oot leaned forward, roaring into the microphone.

“Mulch! What’s happening? What’s your status?”

Foaly was tapping a keyboard furiously.

“We’ve lost audio. Motion, too.”

“Mulch. Talk to me, dammit.”

“I’m running a scan on his vitals... Whoa!”

“What? What is it?”

“His heart has gone crazy. Beating like a rabbit...”

“A rabbit?”

“No, wait, it’s...”

“What?” breathed the commander, terribly afraid that he already knew.

Foaly leaned back in his chair. “It’s stopped. His heartbeat has stopped.”

“Are you sure?”

“The monitors don’t lie. All vitals can be read through the iris-cam. Not a peep. He’s gone.”

Root couldn’t believe it. Mulch Diggums, one of life’s constants. Gone? It couldn’t be true.

“He did it too, you know, Foaly. Recovered a copy of the Book no less, and he confirmed Short was alive.”

Foaly’s wide brow creased for an instant.“It’s just that...”

“What?” said Root, suspicion aroused.

“Well, for a moment there, just before the end, his heart rate seemed abnormally fast.”

“Maybe it was a malfunction.”

The centaur was unconvinced. “I doubt it. My bugs don’t have bugs.”

“What other explanation could there be? You still have visuals, don’t you?”

“Yep. Through dead eyes, no doubt about it. Not a spark of electricity in that brain; the camera is running on its own battery.”

“Well, that’s it then. No other explanation.”

Foaly nodded. “It would seem that way. Unless... No, it’s too fantastic.”

“This is Mulch Diggums we’re talking about here. Nothing is too fantastic.”

Foaly opened his mouth to voice his incredible theory, but before he could speak the shuttle’s bay door slid open.

“We have him!” said a triumphant voice.

“Yes!” agreed a second. “Fowl has made a mistake!”

Root swiveled on his chair. It was Argon and Cumulus, the so-called behavioral analysts.

“Oh, we’ve finally decided to earn our retainers, have we?”

But, united by excitement, the professors were not so easily intimidated. Cumulus even had the temerity to wave Root’s sarcasm aside. This more than anything else made the commander sit up and take notice.

Argon brushed past Foaly, pressing a laser disk into the console’s player. Artemis Fowl’s face appeared, as seen through Root’s iris-cam.

“We’ll be in touch,” said the commander’s recorded voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.”

Fowl’s face disappeared momentarily as he rose from his chair. Root lifted his gaze in time for the next chilling statement.

“You do that. But remember this, none of your race has permission to enter here while I’m alive.”

Argon pressed the pause button triumphantly. “There, you see!”

Root’s complexion lost any final traces of pallor.

“There? There what? What do I see?”

Cumulus tutted, as one would at a slow child. A mistake, in retrospect. The commander had him by the pointy beard in under a second.

“Now,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “Pretend we’re pushed for time here and just explain it to me without any attitude or comments.”

“The human said we couldn’t enter while he was alive,” squeaked Cumulus.

“So?”

Argon took up the account. “So... if we can’t go in while he’s alive...”

Root drew a sharp breath. “Then we go in when he’s dead.”

Cumulus and Argon beamed. “Exactly,” they said in perfect unison.

Root scratched his chin.

“I don’t know. We’re on shaky ground here legally.”

“Not at all,” argued Cumulus. “It’s elementary grammar. The human specifically stated that entry was forbidden as long as he was alive. That’s tantamount to an invitation when he’s dead.”

The commander wasn’t convinced. “The invitation is implied, at best.”

“No,” interrupted Foaly. “They’re right. It’s a strong case. Once Fowl is dead, the door is wide open. He said it himself.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, nothing,” blurted Foaly. “For heaven’s sake, Julius, how much more do you need? We have a crisis here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Root nodded slowly. “One, you’re right. Two, I’m going to run with it. Three, well done, you two. And four, you ever call me Julius again, Foaly, you’ll be eating your own hooves. Now, get me a line to the Council. I need to get approval for that gold.”

“Right away, Commander Root, your worship.” Foaly grinned, letting the hoof-eating comment slide for Holly’s sake.

“So we send in

the gold,” muttered Root, thinking aloud. “They send out Holly, we blue-rinse the place and stroll in to reclaim the ransom. Simple.”

“So simple it’s brilliant,” enthused Argon. “Quite a coup for our profession, wouldn’t you say, Dr. Cumulus?”

Cumulus’s head was spinning with possibilities. “Lecture tours, book deals. Why, the movie rights alone will be worth a fortune.”

“Let those sociologists stuff this in their collective pipe. Puts the kibosh on the deprivation-breeds-antisocial-behavior chestnut. This Fowl character has never gone hungry in his life.”

“There’s more than one kind of hunger,” noted Argon.

“Very true. Hunger to succeed. Hunger to dominate. Hunger to—”

Root snapped. “Get out! Get out before I strangle the pair of you. And if I ever hear a word of this repeated on an afternoon talk show, I’ll know where it came from.”

The consultants retreated warily, resolving not to call their agents until they were out of earshot.

“I don’t know if the Council will go for this,” admitted Root when they’d departed. “It’s a lot of gold.”

Foaly looked up from the console. “How much exactly?”

The commander slid a piece of paper across the console. “That much.”

“That is a lot.” Foaly whistled. “A ton. Small unmarked ingots. Twenty-four carat only. Well, at least it’s a nice round weight.”

“Very comforting. I’ll be sure to mention that to the Council. Have you got that line yet?”

