Holly glanced sideways at Artemis, who was studying the stage through a pair of opera glasses. She would never tell him, but if a human had to be involved with saving the Fairy People, then Artemis was probably the best man, or boy, for the job.
The Island of Hybras, Limbo
No1 struggled up toward the first rocky ridge on the side of the volcano. Several demons passed him on the trail, but not one tried to talk him out of it. In fact, he’d bumped into Hadley Shrivelington Basset, who had offered to scratch a map on a piece of bark for him. No1 suspected that if he did take the big dimensional jump, no one would miss him any more than they would miss their favorite crossbow target. Except perhaps the demoness with red markings who smiled at him. The one from the compound. Maybe she would miss him a little. No1 stopped in his tracks when he realized that the only demon who would care when he was gone was one he had never spoken to.
He moaned aloud. How depressing was that!
No1 trudged onward past the final warning, which, with typical demon subtlety, was in the form of a blood-reddened wolf skull mounted on a stick.
“What’s that even supposed to mean?” muttered No1 as he passed the sign. “A wolf’s head on a stick. Big wolf barbecue tonight. Bring your own wolf.”
Barbecue. Another word from Lady Heatherington Smythe.
No1 sat on the ridge, wiggling his rump to dig a little trench for his tail. Might as well be comfortable before jumping the few hundred feet into the mouth of a steaming volcano. Of course, even if he didn’t get whisked away to the New Country, he still wouldn’t be vaporized by the lava. No, he would probably be dashed against the rocks on the way down. What a cheery thought.
From his seat on the ridge, No1 could see the jagged mouth of the crater and the rhythmic wisps of smoke that drifted skyward like the breath of a sleeping giant. It was the nature of the time spell that things progressed as though Hybras were still attached to the rest of the world, albeit at a different pace. So the volcano still bubbled and occasionally burped up a skinny column of flame even though there was no earth beneath it.
If No1 were honest with himself, his resolve was wavering. It was easy to imagine hopping into an inter-dimensional crater when you were rolling your cocooned classmates into a becrusted dung pit. It had seemed then, as the flakes of ash had fluttered down on him, that things could not get any worse. And there had been something in Abbot’s voice that made the idea seem irresistible. But now, sitting on the ridge, with a gentle wind cooling his chest plates, things didn’t seem quite as bleak. At least he was alive, and there was no guarantee that the crater led anywhere except into the belly of the volcano. None of the other demons had made it back alive. They came back, all right. Some encased in blocks of ice, some burned to a crisp, but none hale and hearty like the pride leader. Although, for some reason, when No1 thought about Abbot, the many moments of cruelty he had suffered at the pride leader’s whim seemed hazy, hard to focus on. All he could remember was that beautiful insistent voice telling him to cross over.
Moon madness. That was the heart of the matter. Demonkind were attracted to the moon. It sang to them, agitating particles in their blood. They dreamed of it at night and ground their teeth at its absence. At any hour of the so-called day here on Hybras, demons could be seen stopping in their tracks to gaze at the space where the moon used to be. It was part of them, a live organic part; and on an atomic level, they belonged together.
There were threads of the time spell still in the crater. Wisps of magic that curled about the mountaintop snagging any demon stupid enough to be caught without silver. And coded inside the magic was the song of the moon, calling the demons back, enticing them with visions of white light and weightlessness. Once those pale tendrils had a grip on a demon’s mind, he would do anything to be closer to the source. The magic and moon madness would pour energy into the atoms of his being, vibrating his very electrons to a new orbit, changing his molecular structure, pulling him through time and space.
But there was only Abbot’s word that this journey would end on Earth. It could end on the moon, and as much as demons loved the moon, they knew that nothing survived on its barren surface. The elders said that sprites could not fly close without freezing to death, spiraling to earth with frozen wings and blue faces.
For some reason, No1 wanted to take the journey today. He wanted the moon to call him into the crater, then deposit him somewhere where another warlock existed. Someone who would teach him to control his strange powers. But, he miserably admitted, he didn’t have the courage. He could not just hurl himself into a rocky crater. The volcano’s base was littered with the charred corpses of those who had imagined the moon calling to them. How could he know if the moon’s power was truly beckoning, or if it was simply wishful thinking.
No1 rested his face in his hands. Nothing for it but to return to the school. The imps in the pit would need turning, or their hides could suffer dung lividity marks.
