders tipped slightly to the side. He walked closer.

'Holly, look at me.'

Two brown eyes stared up at him. He blinked, and they were mismatched again. Then the elf looked away. She sat there for a moment, completely still, staring at the wall, before giving her head a shake and looking up once again at Trouble. 'Frond, look at me,' she said quietly. 'What am I doing? D'arvit. I shouldn't have let you in here.'

Trouble stepped back as she got off the bed.

'I'm sorry, Trouble,' she said. 'You should leave.'

'Holly–'

'You should go.'

Trouble's mouth was hanging slightly open. 'Holly, what–?'

'Now.'

He walked back across the room. Holly followed him, and when he reached the hall, shut the door on his back. He turned to look briefly at the faux-wood.

Holly…?

A deep unease was settling in his chest. What was wrong with her? And those eyes: those two brown eyes staring out of Holly Short's face.

Where had he seen those eyes before…?

Two months previously

The nurse rapped her knuckles against the plexi-wood.

'Come in.'

Pneumatic seals hissed and Doctor Argon looked up from his notes, peering at the doorway over gold-rimmed bifocals.

'Yes?'

'The Commander is here to see you, Doctor.'

'Oh. Thank you, Nurse Ratchett. Send him in.'

The pixie stood back, revealing a fully-uniformed Trouble Kelp.

'Commander Kelp,' greeted the gnome, getting to his feet and extending a hand, 'right on time.'

Trouble grunted and took the palm he'd been offered. The nurse closed the door softly behind him.

'Sit, please,' insisted Argon, gesturing to a low chaise longue.

Trouble raised his eyebrows. 'I didn't come here for a session, Argon. Haven't you got anything normal I can sit on?'

'Well, I suppose I could get one of the orderlies to fetch you a chair from the visitors lounge, but we do tend to keep those bolted down...'

Trouble snorted and shook his head. 'Don't bother then. I'll take the couch.'

A smile sprang back onto the doctor's face. 'Splendid! Young Artemis was the last person to sit on that couch. Although he did take up a little more of the cushion, I must admit.'

Trouble looked up. 'Fowl?'

'Yes, Artemis.'

'You're still seeing him?'

'We have our consultations, yes.'

'What about?'

Argon raised an eyebrow. 'You know that's confidential information, Commander. Artemis is one of my patients. I cannot go bandying about his innermost thoughts to just anyone you know.'

Trouble raised an eyebrow of his own. 'As if you're not going to publish his every word the instant he's out of here.'

Argon shuffled some notes beneath him. 'Wrong, actually,' he said lightly. 'It was a part of the deal when I admitted him to this hospital; I had to sign a contract agreeing not to publish a biography until after the event of his death. Otherwise, he would have transferred straight into that cretin Cumulus's care and... well… it was a sacrifice worth making shall we say.'

Trouble snorted. 'Typical Fowl, scheming even against his own shrink.'

'Yes,' agreed Argon, 'at times Orion can seem like a little light relief. But I'm not sure Captain Short would agree.' He chuckled gently.

'Holly?'

'Hmm, yes, Captain Short. We've become somewhat acquainted over the last few months. Though I suppose it would have been strange if we hadn't; she's here almost constantly after all.'

The Commander leant forward, his expression sobering. 'I know. And that's part of the reason I came down here today. I want my officer back, Argon. As you said, it's been months. The media surge died down weeks ago. He can't need a 24-hour guard.'

Argon shrugged. 'It was you who instated the guard in the first place, Commander. I think your exact words were… Ah, yes, I've got them written here funnily enough: "I want someone watching him around the clock, neutrino primed and ready to blast. If he so much as breathes in the wrong way, you fire. A sane Fowl was dangerous enough; an insane one could just well kill us all."' The doctor raised his eyes. 'You may have yourofficer back, Commander, any time you wish.'

Trouble sat back again, disgruntled. 'I suppose I could just get someone else to watch Fowl. Take Holly off-duty.'

Argon shrugged again. 'Entirely your decision, Commander. But I shall say this: Artemis Fowl is no danger to anyone right now, under this Earth or above it.'

'What?'

There was a sudden beeping noise from Argon's belt.

