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One minute, Artemis is dangling by his wrists in the subterranean lair of his latest so-called mortal enemy. The next, he’s been magically teleported to his private study in the Fowl Manor basement.
“D’arvit,” he sighs.
There’s a patter of footsteps overhead, accompanied by reedy shouts of “Da! Daaa!”
Artemis glances down at the desk he leans against, nowhere near as ordered as he’d left it. His papers have been strewn across its surface, more across the floor. Two safety deposit boxes are hanging open, and one of his private diaries is anchored flat by a forgotten mug of tea.
“D’arvit,” he sighs again, heavier this time. And then the footsteps have reached the stairs, and a boy is racing down into the study.
Artemis dreads learning what’s happened in his absence. He despises being pulled out of the field before a job is done. But he cannot be entirely mad, not when it’s his son who barrels into him with the force of a troll.
“I did it,” says Artemis the Third, after they’ve detangled themselves from their hug. “I saved you! With help from my new friend.”
He is so very proud as he sweeps his arm wide to indicate the fairy waiting at the bottom of the steps. His father raises his eyebrows at the sight of the officer.
“This is Holly Short,” introduces the boy.
The elf winks.
“Daughter of Beechwood Short!”
Artemis’s eyebrows drop again in confusion. Over his son’s head, he mouths, “Who?” And when the boy turns back to his father, the elf mouths back, “I’ll explain later.”
Once upon a time, a twelve year old Artemis the Second had stood in the wreckage of his front hall and smoothly lied to his mother about the cause. Now, nearly two decades older, he regards the re-destroyed hall as his son regales him with a dramatic and highly unlikely tale to explain the mess.
“And then the troll just--whoosh, kablam! Right over there! And there were explosions, and--and magic and--oh! And a time stop!”
Artemis glances sharply at Holly. “A time stop?”
She grimaces. “Not exactly.”
There isn’t time to clarify. The boy is now racing up alarmingly unstable steps with zero sense of self-preservation in order to re-enact a part of the great action sequence in his mind. He makes it halfway before one of the steps gives out with a crack and sends him plummeting--luckily, Holly is already in the air to catch him.
“Wow, thanks,” he enthuses as she sets him down, and holds out a hand for a fistbump. “Friends forever!”
She can’t entirely hide her smile. “Friends forever,” she echoes, and returns the fistbump.
“Friends forever,” Artemis echoes wryly under his breath as they follow his son towards the kitchen.
Holly punches his arm. “Shut up.”
“And it was basically over!” exclaims the boy. “There was no magic, and no more weapons, and no more plans--” (Artemis, who hasn’t heard a single plan thus far, bites his tongue) “--and then Domovoi died!”
Artemis looks at the empty chair his son is indicating and then to Butler, who is standing at the side of the room as unobtrusively as a man the size of a mountain could ever be. With a straight face, Butler rumbles, “I got better.”
The rest of the story--or at least, Artemis the Third’s version of the story--comes out in choppy bits and pieces:
"And Domovoi was out in the field in like, full camo! Just waiting for a fairy to show up. Hiding behind, like, a newspaper and everything."
...
"And then she was stuck in the chandelier!"
“Pretty sure I was actually--nevermind.”
...
"And the person on the other end of the phone was Opal ."
Artemis, who had literally been in the same room as the person on the other end of that call, raises an eyebrow. "Huh, really. Did she tell you that was her name?"
"No, but it had to be!"
"In his defense,” adds Holly in a low voice, “Opal's turned up in more implausible places."
It’s a point Artemis sadly has to concede.
The boy’s grand tour has ended on the balcony overlooking the ocean. Beaming, he finishes with his boldest declaration yet: “I’m a real criminal mastermind! Just like you, Da!”
Artemis isn’t sure anything from his son’s story includes criminal activities or masterminding, but all he says is an indulgent, “You sure are. Now how about you go mastermind us some snacks while I get to know your new fairy friend, here.”
“Sure thing, Da!” the boy agrees with an alarmingly exuberant thumb-up before darting back into the house.
There is a moment of blissful silence on the balcony.
Then: “You weren’t really captured by Opal.”