The centaur grunted. A negative grunt. Very brazen really, grunting at a superior officer. Root didn’t have the energy to discipline him, but he made a mental note: when this is over, dock Foaly’s pay for a few decades. He rubbed his eyes exhaustedly. Time lag was beginning to set in. Even though his brain wouldn’t let him sleep because he’d been awake when the time-stop was initiated, his body was crying out for rest.

He rose from the chair, swinging the door wide to let in some air. Stale. Time-stop air. Not even molecules could escape the time-field, much less a human boy.

There was activity by the portal. Lots of it. A swarm of troops gathered around a hovercage. Cudgeon stood at the head of the procession, and the entire bunch was heading this way. Root stepped down to meet them.

“What’s this?” he inquired, none too pleasantly. “A circus?”

Cudgeon’s face was pale, but determined.

“No, Julius. It’s the end of the circus.”

Root nodded. “I see. And these are the clowns?”

Foaly’s head poked through the doorway.

“Pardon me for interrupting your extended circus metaphor, but what the hell is that?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Root, nodding at the floating hovercage. “What the hell is that?”

Cudgeon bolstered his courage with a few deep breaths. “I’ve taken a leaf from your book, Julius.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes. It is. You opted to send in a lapsed creature. So now I’m going to.”

Root smiled dangerously. “You don’t opt to do anything, Lieutenant, not without my say-so.”

Cudgeon took an unconscious step backward.

“I’ve been to the Council, Julius. I have their full backing.”

The commander turned to Foaly. “Is this true?”

“Apparently. It just came through on the outside line. This is Cudgeon’s party now. He told the Council about the ransom demand and you springing Mister Diggums. You know what the elders are like when it comes to parting with gold.”

Root folded his arms. “People told me about you, Cudgeon. They said you’d stab me in the back. I didn’t believe them. I was a fool.”

“This is not about us, Julius. It’s about the mission. What’s inside this cage is our best chance of success.”

“So what’s in the cage? No, don’t tell me. The only other nonmagical creature in the Lower Elements. And the first troll we’ve managed to take alive in over a century.”

“Exactly. The perfect creature to flush out our adversary.”

Root’s cheeks glowed with the effort of restraining his anger.

“I don’t believe you’re even considering this.”

“Face it, Julius, it’s the same basic idea as yours.”

“No, it isn’t. Mulch Diggums made his own choices. He knew the risks.”

“Diggums is dead?”

Root rubbed his eyes again. “Yes. It would seem so. A cave-in.”

“That just proves I’m right. A troll won’t be so easily dispatched.”

“It’s a dumb animal, for heaven’s sake! How can a troll follow instructions?”

Cudgeon smiled, newborn confidence peeping through his apprehension.

“What instructions? We just point it at the house and get out of the way. I guarantee you those humans will be begging us to come in and rescue them.”

“And what about my officer?”

“We’ll have the troll back under lock and key long before Captain Short is in any danger.”

“You can guarantee that, can you?”

Cudgeon paused. “That’s a chance I’m willing... the Council is willing to take.”

“Politics,” spat Root. “This is all politics to you, Cudgeon. A nice feather in your cap on the way to a Council seat. You make me sick.”

“Be that as it may, we are proceeding with this strategy. The Council has appointed me Acting Commander, so if you can’t put our personal history aside, get the hell out of my way.”

Root stepped aside. “Don’t worry, Commander. I don’t want anything to do with this butchery. The credit is all yours.”

Cudgeon put on his best sincere face. “Julius, despite what you think, I have only the interests of the People at heart.”

“One person in particular,” snorted Root.

Cudgeon decided to go for the high moral ground.

“I don’t have to stand here listening to this. Every second talking to you is a second wasted.”

Root looked him straight in the eye. “That’s about six hundred years wasted altogether, eh, friend?”

Cudgeon didn’t answer. What could he say? Ambition had a price, and that price was friendship.

Cudgeon turned to his squad, a group of handpicked sprites, loyal only to him. “Get the hovercage over to the avenue. We don’t green-light until I give the word.”

He brushed past Root, eyes looking anywhere except at his erstwhile friend. Foaly wouldn’t let him go without a comment.

“Hey, Cudgeon.”

The Acting Commander couldn’t tolerate that tone, not on his first day.

“You watch your mouth, Foaly. No one is indispensable.”

The centaur chuckled. “Very true. That’s the thing about politics, you get one shot.”

Cudgeon was semi-interested in spite of himself.

“I know if it was me,” continued Foaly, “and I had one chance, just one chance, to book my behind a seat on that Council, I certainly wouldn’t entrust my future to a troll.”

And suddenly Cudgeon’s newfound confidence evaporated, replaced by a shiny pallor. He wiped his brow, hurrying after the departing hovercage.

“See you tomorrow,” Foaly called after him. “You’ll be taking out my trash.”

Root laughed. Possibly the first time one of Foaly’s comments had amused him.

“Good man, Foaly.” He grinned. “Hit that backstabber where it hurts, right in the ambition.”

“Thanks, Julius.”

The grin disappeared faster than a deep-fried pit slug in the LEP canteen.

“I’ve warned you about the Julius thing, Foaly. Now get that outside line open again. I want that gold ready when Cudgeon’s plan goes awry. Lobby all my supporters on the Council. I’m pretty sure Lope’s one of mine, and Cahartez, possibly Vinyáya. She’s always had a thing for me, devilishly attractive as I am.”

“You’re joking, of course.”