'Time for my rounds,' he announced, standing and reaching for a lab-coat pegged on a nearby stand. 'Sorry, Commander, but you'll have to excuse me…'

Trouble got to his feet too. 'What do you mean? What do you mean he's no danger to anyone?'

Argon looked at him. 'Just that, Commander. Artemis Fowl couldn't hurt a tunnel-mite, not even if he wanted to.'

'I don't believe you. Artemis Fowl will always be a danger.'

The doctor smiled and patted the digi-pen tucked snugly into his top pocket. 'Follow me, Commander,' he said, releasing the door seals. 'Let's see if we can't change your mind.'

It was lights out at the clinic and most of the patients had dropped off several hours ago into deep, healing sleeps. Of course there were some exceptions. A number of the patients were bucking and screaming in their beds, multiple orderlies desperately attempting to restrain them.

Trouble passed these rooms with wary eyes, their shadows mirrored back to him in the one-way glass. Argon didn't comment, simply stopped to check the charts at their doors and scribble something on his digi-pad. After pausing at nine doors, and staring through nine windows, Trouble was getting impatient.

'I thought we were going to see Fowl.'

The doctor didn't look up from his current chart. 'We are, Commander, we are. He's just a little further on.'

Trouble looked up the waiting corridor. It was dark, unaccompanied by the tell-tale glow of a lit room. In fact, on the right-hand wall, there seemed to be no more rooms left to light. There was only a small glint of something set into the left wall ahead, its glimmer cold and alone. The Commander left Argon to his chart and strode into the gloom.

It was a short walk, perhaps twenty metres or so and Trouble took it quickly. He stopped when he reached the glint – or more specifically another large window. A chart was fixed to the wall beside it just like all the others.

II

Patient No. 55555

Condition – A.C. (St. 5)

He put a hand up to the glass, straining his eyes to see within–

FLASH.

The room lit up causing Trouble to yelp and rear backwards.

Artemis Fowl was stood right before him, pressed, unflinchingly against the glass.

His suit was gone, replaced by a long, white hospital gown that had been patched under the arms and around the hem. His hair, usually so clean and kempt was greasy, and shaved clean on one side, revealing a three-inch row of knotted stitches running from the edge of his temple to behind his right ear. His cheeks were sunken, his lips paper white. And his eyes, empty and dull as hollowed acorn husks, stared out at Trouble as if the mind behind them had been removed.

'Unnerving isn't it,' said the doctor, appearing beside Trouble's elbow, 'the way he seems to look at you?' He stepped closer and put his hand up to the glass. 'All he can see is mirror and yet…' The teenager's head turned slowly towards him, 'it seems as if he can see you.'

Trouble was appalled. 'What have you done to him?'

'Psycho surgery. Messy business, as you can see, but we had no other choice. The Complex had gone too far.' The teenager's lips, cracked like desert earth, parted and blew steam onto the glass. 'It was our very last resort.'

'He doesn't look cured. He looks horrific.'

'All temporary cosmetic features, Commander. There was no magic allowed during the procedure – it would only have ameliorated the complex. And I have advised there be no subsequent magical contact for another three days. We do not want to risk a relapse.'

Trouble raised his own hand to the glass. The teenager's eyes flickered to it. 'How bad was he? For you to do this to him?'

The doctor frowned. 'His hallucinations had become unmanageable.'

'Hallucinations?'

Argon looked at him. 'Corpses, Commander. In his bed, under his bed, in his clothes chest, on the ceiling, sometimes coming up through the floor...'

'What?'

The doctor suddenly chuckled at Trouble's expression. 'There's need to worry, Commander. They have all gone now... even the burning girl.'

There was a tap from the mirror and Trouble turned to find the human's eyes boring into his. Two brown eyes. The teenager was suddenly smiling.

'Shut up, Argon,' growled Trouble, stepping back from the glass. 'Go find someone else to swallow your stories.'

Argon shook his head. 'She is not a story, Commander. She was Artemis's most persistent imagining: the figure of a young girl stood in the corner of the room – burning.'

A cold crept over the younger elf's skin.

Get a grip, he told himself angrily.

'Go on then,' he snorted. 'Tell me. Who was she supposed to be? Someone he murdered? Is that what you're going to say?'

