Sorry for the delay, guys! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed. Note: this chapter relies pretty heavily on Susan Kay's Phantom, which is an absolutely awesome book. But there's a little bit of Leroux thrown in, too.

Disclaimer: I don't own either Artemis Fowl or the Phantom of the Opera. So leave me alone.

Chapter Eight: Trouble On The Horizon

He wept.

It seemed as though the tears were drawn up from deep inside him, boiling their way up past the lingering agonies of the past and cleansing him from the inside out. He could not ever remember weeping as he did now, his hands clenched into futile fists, his mask abandoned on the dusty stone. His heart was full to bursting, hammering frantically against his ribs, and he pressed a hand to it, trying to calm his traitorous pulse. It would not do to have a heart attack now, of all times! Artemis wept, as he had not wept in so long, and his fingers longed to conduct the movement of her notes in the air. And yet he was motionless, as the tears coursed uninhibited over the skin he had so long believed to be that of a monster in the sweet cool darkness of the cellar beneath the stage.

For Holly was singing. He leaned back against the stone, willing his feet to keep their footing, forcing himself to remain upright in the face of the wrenching pain-pleasure that was the beauty of her voice. Holly sang, as she never had before in their rehearsals, and his eyes fell closed, his hands slackened. Because Holly was singing.

And oh, how she sings!

How could he possibly explain the sensations soaring through his body and mind, the effect she had on his rapidly firing neurons? He could not, for to even try to describe them in mere, human, fumbling words would be sacrosanct. Her voice was not meant to be described or tainted by human hands, beautiful in all its purity. Yet he had touched her voice, hadn't he, touched the inside of her soul, and changed her voice in some wicked alchemy from mere mortality to quicksilver and glory. He gasped in oxygen, inhaling with it her music. He could almost taste it on his tongue, a drug more addicting than the alcohol or the little sultana's hashish had ever been. Holly's voice was sunshine and thunder, and even as he cried for the beauty of her voice – lovely, shifting siren's song – he marvelled at the genius of his creation. That something so exquisite had come from him, from his tutelage!

The music swelled around him, a tangible presence that he could ignore. It bathed him in its warmth, in the light of her soul that poured from her throat. It was a form of alchemy, a miraculous transformation that, it seemed to him, was almost unfair, practically a violation of nature. Her voice reflected her beauty, but his own was just a mockery of his hideousness. But he could not dwell upon that now, not when the sweetness of her voice coloured the air he breathed. He breathed her beauty, her warmth, and Artemis realised in a moment of terrible actualisation that he could not bear to breathe mere air ever again. He closed his eyes, sank back against the wall, and as though summoned there by his will alone, he saw her in his mind's eye. He could not see her in person, for the managers had denied him his box yet again, but they could do nothing could destroy Artemis' ecstasy and – he smirked, deformed lips twisting even more – by God they could not take her out of his head.

But he had to see her. The memories were no longer enough. Even though he often felt as though her image had been tattooed to the backs of his eyelids when he was not paying attention, he could not go another minute. A sudden, sickening lurch passed through him; that this exquisite voice was just another twisted hallucination, the product of the morphine and the alcohol and the grief…

He had to see her. He had no choice in the matter. If he did not see her, Artemis thought he might die.

He was nearly incoherent with mingled desperation and delight as he made his way up to the flies, as his little student's angelic voice echoed all around him. He fumbled with his mask, somehow not caring about anyone who might see him. The Phantom, for the moment, was gone. All that remained of the monster he had been was Artemis; her voice and the torments washed the rest away.

And there she was.

No angel had ever been lovelier; no diva had ever held an audience more in thrall. Not a breath stirred the vast body of people that had crowded to see the prima donna who had upstaged Carlotta; the ethereal, otherworldly music of Holly's throat saw to that.

An alien emotion surged up his chest, warming him all the way through in a fashion that even Holly's music could not manage. He could not remember this feeling, not as long as he lived.

He thought it might be happiness. Or possibly love.

Artemis felt the tears threaten again.

She was his masterpiece. He could not live without her, not now.

And he would never let her go.

xx

For a long time after the audience had climbed to its feet, screaming and cheering, and the final bow had been taken, Artemis stood above the stage. He watched dispassionately as his little student was surrounded by a throng of well wishers and fans. He could hardly see her among them, tiny as she was; yet his eyes never wavered from her. If he remembered he had wept real tears below the stage in the wake of Holly's voice, he gave no sign of it. It was no longer important.

And now he pondered what to do next. Should he take her below, to the realm of the night that he presided over? Tonight, would Persephone come to Hades? Artemis was disturbed to discover he had no answers to these questions: he, who had always known everything he had ever wanted to know, did not know. Holly was the one variable he found himself incapable of calculating. So for now he watched her, straining to understand what he barely comprehended, aching to come to a course of action and dreading it.