“I never joke,” said Root, and he said it with a straight face.

Holly had a plan, of sorts. Sneak around shielded, reclaim some fairy weaponry, then cause havoc until Fowl was forced to release her. And if several million Irish pounds’ worth of property damage happened to ensue, well, that was just a bonus.

Holly hadn’t felt so good in years. Her eyes blazed with power, and there were sparks sizzling below every centimeter of skin. She had forgotten just how good running hot felt.

Captain Short felt in control now, on the hunt. This was what she was trained to do. When this affair had started, the advantage had been with the Mud People. But now the boot was on the other foot. She was the hunter and they were the prey.

Holly scaled the great staircase, ever vigilant for the giant manservant. That was one individual she wasn’t taking any chances with. If those fingers closed around her skull, she was history, helmet or not, assuming she managed to find a helmet.

The vast house was like a mausoleum—without a single sign of life inside its vaulted rooms. Spooky portraits though. Each one with Fowl eyes, suspicious and glittering. Holly determined to torch the lot of them when she recovered her Neutrino 2000. Vindictive perhaps, but totally justified considering what Artemis Fowl had put her through.

She scaled the steps swiftly, following the curve around to the upper landing. A slot of pale light peeped from under the last door on the corridor. Holly placed her palm against the wood, feeling for vibration. Activity all right. Shouting and footsteps. Thundering this way.

Holly jumped back, flattening herself against the velveteen wallpaper. Not a moment too soon. A hulking shape burst through the doorway and hurtled down the corridor, leaving a maelstrom of air currents in his wake.

“Juliet!” he shouted, his sister’s name hanging in the air long after he had disappeared down the stairs.

Don’t worry, Butler, thought Holly. She’s having the time of her life glued to Wrestlemania. But the open door presented a welcome opportunity. She slipped through before the mechanical arm could close it again.

Artemis Fowl was waiting, anti-shield filters cobbled on to his sunglasses.

“Good evening, Captain Short,” he began, confidence apparently intact. “At the risk of sounding clichéd, I’ve been expecting you.”

Holly didn’t respond, didn’t even look her jailer in the eye. Instead she utilized her training to scan the room, her gaze resting briefly on each surface.

“You are, of course, still bound by the promises made earlier tonight....”

But Holly wasn’t listening, she was sprinting toward a stainless-steel workbench bolted to the far wall.

“So, basically, our situation hasn’t changed. You are still my hostage.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” muttered Holly, running her fingers over the rows of confiscated Retrieval equipment. She selected a stealth-coated helmet, slipping it over her pointed ears. The pneumatic pads pumped to cradle her crown. She was safe now. Any further commands given by Fowl meant nothing through the reflective visor. A wire mike slotted down automatically. Contact was immediate.

“... on revolving frequencies. Broadcasting on revolving frequencies. Holly, if you can hear me, take cover.”

Holly recognized Foaly’s voice. Something familiar in a crazy situation.

“Repeat. Take cover. Cudgeon is sending in a... ”

“Something I should know?” said Artemis.

“Quiet,” hissed Holly, worried by the tone of Foaly’s usually flippant voice.

“I say again, they are sending in a troll to secure your release.”

Holly started. Cudgeon was calling the shots now. Not good news at all.

Fowl interrupted again.

“It’s not polite, you know. Ignoring your host.”

Holly snarled. “Enough is enough.”

She pulled back her fist, fingers curled in a tight bunch. Artemis didn’t flinch. Why would he? Butler always intervened before punches landed. But then something caught his eye, a large figure running down the stairway on the first-floor monitor. It was Butler.

“That’s right, rich boy,” said Holly nastily. “You’re on your own this time.”

And before Artemis’s eyes had time to widen, Holly put an extra few pounds of spring in her elbow and whacked her abductor right on the nose.

“Oof,” he said, collapsing on to his rear end.

“Oh, yes! That felt good.”

Holly focused on the voice buzzing in her ear.

“... we’ve been feeding a loop to the outside cameras, so the humans won’t see anything come up the avenue. But it’s on the way, trust me.”

“Foaly. Foaly, come in.”

“Holly? Is that you?”

“The one and only. Foaly, there is no loop. I can see everything that’s going on around here.”

“The cunning little... He must have rebooted the system.”

The avenue was a hive of fairy activity. Cudgeon was there, haughtily directing his team of sprites. And in the center of the melee stood a sixteen-foot-tall hovercage, floating on a cushion of air. The cage was directly before the manor door, and the techies were securing a concussor seal to the surrounding wall. When activated, several alloy rods in the seal’s collar would be detonated simultaneously, effectively disintegrating the door. When the dust settled, the troll would have only one place to go—into the manor.

Holly checked the other monitors. Butler had managed to drag Juliet from the cell. They had ascended from the cellar level and were just crossing the lobby. Right in the line of fire.

“D’Arvit,” she swore, crossing to the work surface.

Artemis was propped on his elbows. “You hit me,” he said in disbelief.

Holly strapped on a set of Hummingbirds.

“That’s right, Fowl. And there’s plenty more where that came from. So stay right where you are, if you know what’s good for you.”

For once in his life, Artemis realized that he didn’t have a snappy answer. He opened his mouth, waiting for his brain to supply the customary pithy comeback. But nothing arrived.

Holly slipped the Neutrino 2000 into its holster.

“That’s right, Mud Boy. Playtime’s over. Time for the professionals to take over. If you’re a good boy, I’ll buy you a lollipop when I come back.”