A device beeped on Argon's belt. The doctor picked it up and squinted at it. 'Don't be silly, Commander. She was merely a figment of Artemis's imagination.' He clipped the device back. 'You shall have to read the biography to find out who she really was.'

Trouble's head snapped towards Argon, but the elf was already half a dozen steps away. 'Argon! If there's anything he's told you that might threaten the people–!'

The doctor didn't look back. 'Expected publication date 2082. Eight grams, five, recommended retail price…'

Trouble descended the last few steps of Holly's apartment building and emerged onto the busy market street.

It was Argon's stories. And you, a grown elf of one hundred and three, let them get to you.

But the eyes. There had been someone else in those eyes.

It was the light. And Fowl. He's always been creepy. And that day he was at his creepiest.

He put his hands into his pockets and continued down the street, merging himself in the shouts and friendly-riot of the stalls. It had probably only been the light that had made Holly's eyes so dark. He was still so used to seeing both of them hazel. And it had been hazel hadn't it? Not brown? Yes, it had been hazel.

A shiver shuddered through his spine.

Three-month-old Evelyn Fowl grinned up from her cot. Quite an achievement considering she had her own foot jammed in her mouth. Artemis smiled back over the rim of the cradle. She was truly the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld.

The baby suddenly dropped her foot and squealed, stretching her fingers at him.

'Hush,' whispered Artemis, dipping his arms slowly into the crib. She squealed all the more as his fingers slipped under her back and he pulled her to his chest. 'There. Is that better?'

She gurgled and curled her fingers into the 'v' of his shirt, yanking at it insistently. Artemis frowned. 'I'm terribly sorry, Evey, but I'm afraid it's gone.'

She looked up at him. 'Ar, nargh, ar, ar.'

'I know. I'm quite put out about it myself.'

'Teh, narrr.'

'A boy called Tuley Brannagh.'

'Teh, teh.'

'No, I couldn't do that to him, Evey, it would cost too much. Not to mention the amount of time it would take to harvest the required bacteria.'

'Arr, arr, arr.'

'Hmm, yes. That could work. But still rather messy.'

'Ar.'

'Certainly not! Butler would never get the stains from my trousers.'

'Artemis?'

The teenager spun in surprise, clutching the baby to his chest.

Angeline Fowl moved into the light.

'Mother,' he breathed, allowing his arms to slacken slightly. 'You startled me.'

Angeline's eyes twinkled. 'Did I interrupt a conversation?'

The teenager shifted Evelyn further up his chest. 'That would be most ridiculous.'

'Did she have much to say?'

'Ar, teh, ar, tuh.'

Angeline focused on her daughter. 'Evey?'

The baby's face was a prune of concentration, her lips pursed and her brow drawn with almost comical seriousness. Angeline's smile faded and she held out her hands. 'Here, Artemis, let me take her.'

The teenager was reluctant, but he turned his sister from his chest.

Immediately the baby screamed.

'Evelyn!' gasped Angeline.

The baby was stretching her tiny arms back towards her brother, squealing in protest. And as soon as her mother's hands wrapped around her ribcage, her wails reached a staggering crescendo.

'Hush, Evey,' cooed Angeline, bobbing her in the crook of her arm. 'Hush, mon amour. Whatever is the matter?'

Artemis looked on awkwardly. Evelyn was still straining for him over his mother's shoulder. Her whole face a misery, her tiny chest hitching as she sobbed.

'Ar!' she wailed. 'Ar, tuh!'

Artemis felt something cold settle over his skin.

Evey?

'Ar, tuh! Ar, tuh!'

He swallowed and walked backwards, retreating to the bedroom door. 'I had better leave you, Mother. She is getting distressed.'

'Evelyn!' Angeline cried, struggling to keep the flailing baby in her arms. 'Evelyn, darling, please calm down!'

Then, loudly and with unmistakable clarity, Evelyn Fowl spoke. 'Art!'

Her brother froze.

Evelyn had stilled in her mother's arms, staring after her brother with a silent, desperate yearning. Angeline gazed, bewildered, at her daughter.

'Art?' she whispered.

Artemis's blood was pounding in his head. He turned back to face mother and child.

Angeline looked at him. 'Art?' she repeated.

Artemis didn't reply; he was still staring at the baby as if she had grown a second head.