He sighed. This was not the first time he had made this desperate journey. But now No1 really thought he would do it. Abbot was in his head, urging him on. This time he could almost bear the idea of the rocks rushing toward him. Almost.
No1 toyed with the silver bangle on his wrist. It would have been so easy to slip off this trinket and just disappear.
Slip it off, then, little one, said a voice in his head. Slip it off and come to me.
No1 was not surprised by the voice. Actually, it was more a feeling than a voice. No1 had supplied the words himself. He often conversed with voices in his head. There was no one else to talk to. There was Flambard the shoemaker, and Lady Bonnie the spinster, and his favorite, Bookie the lisping gossip.
This voice was new. More forceful.
A moment without silver, and a new world could be yours.
No1’s bottom lip jutted as he considered. He could remove the bangle, he supposed, just for a moment. What harm could it do? He was nowhere near the crater, and the magic rarely strayed beyond the volcano.
No harm. No harm at all. One little tug.
The ridiculous notion had No1 now. Taking off the bangle could be like a practice run for the day when he finally worked up the courage to feel the moon madness. His fingers traced the runes on the bangle. They were precisely the same as the markings on his chest. A double charm. Repelling the moon magic. Removing one meant that the force of his own markings was reversed, pulling him straight toward the moon.
Take it off. Reverse the power.
No1 watched his fingers grip the bangle’s rim. He was in a daze, a buzzing fugue. The new voice had coated his mind with fog and was in control.
We will be together, you and I. You will bask in my light.
Bask in my light? thought the last conscious sliver of No1. This new voice is quite the drama queen. Bookie is not going to like you.
Take it off, little one.
No1 watched his hand tug the bangle over his knuckles. He was powerless to stop himself, not that he wanted to.
Moon madness, he realized with a jolt. All the way over here. How can that be?
Something in him knew. The warlock part of him, perhaps.
The time spell is breaking down. No one is safe.
No1 saw the bangle, his dimensional anchor, slip from his fingers and spin to the ground. It seemed to happen in slow motion—the silver flowed and rippled like sunlight through water.
No1 felt the tingle that comes when every atom in your body is overloaded with energy and boosted into a gaseous form. It really should be terribly painful, but the body doesn’t really know how to respond to this kind of cell damage, and so throws up a pathetic tingling.
There was no time to scream. All No1 could do was disappear into a million flashing pinpoints of light, which quickly wound themselves into a tight band following a path to another dimension. In seconds there was nothing left to show that No1 had ever been there but a spinning silver bangle.
It would be a long time, relatively speaking, before anyone missed
him. And no one would care enough to come looking.
The Bellini Theatre, Sicily
To look at Artemis Fowl, you would have thought that he was here simply for the opera. One hand trained a pair of opera glasses on the stage, the other hand conducted expertly, following the score note for note.
“Maria Callas is the acknowledged seminal Norma,” he said to Holly, who nodded politely, then rolled her eyes at Butler. “But I have a confession: I actually prefer Montserrat Caballé. She took the role on in the seventies. Of course, I have only heard recordings, but to me, Caballé’s performance is more robust.”
“Really,” said Holly. “I’m trying to care, Artemis. But I thought it was all supposed to be over when the fat lady sings. Well, she’s singing, but it doesn’t appear to be over.”
Artemis smiled, exposing his incisors. “That’s Wagner you’re thinking of.”
Butler did not participate in the opera-related chitchat. To him it was just another layer of distraction to be zoned out. Instead he decided to test the night-vision filter on Holly’s new helmet. If it could indeed overcome the whiteout problem, as Holly claimed, then he would have to ask Artemis to procure one for him.
Needless to say, Holly’s helmet would not fit on Butler’s head. In fact, it would barely slot over his fist, so the bodyguard folded the filter’s left wing out until he could squint through it by holding the helmet to his cheek.
The effect was impressive. The filter successfully equalized the light throughout the building. It boosted or dimmed so that every person in the building was seen in the same light. Those on the stage appeared caked in makeup, and those in the boxes had no shadows to hide in.
Butler panned across the boxes, satisfying himself that there was no threat present. He saw plenty of nose-picking and hand-holding, sometimes by the same people. But nothing obviously dangerous. But in a second-tier box adjacent to the stage, there was a girl with a head of blond curls, all dressed up for a night of theater.
Butler immediately recalled seeing the same girl at the materialization site in Barcelona. And now she was here, too? Coincidence? There was no such thing. In the bodyguard’s experience, if you saw a stranger more than once, either they were following you, or you were both after the same thing.