And when Holly was long gone, soaring beneath the hallway’s ancient oak beams, Artemis said, “I don’t like lollipops.”

It was a woefully inadequate response, and Artemis was instantly appalled with himself. Pathetic really: I don’t like lollipops. No self-respecting criminal mastermind would be caught dead even using the word lollipops. He really would have to put together a database of witty responses for occasions such as this.

It was quite possible that Artemis would have sat like that for some time, totally detached from the situation at hand, had not the front door imploded, shaking the manor to its foundations. A thing like that is enough to knock the daydreams from anyone’s head.

A sprite alighted before acting Commander Cudgeon.

“The collar is in place, sir.”

Cudgeon nodded. “Are you sure it’s tight, Captain? I don’t want that troll coming out the wrong way.”

“Tighter ’n a goblin’s wallet. There’s not a bubble of air getting through that seal. Tighter ’n a stink worm’s—”

“Very well, Captain,” interrupted Cudgeon hurriedly, before the sprite could complete his graphic analogy.

Beside them the hovercage shook violently, almost toppling the container from its air cushion.

“We better blow that sucker, Commander. If we don’t let him outta there soon, my boys’re gonna spend the next week scraping...”

“Fine, Captain, fine. Blow it. Blow it for goodness sake.”

Cudgeon hurried behind the blast shield, scribbling a note on his palmtop’s screen. Memo: Remind the sprites to watch their language. After all, I am a Commander now.

The foul-mouthed captain in question turned to the hovercage’s cab driver.

“Blow ’er, Chix. Blow the door off its damn hinges.”

“Yessir. Off its damn hinges. That’s a roger.”

Cudgeon winced. There’d be a general meeting tomorrow. First thing. By then he’d have the commander’s icon on his lapel. Even a sprite might be less likely to curse with the triple acorn logo winking in his face.

Chix pulled down his shrapnel goggles, even though the cab had a quartz windscreen. The goggles were cool. Girls loved them. Or so the driver thought. In his mind’s eye he saw himself as a grim-faced daredevil. Sprites were like that. Give a fairy a pair of wings and he thinks he’s God’s gift to women. But Chix Verbil’s ill-fated quest to impress the dames is, once again, another story. In this particular tale, he serves only one purpose. And that is to melodramatically push the detonate button. Which he does, with great aplomb.

Two dozen controlled charges detonated in their chambers, driving two dozen alloy cylinders out of their mounts at over a thousand miles per hour. Upon impact, each bar pulverized the contact area plus the surrounding fifteen centimeters, effectively blowing the door off its damn hinges. As the captain would say.

When the dust settled, the handlers winched back the containment wall inside the cage and began hammering the side panels with the flats of their hands.

Cudgeon peeped out from behind the blast shield.

“All clear, Captain?”

“Just a damn second, Commander. Chix? How’re we doin’?”

Chix checked the cab’s monitor.

“He’s movin’. The hammerin’ is spookin’ him. The claws are comin’ out. My, he’s a big sucker. I wouldn’t wanna be that Recon babe if she gets in the way of this.”

Cudgeon felt a momentary pang of guilt, which he dispelled with his favorite daydream—a vision of himself sinking into a beige-velour Council seat.

The cage heaved violently, almost dislodging Chix from his seat. He held on like a rodeo rider.

“Whoa! He’s on the move. Lock and load, boys. I have a feeling that any second we’re going to be gettin’ a cry for help.”

Cudgeon didn’t bother locking and loading. He preferred to leave that sort of thing to the foot soldiers. The Acting Commander considered himself too important to be risked in an ins

ecure situation. For the good of the People in general, it was better he remain outside the op zone.

Butler took the stairs four at a time. It was possibly the first time he had ever abandoned Master Artemis in a time of crisis. But Juliet was family, and there was obviously something seriously wrong with his baby sister. That fairy had said something to her, and now she was just sitting in the cell giggling. Butler feared the worst. If anything were to happen to Juliet, he didn’t know how he’d live with himself.

He felt a dribble of sweat slide down the crown of his shaven head. This whole situation was shooting off in bizarre directions. Fairies, magic, and now a hostage loose in the manor. How could he be expected to control things? It took a four-man team to guard the lowliest politician, but he was expected to contain this impossible situation on his own.

Butler sprinted down the corridor into what had until recently been Captain Short’s cell. Juliet was sprawled on the cot, enraptured by a concrete wall.

“What are you doing?” he gasped, drawing the Sig Sauer nine-millimeter with practiced ease.

His sister barely spared him a glance. “Quiet, you big ape. Louie the Love Machine is on. He ain’t so tough, I could take him.”

Butler blinked. She was talking gibberish. Obviously drugged.

“Let’s go. Artemis wants us upstairs in the situations room.”

Juliet pointed a manicured finger at the wall.

“Artemis can wait. This is for the intercontinental title. And it’s a grudge match. Louie ate the Hogman’s pet piggie.”

The manservant studied the wall. It was definitely blank. He didn’t have time for this.

“Right. Let’s go,” he growled, slinging his sister over a broad shoulder.

“Nooo! You big bully,” she protested, hammering his back with tiny fists. “Not now. Hogman! Hogmaaaan!”

Butler ignored the objections, settling into a loping run. Who the hell was this Hogman person? One of her boyfriends no doubt. He was going to keep closer tabs on callers to the lodge in future.

“Butler? Pick up.”

It was Artemis, on the handheld. Butler jiggled his sister up a foot so he could reach his belt.