His sister let out another moan and swiped at the air between them. 'Art!'

Then, hesitantly, Artemis walked forward and took his sister from their mother's arms.

'Her first word,' said Angeline faintly.

Artemis didn't reply. Evelyn had wrapped all ten of her fingers around his index finger, gazing up at him with wide, brown eyes. As Angeline watched them, another image took their place – another Fowl male, dark haired and blue-eyed, cradling a child to his chest.

'Arty… our little Arty…'

'Mother…?'

Angeline looked up. 'Yes?'

He was holding Evelyn carefully to his shoulder, her tiny body limp with sleep. 'You had better take her. I'm afraid I shall drop her if I hold her much longer.'

Angeline accepted her youngest child without comment and the teenager retreated once more to the doorway.

'Artemis?'

'Yes?'

'I laid a change of clothes out for you on the bed earlier. I had wished for you to wear them.'

Artemis didn't hesitate. 'I would have worn them, Moth – Mum. But I appear to have had a growth spurt and they no longer fit.'

Angeline's face fell. 'Oh.' Then she smiled at her boy. 'We just shall have to go shopping then. You and I together. That would be nice wouldn't it?'

The teenager returned his mother's smile weakly. 'Yes, nice.'

He turned away.

'Goodnight, Artemis.'

He looked back briefly – 'Goodnight… Mum,' – before leaving the room.

Once away and into the corridor he released a strangely shaky breath. It was that feeling again. Whether because of Tuley, Butler, his father, or the clothes he had semi-inadvertently incinerated earlier, he wasn't that sure – it may well have been a combination of all four. All he knew was that he still felt… disturbed. And the trip to see his sister, which he had believed would sooth him, had not served its purpose.

Perhaps a trip to the twins…?

His steps quickened.

'FEE FI FO FUM, I SMELL THE BLOOD OF ANIRISHMAN.'

'How many times, Beckett? You can't smell blood! Not unless you've miraculously developed the olfactory system of shark since–'

'RAAAARRRGGGHHH!'

Myles Fowl shielded his face as his twin attempted to roar in it. 'Artemis!' he wailed from beneath his arms. 'Tell him!'

Artemis sighed heavily. 'Beckett, please don't shout at your brother.'

Beckett pouted. 'But I'm a giant! Giants are meant to shout! See? RARRRGGHHHHH!'

Myles ducked behind a kneeling Artemis, who instantly received a face full of toddler spittle in his new capacity as shield.

Beckett finished his scream and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. 'See? That was agoodone.'

Artemis's expression was unmoved. 'Indeed.'

Beckett giggled, smiling shyly at his eldest sibling.

Myles, meanwhile, had come out from behind his human-barrier and folded his arms tightly. 'You. Are. A. Simpletoon.'

Artemis pinched the bridge of his nose. Why had he come here again? Something about a state of peace? 'Boys, please. At least try to be civilised.'

'I am not cifilised!' protested Beckett, 'I am three!'

Myles slapped a tiny palm to his head. 'Simpletoon.'

Beckett scowled and launched himself at his twin but Artemis managed to catch him mid-spring.

'Right!' he announced, putting Beckett on his rear upon the carpet. 'Bed time! Both of you!'

'But–!' chimed the toddlers.

'No buts! Or I shall inform Juliet of your behaviour!'

Both their tiny faces fell. They looked at each other, and then immediately scrambled to their respective beds.

Myles bounced in and pulled his sheets up high to his chin, tucking his replacement Professor Primate under his arm. 'I am in bed, Artemis!'

'Well done,' said his older brother, walking over and kissing him on the forehead. 'Sleep well, Myles.'

'I shall.'

He turned around to find Beckett lying hopelessly tangled in his blankets, his arms scrabbling to gather in all his toys. There must have been over twenty.

Artemis sighed, crossing the considerable distance across the room from Myles's bed to his twin's. 'Beckett, just pick one.'

The little boy's eyes widened. 'But I can't just pick one! All the others will be lonely!'

'No they won't; they'll be right here on the bed with you. Here, shall Amadeus Armadillo be the special toy to come in the bed tonight?'

Beckett inspected the plush, placental mammal before nodding and tucking it beneath the sheets.

'There,' said Artemis. 'All is well. Goodnight, Beckett.' He kissed the toddler's wayward curls and turned to leave the room.