"Short!" a voice snapped, breaking through the throng and into Artemis' concentration. Artemis' eyes narrowed. The man who had called Holly's name so rudely was only a handful of centimetres taller than her, a bouquet of wilted flowers in one white-knuckled fist. Holly turned to respond to the shout and as she did Artemis saw, as if in slow motion, horror creep across her face. She started fighting her way through the crowd in earnest, struggling to get away from this unknown figure, but the man caught her by the arm. "Thank Frond, Holly, we've been so worried about you – "

"Sir, you are mistaken," she said, her eyes wide and desperate. "My name is not Holly." The stranger made a derisive sound.

"Come off it, Short, and come home. I don't know what the hell you think you're playing at up on that stage but Foaly's going out of his mind with worry and the Commander's – well, he's… stopped smoking, for Frond's sake!"

"Trouble!" she pleaded. "I can explain…" Something in her eyes must have given him pause, because he sighed, adjusting the hat that covered his hair and ears.

"I hope so, Short, because frankly, it's not looking good for you."

He shoved the flowers at her, and turned on his heel. Artemis was dismayed to see Holly's eyes follow him through the crowd until she could no longer see him. Artemis eyed the stranger resentfully. Respectably clad in a suit and a small hat on top of his head, he was, for his small size, a relatively good-looking man.

At least he has a nose, Artemis mused bitterly. And eyes that do not glow in the dark. And the face of a demon… These miserable thoughts did little to assuage his anger at the newcomer, or at Holly. How dare she talk to him? he thought furiously, conveniently forgetting in his misplaced rage that she had not looked happy to see the stranger at all. The Phantom had returned. Artemis built himself into a towering rage, and strode away from the scene, forgetting all about his student, who looked around with anguished eyes, as though seeing a world she suddenly did not recognise.

xx

He waited, pacing like a trapped panther, before the mirror for her to arrive back to her dressing room. He did not have to wait long. Holly nearly ran through the doors in her haste to get away from the masses that followed her. Artemis noted with displeasure her flushed face and mussed wig… as though someone had kissed those lovely cheeks, and rumpled the dark curls… He shook his head to clear it, but that did nothing to dispel the miasma of red that was creeping up around the corners of his vision. Murder, he recalled, was like an addiction, and even in his muddled and aggrieved state he sensed himself slipping off the wagon…

He watched, mute, as his student slipped into a chair, removed the wig, and dropped her head into her hands. He watched her profile in the dim light, noticing with a flicker of amusement her spiky auburn hair, rebelling against the gel that had immobilised it beneath the wig. His eyes drifted lower, past the defined shoulders and slender waist, to her hands… and he noticed, with a flash of fury, the wilted, ugly bunch of flowers she still held clutched in one hand. His blood boiled.

"I WILL NOT TOLERATE DISOBEDIENCE!" he roared, gaining a small amount of perverse satisfaction from the way her hazel eyes flew open at the sound of his voice. She prostrated herself at the foot of the mirror, and he was both pleased and dismayed to see the return of her former reverence. It was as though her triumph had shocked her into a belief of him even deeper than the blind faith of before.

She stammered apologies and excuses; he denied them. His voice was harsh and mighty, the dark power of an angered angel. He reduced her, from the proud and beautiful siren he had seen on that stage, to a sobbing, quivering heap that could barely string three words together without descending into sobs and mindless rambling of apologies. His heart ached. It was a necessary duty, but not one he enjoyed. Well, not one he enjoyed much.

He quieted her with a few bars of music in his unearthly Voice. "Holly," he said, sinking to his knees next to her. Only the glass separated him from her; only the glass, and his face. "I am more proud of you than I could ever believe I would be of a mortal." Well, that was true enough. "The angels wept tonight." Also, in a twisted way, true. Would the lies ever end? "Your father is proud, my child." This ensured a fresh wave of tears.

"Oh, Angel," she sobbed. "This is all because of you." Artemis sighed, and his Voice was much more that of a defeated mortal man than that of an angelic being.

"I suppose it is." Holly lifted her eyes to the heavens in supplication.

"Please, won't you let me see you?" Artemis jerked back in shock, away from the mirror and away from her. Holly, realising her mistake, blundered on. "I mean – I just want to – "

"Enough!" Artemis shouted. There was no grace in his Voice now, only power. Behind the mirror, though, he reeled in shock. He had not been prepared for this. "Is it not enough that I grant you the gift of music?" he thundered. Holly shrank away from his rage, the tears flowing anew. "What the Lord gives, He may also take away. Remember that, and think upon your sins. Remember that…" His Voice trailed away. He was suddenly tired, mortally tired, exhausted down to his bones.

"Angel?" Holly asked hesitantly. "Angel?"

He did not respond, and when he did not, she cast herself down to the floor, sobbing. Artemis did not make a sound, but his heart throbbed with pain at the sight of her. This was necessary, he reminded himself. She must learn to be content with what I can give her. But there was no feeling of triumph as he regarded her, a miserable, shaking mess at the base of the mirror. He gained no satisfaction from reminding her who she belonged to. And the sight of her like this, brought low with grief, only recalled to his mind so many other innocents like her, whom he had slain.

And it was because of that final thought that he walked away from her as quickly as he could, but even as he ran, her cries followed him below.