It was possible, of course, that a hostile could figure out the same pathways, coordinates and trajectories, and therefore move about the house undetected. Possible, but highly improbable, and not without an intimate knowledge of nooks and crannies that did not exist on any plans.
Artemis followed a zigzag pattern down the hallway, a second behind a security camera’s sweep, then ducked quickly inside the dumbwaiter shaft. Luckily the box was on this floor, or he would have been forced to shinny down the cable, and shinnying was not one of his strong suits. Artemis reached outside and pressed the ground-floor button, whipping his hand back in before the descending box caught his wrist. While it was true that security would register the dumbwaiter descending, it would not set off any red lights.
Once at kitchen level, Artemis rolled onto the floor and opened the fridge door to shield his movement into the pantry. Deep shadows concealed him until the camera swung away from the doorway, allowing him to climb on top of the table and jump outside.
All the time, thinking. Plotting.
Assume the worst. Little Artemis is helpless, and Holly and No1 are already incapacitated. Quite possible if someone like Butler was mesmerized and doing the incapacitating. Opal is somewhere near the command center, manipulating my mother. It was Opal who could see the magic inside me. Not Mother. She peeled away the spell I had cast over my parents.
And: Of course B minor. If one starts in B minor, one finishes in B minor. Any fool knows that.
A suit of medieval armor stood in the main lobby. The same armor that Butler had put on to do battle with a troll during the Fowl Manor siege five years earlier. Artemis approached it slowly, his back flat against an abstract gray/black tapestry, which camouflaged him almost perfectly. Once concealed behind the suit of armor, he nudged the base of an adjacent mirror until it reflected a spotlight’s beam directly into the lens of the lobby camera.
Now his path to the security center was clear. Artemis strode purposefully toward the booth. This was where Opal would be, he was certain of it. From there she could monitor the entire house, and it was directly below Angeline’s bedroom. If Opal was indeed controlling his mother, closer was better.
It was clear from several yards away that he was right. Artemis could hear Opal ranting from a distance.
“There is another one. Here somewhere, another Artemis Fowl.”
Either the penny had dropped, or young Artemis had been forced to reveal their plan. “Find him,” shrieked Opal. “Find him immediately. At once.”
Artemis stepped quietly into the security control booth. A box room off the main lobby that had served in its time as a cloakroom, weapons lockup, and holding cell for prisoners. Now it housed a computer desk similar to those found in editing suites, and stacks of monitors displaying live feeds of the manor and grounds.
Huddled before the monitor bank was Opal, dressed in Holly’s LEP gear. She had wasted no time in stealing the fairy suit. It was mere minutes since Artemis had locked it in the safe.
The little pixie was multitasking furiously, scanning the monitors while maintaining remote control over Artemis’s mother. Her dark hair was sweat slicked, and her childlike limbs shook with effort.
Artemis sneaked into the room and quickly punched the code into the weapons locker.
“When this is over, I am going to destroy this entire estate just for spite. And then, when I return to the past, I shall ...”
Opal froze. Something had made a clicking noise. She turned to find Artemis Fowl pointing a weapon of some kind at her. She immediately abandoned all other spells, throwing her efforts into a desperate mesmer.
“Drop that gun,” she intoned. “You are my slave.”
Artemis felt instantly woozy, but he had already pressed the trigger, and a dart loaded with a Butler special concoction of muscle relaxants and sedatives buried its inch-long needle in Opal’s neck, where there was no protection from the suit. This was a shot in a million, since Artemis was not proficient with firearms. As Butler put it: Artemis, a genius you may be, but leave the shooting to me, because you couldn’t hit the backside of a stationary elephant.
Opal concentrated furiously on the puncture wound, dousing it with magical sparks, but it was too late. The drug was already entering her brain, loosening her control on the magic inside her.
She began to sway and flicker, alternating between her real pixie self and Miss Book.
Miss Book, thought Artemis. My suspicions were correct. The only stranger in the equation.
Intermittently Opal disappeared altogether, shield buzzing in and out. Magical bolts shot from her fingers, frying the monitors before Artemis could get a look at what was going on upstairs.
“Now I can do the bolts,” she slurred. “I’ve been trying to focus enough magic all week.”
The magic shifted and swirled, finally etching a picture in the air. It was a rough picture of Foaly, and he was laughing.
“I hate you, centaur!” screamed Opal, lunging toward, and then through, the insubstantial image. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed, snoring, on the floor.