'Arty!' He looked back to see Beckett sat up in bed, his fingers clutching to the material of his sheet. 'Don't go,' he whispered.

'Beckett?'

The little boy glanced warily over at Myles, checking his twin was turned away and fast asleep, before beckoning for Artemis to come closer. 'It's the night noises,' he said in a stage whisper.

Artemis felt the unsettling feeling stir in his chest. 'What noises?'

'The banging noises and... and the scratching.'

'The scratching?'

Just at that moment a pipe clanked in the ceiling above them. Both boys stared at the fresco.

Calm yourself. It is merely the heating system cooling down.

Artemis looked down at his brother. 'Do you know how old this house is, Beckett?

'Older than me...'

'Much older. Parts of this house are almost a thousand years old.'

'A thousand?'

'Yes. And very old houses like this one do tend to make noises at night. But it is only the floors and the walls and the furniture winding down after a hard day of keeping everyone safe and warm. Don't you stretch and yawn when you're ready for bed?'

Beckett seemed to think about it, and then nodded.

'Well there you are. That is just what the house is doing.'

Beckett's expression twisted. 'But I don't scratch when I go to bed.'

I shall have to call a pest control company in the morning. If it is rats he is hearing, they'll need to be dealt with quickly.

Artemis straightened. 'The noises are nothing to worry about, Beckett. Now go to sleep.'

The boy frowned, not entirely satisfied. Artemis had just reached the door to the bedroom when he heard a tiny cry. It was Beckett, his ear pressed flat to his bedroom wall.

'Arty!' he hissed. 'Arty, I can hear it! I can hear the scratching!'

Artemis sighed heavily. 'Goodnight, Beckett.'

'No, wait! Come and listen! Screeep, screeeep. I can hear it!'

The teenager looked at him, his left hand already on the doorknob.

Humour him. You owe it to him after being absent for half his lifetime.

His hand dropped. He walked back to bed and leant across to the wall, flattening his ear to the cold wallpaper. He heard... nothing.

Beckett pulled his head back and scowled. 'It's stopped.'

Artemis sighed. 'Never mind. I believe you when you say that it is there.'

'But it wasthere!'

'Hush! You shall wake Myles!'

'But–!' The boy was dangerously close to tears.

'Beckett.' Artemis put his hands on his smallest brother's shoulders. 'I believe you. In fact… I'm going to go right now and investigate the source. Alright?'

Beckett sniffled. 'You are?'

'Yes, if that shall satisfy you.'

The boy's mouth twisted… and then, reluctantly, he nodded. 'Alright.'

'Alright. Now go to sleep.'

Beckett snuggled down in his bed, clutching Amadeus Armadillo tightly. 'Just be careful, Arty.'

'I shall. Goodnight.'

And he closed the door softly behind him.

The corridor outside was dim and silent. The whole house was closing up for the night. Harold, the family butler, had locked the main doors. Butler had undoubtedly checked them. Twice. The fires had been extinguished, the animals brought in for the night. Artemis knew that when he returned to his own room the sheets would have been turned down on his bed and a fresh set of pyjamas laid out on the chair beside the bookcase. But he would have to wait a little longer to reach them. He sighed heavily and set off along the hall.

The twin's room was on the second floor of the house in the far corner of the east wing meaning there were only three logical options for the source of the scratching. Beckett's wall connected firstly with that of the main music room above. Artemis knew for a fact that that room did not house rats or mice. His own prized instruments were kept within that room and it was inspected almost daily for errant creatures and other crawly things that could pose a risk to them. Another option was the scarlet lounge on the first floor, but his mother used that room to entertain almost every other day. It would be free of infestation. The third option was the main dining room on the ground floor, but again this was frequently inspected. And it was Butler himself who checked all the main family rooms: for bombs, hidden assassins, but also for pests and damp.

Artemis wasn't unduly concerned. The issue would eventually be solved. He continued to walk, descending the main staircase.

What else would have firm contact with Beckett's wall? Something strong enough to travel up and be clearly heard. There must be another room connected to the wall. Unless it is something from the outside of the house? But surely the stone would be too thick. There must –

He froze.

There was another room which connected with Beckett's wall. A room that connected deep within the foundations.