“Lollipops!” barked his employer.

“Say again. I thought you said—”

“Eh... I mean, get out of there. Take cover! Take cover!”

Take cover? The military term didn’t sound right coming out of Master Artemis’s mouth. Like a diamond ring in a lucky bag.

“Take cover?”

“Yes, Butler. Cover. I thought speaking in primal terms would be the quickest route to your cognitive functions. Obviously I was mistaken.”

That was more like it. Butler scanned the hall for a nook to duck into. Not much choice. The only shelter was provided by the suits of medieval armor punctuating the walls. The manservant ducked into the alcove behind a fourteenth-century knight, complete with lance and mace.

Juliet tapped the breastplate.

“You think you’re mean? I could take you with one hand.”

“Quiet,” hissed Butler.

He held his breath and listened. Something was approaching the main door. Something big. Butler leaned out far enough to get one eye on the lobby....

Then you could say that the doorway exploded. But that particular verb doesn’t do the action justice. Rather, it shattered into infinitesimal pieces. Butler had seen something like this once before when a force-seven earthquake had rippled through a Colombian drug lord’s estate seconds before he had been scheduled to blow it up. This was slightly different. More localized. Very professional. It was classic anti-terrorist tactics. Hit ’em with smoke and sonics, then go in while the targets were disoriented. Whatever was coming, it would be bad. He was certain of it. He was absolutely right.

Dust clouds settled slowly, depositing a pale sheet on the Tunisian rug. Madam Fowl would have been furious, if she ever put so much as a toe outside the attic door. Butler’s instincts told him to move. Zigzag across the ground floor, make for the higher ground. Stay low to minimize the target. This would be the perfect time to do it, before visibility cleared. Any second now, a hail of bullets would be whistling through the archway, and the last place he wanted to be was pinned down on a lower level.

And on any other day Butler would have moved. He would’ve been halfway up that stairway before his brain had time for second thoughts. But today he had his baby sister over his shoulder spouting gibberish, and the last thing he wanted to do was expose her to murderous assault fire. With Juliet in the state she was in, she’d probably challenge the fairy commandos to a tag-wrestling match. And though his sister talked tough, she was just a kid, really. No match for trained military personnel. So Butler hunkered down, propped Juliet against a tapestry behind a suit of armor, and checked his safety catch. Off. Good. Come and get me, fairy boys.

Something moved in the dust haze. It was immediately obvious to Butler that the something wasn’t human. The manservant had been on too many safaris not to recognize an animal when he saw it. He studied the creature’s gait.

Possibly simian. Similar upper body structure to an ape, but bigger than any primate Butler had ever seen. If it was an ape, then his handgun wasn’t going to be of much use. You could put five rounds in the skull of a bull ape and he’d still have time to eat you before his brain realized he was dead.

But it wasn’t an ape. Apes didn’t have night eyes. This creature did. Glowing crimson pupils, half-hidden behind shaggy forelocks. Tusks too, but not elephantine. These were curved, with serrated edges. Gutting weapons. Butler felt a tingle low in his stomach. He’d had the feeling once before. On his first day at the Swiss academy. It was fear.

The creature stepped clear of the dust haze. Butler gasped. Again, his first since the academy. This was like no adversary he’d ever faced before. The manservant realized instantly what the fairies had done. They had sent in a primal hunter. A creature with no interest in magic or rules. A thing that would simply kill anything in its way, regardless of species. This was the perfect predator. That much was clear from the meat-ripping points on its teeth, from the dried gore crusted beneath its claws, and from the distilled hatred spilling from its eyes.

The troll shambled forward, squinting through the chandelier light. Yellowed claws scraped along the marble tiling, throwing up sparks in their wake. It was sniffing now, snorting curious breaths, head cocked to one side.

Butler had seen that pose before—on the snouts of starved pit bulls, just before their Russian handlers set them loose on a bear hunt.

The shaggy head froze, its snout pointed directly at Butler’s hiding place. It was no coincidence. The manservant peeked out between the chain-mail fingers of a gauntlet. Now came the stalk. Once a scent had been acquired, the predator would attempt a slow silent approach, before the lightning strike.

But apparently the troll had not read the predator’s handbook, because it didn’t bother with the stealth approach, jumping directly to the lightning strike. Moving faster than Butler would have believed possible, the troll sprang across the lobby, brushing the medieval armor aside as though it were a shop mannequin.

Juliet blinked. “Ooh,” she gasped. “It’s Bigfoot Bob. Canadian champion 1998. I thought you were in the Andes, looking for your relatives.”

Butler didn’t bother to correct her. His sister wasn’t lucid. At least she would die happy. While his brain was contemplating this morbid observation, Butler’s gun hand was coming up.

He squeezed the trigger as rapidly as the Sig Sauer’s mechanism would allow. Two in the chest, three between the eyes. That was the plan. He got the chest shots in, but the troll interfered before Butler could complete the formation. The interference took the form of scything tusks that ducked below Butler’s guard. They coiled around his trunk, slicing through his Kevlar reinforced jacket like a razor through rice paper.

Butler felt a cold pain as the serrated ivory pierced his chest. He knew immediately that the wound was fatal. His breath came hard. That was a lung gone, and gouts of blood were matting the troll’s fur. His blood. No one could lose that amount and live. Nevertheless, the pain was instantly replaced by a curious euphoria. Some form of natural anesthetic injected through channels in the beast’s tusks. More dangerous than the deadliest poison. In minutes Butler would not only stop struggling, but go giggling to his grave.

