“Not so long ago I would have been very impressed by your antics. Such audacity, and still a minor. But now, speaking as a father, I am telling you that things have to change, Arty. You must reclaim your childhood. It is my wish, and your mother’s, that you return to school after the holidays, and leave the family’s business to me.”
“But—Father!”
“Trust me, Arty. I’ve been in business a lot longer than you. I have promised your mother that the Fowls are on the straight and narrow from now on. All the Fowls. I have another chance, and I will not waste it on greed. We are a family now. A proper one.
From now on the Fowl name will be associated with honor and onesty. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said, clasping his hand.
But what of my meeting with Chicago’s Jon Spiro? I decided to proceed as planned. One last adventure, then the Fowls could be a proper family. After all, Butler would accompany me. What could go wrong?
Fowl Manor
Butler opened his eyes. He was home. Artemis was asleep on the armchair beside the bed. The boy looked a hundred years old. It wasn’t surprising, after all he’d been through. That life was over now though, all of it.
“Anybody home?” said the manservant.
Artemis was instantly alert.
“Butler, you’ve come back to us.”
Butler struggled onto his elbows. It was quite an effort.
“It’s a surprise to me. I never expected to see you, or anyone, ever again.”
Artemis poured a glass of water from the bedside jug.
“Here, old friend. Just rest.”
Butler drank slowly. He was tired, but it was more than that. He had felt battle fatigue before, but this went deeper.
“Artemis, what has happened? I shouldn’t be alive at all. And if I accept that I am alive, then I should be experiencing massive amounts of pain right about now.”
Artemis crossed to the window, looking out over the estate.
“Blunt shot you. It was a fatal wound, and Holly wasn’t around to help, so I froze you until she arrived.”
Butler shook his head. “Cryogenics? Only Artemis Fowl. You used the fish freezers, I suppose?”
Artemis nodded.
“I trust I am not part freshwater trout now, eh?”
When Artemis turned to face his friend, he was not smiling.
“There were complications.”
“Complications?”
Artemis took a breath. “It was a difficult healing, no way to predict the outcome. Foaly warned that it might be too much for your system, but I insisted we press on.”
Butler sat up.“Artemis. It’s all right. I’m alive. Anything is better than the alternative.”
Artemis was not reassured. He took a pearl-handled mirror from the locker. “Prepare yourself, and take a look.”
Butler took a deep breath and looked. He stretched his jaw, and pinched the bags beneath his eyes.
“Just how long was I out?” he asked.
Aboard a transatlantic Boeing 747
Mulch had decided that the best way to undermine the mission was to antagonize Loafers until he went crazy.
Driving people crazy was a talent of his, and one that he did not get to exercise often enough.
The two diminutive individuals were seated side by side in a 747 watching the clouds shoot past below. First class. One of the perks of working for the Antonellis.
Mulch sipped delicately from a champagne flute.
“So, Slippers . . .”
“That’s Loafers.”
“Oh yes, Loafers. What’s the story behind all the tattoos?”
Loafers rolled up his sleeve, revealing a turquoise snake with drops of blood for eyes. Another of his own designs. “I get one done after every job.”
“Oh,” said Mulch. “So if you paint a kitchen, then you get a tattoo?”
“Not that kind of job, stupid.”
“What kind of job then?”
Loafers grit his teeth. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”
Mulch swiped some peanuts from a passing tray.
“No point. I never got no schoolin’. Plain English will be fine.”
“You can’t be this stupid! Spatz Antonelli doesn’t hire morons.”
Mulch winked a smarmy wink. “You sure about that?”
Loafers patted his shirt, hoping to find a weapon of some kind.
“You wait until this is over, smart aleck. Me and you will settle our differences.”
“You keep telling yourself that, Boots.”
“Loafers!”
“Whatever.”
Mulch hid behind the airline magazine. This was too easy. The mobster was half-crazed already. A few more hours in Mulch’s company should be enough to have Loafers McGuire foaming at the mouth.
Dublin Airport
Mulch and Loafers passed through Irish customs without incident. After all, they were simply citizens returning home for the holidays. It wasn’t as if they were a Mob team up to no good. How could they be? Whoever heard of little people being involved in organized crime? Nobody. But maybe that was because they were very good at it.
Passport control provided Mulch with another opportunity to infuriate his partner. The officer was doing his best not to notice Mulch’s height, or lack of it.
“So, Mr. Digence, home to visit the family?”
Mulch nodded. “That’s right. My mother’s folks are from Killarney.”
“Oh, really?”
“O’Reilly, actually. But what’s a vowel between friends?”
“Very good. You should be on the stage.”