He reached the bottom of the main staircase, his final footstep echoing sharply around the hall. He had walked there without thought, almost right to the place of the forth option. Almost as if his body had known before him. He hesitated, and then took a sharp left.

How long had it been since he'd been down there? Seven? Eight years? He had hoped never to visit the room again. Butler had carried the gold bars out, aided begrudgingly by the then teenaged Juliet. Artemis had simply watched, guilt and pride sparring viciously in the pit of his twelve-year-old stomach.

The fifteen-year-old Artemis stopped to retrieve a torch from a nearby maintenance closet before clicking it on and shining it down the passage. The way before him was devoid of light, having been left unconverted during the manor's change to electricity during the early 1900s. He'd had it rigged for light during the siege of course but removed all traces after his mother's return to sanity.

The concrete stairway stretched beneath him. He hesitated, and took the first step down.

The silence was unnatural, pressing. The thin beam of the torch barely penetrated ten metres, leaving much of the narrow passage in darkness.

But you already know what's down there.

He moved. One step, then two. He knew there were fourteen left to descend. Sixteen steps. Four times four.

Stop that.

He took a third step, a forth. His breath began to steam before him.

Of course it's getting colder, you fool. You're going underground.

A fifth step, a sixth. Yes, definitely cooler, and that feeling, that unexplained unease was growing again.

A seventh step, an eighth.

It was palpable now. His heart was almost beating through his skin. What was wrong with him? What was causing him so much–?

'Artemis!'

Shocked by the voice's interruption he faltered mid-step. His mouth opened, his feet twisted beneath him. He reached out, fingers gripping at thin air.

'Artemis!'

He fell. Concrete rushed up to meet him, colliding harshly against his shoulder and sending his head cracking into the edge of a step. The torch fell out of his hand.

'Artemis!'

Hurried footsteps were getting closer.

'Artemis!'

He lay there, blinking spots from his eyes.

'Artemis.'

Hands were under his arms, pulling him up.

'Artemis, are you alright?'

The teenager was unsteady. He stumbled and the hands tightened around his forearms.

'Did you hit your head?'

He mumbled something, his words incomprehensible. The man vanished. Artemis caught a single, illuminated image of a cell's steel door before the torch light flared in his eyes. He squinted, twisting his face away.

'No,' ordered Artemis Fowl Senior. 'Come on, Artemis. Look at me.' The teenager felt his chin being held. 'Alright. Hold on to my arm.'

Artemis gripped at something, feeling as if the whole world except the point of his hands was spinning on its axis. He staggered, slipping and accidentally embracing his father. Artemis Senior grunted and gripped around his son, hauling him from the passage. It wasn't long before they were back in the main entrance. They took the stairs quickly, Artemis's head lolling low, and soon they reached the door of his bedroom.

Artemis protested weakly as his father slid out from beneath his arm. He sank slowly forwards onto his hands and knees. Artemis Senior snatched up the pair of pyjamas laid on the back of a chair.

'Artemis.'

Artemis could barely look at him.

'Artemis.'

The teenager's head tipped, his breath unsteady. His father pulled at his arms, stripping off his day shirt and replacing it with the flannel top of the pyjamas.

'Sit back.'

Artemis flopped sideways onto the carpet, coming to a rest on his back. Artemis Senior quickly tugged off his trousers, looping the cuffs of the pyjama bottoms over his son's ankles.

'Stand up.'

Artemis felt a hand under his armpit and was wrenched upwards. Artemis Senior pulled up the waist of his trousers.

'Now to bed.'

Artemis was steered towards the mattress, eventually collapsing face first among the sheets. His father shifted his legs under the blankets, pushing his eldest son until he was laid on his side.

'Goodnight, Arty,' he whispered, kissing his son's hair.

Artemis didn't respond.

The door clicked shut.

It was perhaps five seconds later that Artemis fell into unconsciousness.

And ten minutes later that he dreamt he heard a gunshot.

Ooh, cripes :/

Again, big thanks to Snakequeen-in-Norway for beta-ing this chapter :)

(And to Ru Doragon for recommending her in the first place)

In the next chapter it's back to Artemis and Annie, who finally deal with some buried things.

Now...review?

Or, y'know, those things'll stay buried.

Deep.