The manservant fought against the narcotics in his system, struggling furiously in the troll’s grip. But it was no use. His fight was over almost before it had begun.

The troll grunted, flipping the limp human body over his head. Butler’s burly frame collided with the wall at a speed human bones were never meant to withstand. The bricks cracked from floor to ceiling. Butler’s spine went too. Now, even if the blood loss didn’t get him, paralysis would.

Juliet was still enthralled by the mesmer.

“Come on, brother. Get off the canvas. We all know you’re faking.”

The troll paused, some basic curiosity piqued by the lack of fear. He would have suspected a trick, if he could have formulated such a complicated thought. But in the end, appetite won out. This creature smelled flesh. Fresh and tender. Flesh from above ground was different. Laced with surface smells. Once you’ve had open-air meat, it’s hard to go back. The troll ran a tongue over his incisors and reached out a shaggy hand....

Holly tucked the Hummingbirds close to her torso, dropping into a controlled dive. She skimmed the banisters, emerging into the portico below a stained-glass dome. The time-stop light filtered unnaturally, splitting into thick azure shafts.

Light, thought Holly. The helmet high-beams worked before, there was no reason why they wouldn’t work again. It was too late for the male, he was a bag of broken bones. But the female, she still had a few seconds left before the troll split her open.

Holly spiraled down through the faux light, searching her helmet console for the Sonix button. Sonix was generally used on canines, but in this case it might provide a moment’s distraction. Enough to get her to ground level.

The troll was reaching in toward Juliet underhand. It was a move generally reserved for the defenseless. The claws would curl in below the ribs, rupturing the heart. Minimu

m damage to the flesh and no last-minute tension to toughen the meat.

Holly activated her Sonix... and nothing happened. Not good. Generally your average troll would be at the very least irritated by the ultra-high-frequency tone. But this particular beast didn’t even shake his shaggy head. There were a couple of possibilities: one, the helmet was malfunctioning; two, this troll was deaf as the proverbial post. Unfortunately, Holly had no way of knowing as the tones were inaudible to fairy ears.

Whatever the problem, it forced Holly to adopt a strategy she would rather not have resorted to. Direct contact. All to save a human’s life. She’d gone section eight. Without a doubt.

Holly jerked the throttle, straight from fourth to reverse. Not very good for the gears. She’d get a dressing-down from the mechanics for that, in the unlikely event she actually survived this never-ending nightmare. The effect of this gear-crunching was to flip her around in midair, so that her boot heels were pointed directly at the troll’s head. Holly winced. Two entanglements with the same troll. Unbelievable.

Her heels caught the beast square on the crown of its head. At that speed, there was at least half a ton of G-force behind the contact. Only the reinforced ribbing in her suit prevented Holly’s leg bones from shattering. Even so, she heard her knee pop. The pain clawed its way to her forehead. Ruined her recovery maneuver too. Instead of repelling herself to a safe altitude, Holly crumpled onto the troll’s back, becoming instantly entangled in the ropy fur.

The troll was suitably annoyed. Not only had something distracted it from dinner, but now that something was nestled in its fur, along with the cleaner slugs. The beast straightened, reaching a clawed hand over its own shoulder. The curved nails raked Holly’s helmet, scoring parallel grooves in the alloy. Juliet was safe for the moment, but Holly had taken her place on the endangered-individuals list.

The troll squeezed tighter, somehow securing a grip on the helmet’s anti-friction coating, which, according to Foaly, was impossible to grip. Serious words would be had. If not in this life, then definitely the next.

Captain Short found herself being hoisted aloft to face her old enemy. Holly struggled to concentrate through the pain and confusion. Her leg was swinging like a pendulum, and the troll’s breath was breaking over her face in rancid waves.

There had been a plan, hadn’t there? Surely she didn’t fly down here just to curl up and die. There must have been a strategy. All those years in the Academy must have taught her something. Whatever her plan had been, it floated just out of reach somewhere between pain and shock. Out of reach.

“The lights, Holly...”

A voice in her head. Probably talking to herself. An out-of-head experience. Ha ha. She must remember to tell Foaly about this... Foaly?

“Hit the lights, Holly. If those tusks get to work, you’ll be dead before the magic can kick in.”

“Foaly? Is that you?” Holly may have said this aloud, or she may just have thought it. She wasn’t sure.

“The tunnel high beams, Captain!” A different voice. Not so cuddly. “Hit the button now! That’s an order!”

Oops. It was Root. She was falling down on the job again. First Hamburg, then Martina Franca, now this.

“Yessir,” she mumbled, trying to sound professional.

“Press it! Now, Captain Short!”

Holly looked the troll straight in its merciless eyes and pressed the button. Very melodramatic. Or it would have been, if the lights had worked. Unfortunately for Holly, in her haste she’d grabbed one of the helmets cannibalized by Artemis Fowl. Hence no Sonix, no filters, and no tunnel beams. The halogen bulbs were still installed, but the wires had come loose during Artemis’s investigations.

“Oh, dear,” breathed Holly.

“Oh, dear?” barked Root. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The beams are off-line,” explained Foaly.

“Oh...” Root’s voice trailed off. What more was there to say?

Holly squinted at the troll. If you didn’t know trolls were dumb animals, you’d swear the beast was grinning. Standing there with blood dripping from various chest wounds, grinning. Captain Short didn’t like being grinned at.