Artemis shudders. “I should hope not. First, that wasn’t Opal at all. Second, I was only playing prisoner until I could get what I wanted. Come on, you know me better than that.” He reaches to adjust his tie before remembering he lost it somewhere far below the Earth’s surface. “You messed up my plan, actually. I don’t think it’ll be very believable if I get myself captured a second time.”
“Depends. Are they goblins?”
He rolls his eyes. “I wish. New topic: please tell me you tested Foaly’s teleport device before using it on me back there.”
Holly says nothing.
“Because I know it had only been used on mice last time I checked, and I’m a lot more complicated than a mouse, Holly.”
She’s never been good at maintaining a defensive silence. “You’re fine, aren’t you? It worked! Besides, No1 said the magic he juiced it with works on the same principles as a time jump, and those--”
“Didn’t exactly leave us unchanged?”
She makes a face. “Anyway, it was an emergency. Your kid is a disaster, Fowl. He sucks at this.”
Artemis looks towards the house. Through the window, he can see his son bounding around the kitchen with his usual endless energy. “I think he’s just… actually twelve.”
She follows his gaze. After a contemplative pause, she says, “I’d forgotten most twelve year olds aren’t… you know…”
“Actual criminal masterminds?”
“Is it a good idea to let him call himself a criminal mastermind? Aren’t you afraid that might… send him down the wrong path?”
“To be perfectly honest, Holly, I don’t think he has any idea what a criminal mastermind actually is. I think he equates the term with being a superhero.”
“Is… that any better?”
Artemis sighs. “Probably not.”
Their contemplation of this moral quandary is cut short by the sound of a small electric explosion from the kitchen. Half a second later, Artemis the Third is cracking the window to let out a cloud of black smoke. “It’s okay,” he calls with a cheerful wave, “Just the microwave! Everything’s fine!”
He disappears back inside. When Holly looks up at her oldest human friend, she is surprised to see a rare expression of defeat. “That’s the third microwave in two months.”
“That reminds me,” says Holly, “You need to have a chat with him about waving around plasma weaponry. I swear he almost took my head off.”
“He’s so athletic,” sighs Artemis, “You’d think he’d be better with weapons, at the least.”
By the time they make it back into the kitchen, the smoke has mostly dissipated. On the counter is a plate of blackened...something.
“Maybe he is your son, after all,” quips Holly, before looking around. “Where did he go?”
In answer, Artemis the Third pokes his head out from under the table. “I’m planning our next mission!” he proclaims, waving around a book that the older Artemis recognizes as another of his diaries.
Artemis waits until his son disappears again before pulling Holly to the side. “Here’s the plan. We are going to set up a fun little mission flight course for him, pat him on the back, tuck him into bed, and then go back to dealing with the actual problem I was working on.”
“Flight course?”
“I’ve been teaching him the controls in the helicopter.”
She gives him a hard look. “If you think I am going inside a flying craft with that kid, think again.”
“We’ll do a pass over the coast, maybe check on the nearest leviathan.”
“Actually,” says Holly, somewhat reluctantly, “We should probably go find Mulch. He’s been running interference with MI6 for the past three hours or so.”
Artemis freezes. “What.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Interference. With MI6. Mulch is with MI6.”
Holly winces. “You know him. If things get hairy, he’ll just show off his dwarf talents.”
Both take a minute to contemplate this scenario. And then:
“We should hurry.”
“Right behind you.”
“Artemis, buddy, time for your mission! Let’s go!”
It’s sunset over Fowl Manor as the family helicopter rises, somewhat shakily, from its pad. Inside, Artemis the Third beams as he manipulates the controls. Beside him is Butler, ready to jump in should (or when) things go wrong. In the backseat, Artemis the Second looks out the window over his family’s estate. He sees the tell-tale shimmer of a shielded fairy flying a safe distance from the craft. Sees the rubble of his front hall strewn out across the drive, and makes a mental note to review the security footage and learn what actually occurred as soon as he has a minute to himself. And he sees the lighthouse, a personal architectural project of his from several years before, as it looms close--
“Up!” he shouts, “Pull up!”
His son pulls up. The left landing skid barely clips the lighthouse roof, knocking loose a tile that is caught by an invisible hand.
Artemis doesn’t need to see her to know that his forever friend is laughing.