“Laugh this off,” she said, and butted the troll with the only weapon available to her. Her helmeted head.

Valiant undoubtedly, but about as effective as trying to cut down a tree with a feather. Luckily, the ill-advised blow had a side effect. For a split second, two strands of conductor filament connected, sending power flooding to one of the tunnel beams. Four hundred watts of white light blasted through the troll’s crimson eyes, dispatching lightning rods of agony to the brain.

“Heh heh,” mumbled Holly, in the second before the troll convulsed involuntarily. Its spasms sent her spinning across the parquet floor, leg jittering along behind her.

The wall was approaching at an alarming speed. Maybe, thought Holly hopefully, this will be one of those impacts where you don’t feel any pain until later. No, replied her pessimistic side, afraid not. She slammed into a Norman narrative tapestry, bringing it tumbling down on top of her. Pain was immediate and overwhelming.

“Ooof,” grunted Foaly. “I felt that. Visuals are shot. Pain sensors went right off the scale. Your lungs are busted, Captain. We’re going to lose you for a while. But don’t worry, Holly, your magic should be kicking in already.”

Holly felt the blue tingle of magic scurrying to her various injuries. Thank the gods for acorns. But it was too little too late. The pain was way beyond her threshold. Just before unconsciousness claimed her, Holly’s hand flopped from beneath the tapestry. It landed on Butler’s arm, touching the bare skin. Amazingly, the human wasn’t dead. A dogged pulse forced the blood through smashed limbs.

Heal, thought Holly. And the magic scurried down her fingers.

The troll faced a dilemma—which female to eat first. Choices, choices. This decision was not made any easier by the lingering agony buzzing around its shaggy head, or the cluster of bullets lodged in the fatty chest tissue. Eventually it settled on the surface dweller. Soft human meat. No dense fairy muscle to chew through.

The beast squatted low, tilting the girl’s chin with one yellowed talon. A pulsing jugular looped lazily down the length of her neck. The heart or the neck? the troll wondered. The neck, it was closer. It turned the talon sideways, so that the edge pressed against soft human flesh. One sharp swipe and the girl’s own heartbeat would drive the blood from her body.

Butler woke up, which was a surprise in itself. He knew immediately that he was alive, because of the searing pain permeating every cubic centimeter of his body. This was not good. Alive he may have been, but considering the fact that his neck had a one-eighty twist on it, he’d never so much as walk the dog again, not to mention rescue his sister.

The manservant twiddled his fingers. Hurt like hell, but at least there was movement. It was amazing that he had any motor functions at all, considering the trauma his spinal column had suffered. His toes seemed all right too, but that could have been phantom response, given that he couldn’t actually see them.

The bleeding from his chest wound appeared to have stopped and he was thinking straight. All in all, he was in much better shape than he had any right to be. What in heaven’s name was going on here?

Butler noticed something. There were blue sparks dancing along his torso. He must be hallucinating, creating pleasant images to distract himself from the inevitable. A very realistic hallucination, it must be said.

The sparks congregated at trauma points, sinking into the skin. Butler shuddered. This was no hallucination. Something extraordinary was happening here. Magical.

Magic? That rang a bell in his recently reassembled cranium. Fairy magic. Something was healing his wounds. He twisted his head, wincing at the grate of sliding vertebrae. There was a hand resting on his forearm. Sparks flowed from the slim elfin fingers, intuitively targeting bruises, breaks, or ruptures. There were a lot of injuries to be dealt with, but

the tiny sparks handled it all quickly and effectively. Like an army of mystical beavers repairing storm damage.

Butler could actually feel his bones knitting and the blood retreating from semicongealed scabs. His head twisted involuntarily as his vertebrae slid into their niches, and strength returned in a rush as magic reproduced the three liters of blood lost through his chest wound.

Butler jumped to his feet—actually jumped. He was himself again. No. It was more than that. He was as strong as he had ever been. Strong enough to have another crack at that beast hunkered over his baby sister.

He felt his rejuvenated heart speed up like the stroke of an outboard motor. Calm, Butler told himself. Passion is the enemy of efficiency. But calm or no, the situation was desperate. This beast had already effectively killed him once, and this time he didn’t even have the Sig Sauer. His own skills aside, it would be nice to have a weapon. Something with a bit of weight to it. His boot clinked on a metallic object. Butler glanced down at the debris strewn in the troll’s wake.... Perfect.

There was nothing but snow on the view screen.

“Come on,” urged Root. “Hurry up!”

Foaly elbowed past his superior.

“Maybe if you didn’t insist on blocking all the circuit boards.”

Root shuffled out of the way grudgingly. In his mind it was the circuit board’s fault for being behind him. The centaur’s head disappeared into an access panel.

“Anything?”

“Nothing. Just interference.”

Root slapped the screen. Not a good idea. First, because there was not one chance in a million that it could actually help, and second, because plasma screens grow extremely hot after prolonged use.

“D’Arvit!”

“Don’t touch that screen, by the way.”

“Oh, ha ha. We have time for jokes now, do we?”

“No, actually. Anything?”

The snow settled into recognizable shapes.

“That’s it, hold it there. We’ve got a signal.”

“I’ve activated the secondary camera. Plain old video, I’m afraid, but it’ll have to do.”

Root didn’t comment. He was watching the screen. This must be a movie. It couldn’t be real life.

“So what’s going on in there? Anything interesting?”

Root tried to answer, but his soldier’s vocabulary just didn’t have the superlatives.

“What? What is it?”

The commander made an attempt. “It’s... the human... I’ve never... Oh, forget it, Foaly. You’re going to have to see this for yourself.”

* * *

Holly watched the entire episode through a gap in the tapestry folds. If she hadn’t seen it, she wouldn’t have believed it. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d reviewed the video for her report that she was certain the whole thing wasn’t a hallucination brought on by a near-death experience. As it was, the video sequence became something of a legend, initially doing the rounds on the Amateur Home Movies cable shows and ending up on the LEP Academy Hand-to-Hand curriculum.

The human, Butler, was strapping on a medieval suit of armor. Incredible as it seemed, he apparently intended going toe-to-toe with the troll. Holly tried to warn him, tried to make some sound, but the magic hadn’t yet reinflated her crushed lungs.

Butler closed his visor, hefting a vicious mace.

“Now,” he grunted through the grille. “I’ll show you what happens when someone lays a hand on my sister.”

The human twirled the mace as though it were a cheerleader’s baton, ramming it home between the troll’s shoulder blades. A blow like that, while not fatal, certainly distracted the troll from its intended victim.

Butler planted his foot just above the creature’s haunches and tugged the weapon free. It relinquished its grip with a sickly sucking sound. He skipped backward, settling into a defensive stance.

The troll rounded on him, all ten talons sliding out to their full extent. Drops of venom glistened from the tip of each tusk. Playtime was over. But there would be no lightning strike this time. The beast was wary, it had been hurt. This latest attacker would be afforded the same respect as another male of the species. As far as the troll was concerned, his territory was being encroached on. And there was only one way of solving a dispute of this nature. The same way that trolls solved every dispute....

“I must warn you,” said Butler, straight-faced. “I am armed and prepared to use deadly force if necessary.”

Holly would have groaned if she could. Banter! The human was trying to engage a troll in macho repartee! Then Captain Short realized her mistake. The words weren’t important, it was the tone he employed. Calm, soothing. Like a trainer with a spooked unicorn.

“Step away from the female. Easy, now.”

The troll ballooned its cheeks and howled. Scare tactics. Testing the waters. Butler didn’t flinch.

“Yeah, yeah. Real scary. Now just back out of the door and I won’t have to cut you into little pieces.”

The troll snorted, miffed by this reaction. Generally his roar sent whatever creature was facing it scurrying down the tunnel.

“One step at a time. Nice and slow. Easy there, big fellow.”

You could almost see it in the troll’s eyes. A flicker of uncertainty. Maybe this human was...

And that was when Butler struck. He danced under the tusks, hammering home a devastating uppercut with his medieval weapon. The troll staggered backward, talons flailing wildly. But it was too late—Butler had stepped out of reach, scooting across to the other side of the corridor.

The troll lumbered after him, spitting dislodged teeth from pulped gums. Butler sank to his knees, sliding and turning, the polished floor bearing him like an ice-skater. He ducked and pirouetted, facing his pursuer.

“Guess what I found?” he said, raising the Sig Sauer.

No chest shots this time. Butler laid in the rest of the automatic’s clip in a ten-centimeter diameter between the troll’s eyes. Unfortunately for Butler, due to millennia spent butting each other, trolls have developed a thick ridge of bone covering their brows. So his textbook spread failed to penetrate the skull, in spite of the Teflon-coated load.

However, ten Devastator slugs can’t be ignored by any creature on the planet, and the troll was no exception. The bullets beat a sledgehammer tattoo on its cranium, causing instant concussion. The animal staggered backward, slapping at its own forehead. Butler was after it in a heartbeat, pinning one shaggy foot beneath the mace spikes.

The troll was concussed, blinded by blood, and lame. A normal person would feel a shard of remorse, but not Butler. He’d seen too many men gored by injured animals.

Now was the dangerous time. It was no time for mercy, it was time to terminate with extreme prejudice.

Holly could only watch helplessly as the human took careful aim and delivered a series of crippling blows to the stricken creature. First he took out the tendons, bringing the troll to its knees, then he abandoned the mace and went to work with gauntleted hands, perhaps deadlier than the mace had been. The unfortunate troll fought back pathetically, even managing to land a few glancing blows. But they failed to penetrate the antique armor. Meanwhile Butler toiled like a surgeon. Working on the assumption that the troll and human physiques were basically the same, he rained blow after blow on the dumb creature, reducing it to a heap of quivering fur in so many seconds. It was pitiful to watch. And the manservant wasn’t finished yet. He stripped off the bloodied gauntlets, loading a fresh clip into the handgun.

“Let’s see how much bone you have under your chin.”

“No,” gasped Holly, with the first breath in her body. “Don’t.”

Butler ignored her, jamming the barrel beneath the troll’s jaw.

“Don’t do it.... You owe me.”

Butler paused. Juliet was alive, it was true. Confused certainly, but alive. He thumbed the hammer on his pistol. Every brain cell in his head screamed for him to pull the trigger. But Juliet was alive.

“You owe me, human.” Butler sighed. He’d regret this later. “Very well, Captain. The beast lives to fight another day. Lucky for him, I’m in a good mood.” Holly made a noise. It was somewhere between a whimper and a chuckle. “Now let’s get rid of our hairy friend.” Butler rolled the unconscious troll on to an armored

trolley, dragging it to the devastated doorway. With a huge heave, he jettisoned the lot into the suspended night. “And don’t come back,” he shouted.

“Amazing,” said Root. “Tell me about it,” agreed Foaly.