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Artemis Fowl the Second was dead.
He had to be. The explosion would have killed any human. So why was he standing in a waiting room?
He did the only logical thing.
He walked up to the desk.
‘Hello. My name is Artemis Fowl the Second and I would quite like to know what I’m doing here,’ he told the receptionist.
The receptionist looked at him with tortoise-shell rimmed reflected sunglasses. He wore an Italian suit, with bleach-blonde hair shaved close to the scalp and sunbed-tanned skin. He was tall and elegant, with a black lapel pinned to his suit. Underneath was pinned a nametag labelled “Charon”.
‘As do we all, mate,’ he said with a not-quite-London accent. ‘You say your name’s Artemis?’
Artemis nodded silently, biting back a snarky remark. Despite popular belief, he was polite… most of the time.
‘Oh, the Lady wouldn’t like that.’ Charon laughed and leaned back in his chair. ‘Now, what do you want?’
Artemis resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I would like to know where I am and why I am here.’
Charon laughed again, and Artemis felt mocked. He was missing something, but what? The genius had never missed a beat in his life, always staying one step ahead of everyone else.
‘You’re in the waiting room of the dead. The Underworld.’ He put an unnecessary amount of emphasis on the word “underworld”. ‘As for why you’re here, well, you look like a smart lad. Why don’t you tell me?’
The words hit Artemis like a punch to the gut. So his plan had worked, then. Opal Koboi was dead, and so was he. However, his soul should have stayed where it was, not gone wandering off to the great beyond. His last plan and it had failed. That stung.
The receptionist laughed. He must have been making a face.
‘You look like you’ve been sucking lemons,’ he said. ‘You got any money?’
Artemis stared at him.
‘For the ferry, mate? Nah, don’t suppose you have. Most kids don’t,’ Charon sighed. ‘You go sit over there and wait.’
He processed this information. The Underworld. So there was an afterlife. As for Charon, and a ferry; from his research into Ancient Greek mythology, that would be the way to Asphodel and Elysium – or the Field of Punishment. Artemis needed time to think. Thoroughly chastised, he went and sat down.
He didn’t know how long he was there for.
Time was difficult in a place filled with the dead. For all he knew, it could be decades since his death. Or only a few moments.
He’d thought through everything. Unfortunately, his brain was failing him just when he needed it most. He had no idea how to get back to the land of the living. Every plan which had formed in his brain was dramatically flawed.
He didn’t know how to escape the waiting room of the dead, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know where he’d end up. He didn’t know what condition his body would be in – even if he did return to it. Perhaps he would remain a spirit for eternity. At least he’d be able to fly, probably. Think, Artemis, think, he thought. Use that big brain of yours.
Nothing came to mind.
Maybe when he died he’d lost some of his brain cells. He suspected the impact of the explosion would have knocked him backwards for at least a yard, which meant a bone-shattering landing if he hadn’t already been blown apart by the sheer velocity. Actually, on second thoughts, that was a small exaggeration. Maybe he would have only broken his neck. And ribs. And –
‘Charon!’
Artemis’ head shot up at the yell from the corridor where the ferry was located at the end. He seemed to be the only one who bothered to look at all. Perhaps this was a daily occurrence?
A boy, about his age, was marching down the corridor towards the reception desk. His skin was somewhere between unnaturally pale and olive – like he had bleached a natural tan. His face was well-defined and his raven coloured hair was growing out of a recent cut (which was jagged, making Artemis think he’d got someone inexperienced to do it). He was wearing a battered pair of black converse and worn black jeans, which were ripped in a way that suggested they weren’t like that when he’d brought them. His bright orange t-shirt was faded and on the verge of being too small for him, and bore the words “Camp Half-Blood” in black ink on the front. He had a silver skull stud in his left ear and a black checked shirt tied around his waist.
He also had a pitch black sword strapped to his back.
Charon looked up from the stack of drachmas he’d been counting with an alarmed look that only one who had been doing something against the rules would pull. He suddenly stood up straight and placed his hands behind his back.
The boy raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He only stood there, seemingly waiting for an explanation.
‘My lord,’ Charon said, with only a hint of a wobble in his voice. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
He said it in a way that Artemis was used to being spoken to. With fear and a hint of respect. It was always like he was being addressed like royalty.
‘My father received a visitor earlier on today,’ the boy said. ‘He claimed his name was Gerald Croft. The council had sent him to my father because of his message.’ The boy paused for dramatic effect ‘From you.’
Charon apparently found his shoes very interesting. The boy picked up the stack of drachmas from the desk, thumbing over them as he weighed them in his hand.
Charon grimaced. ‘These suits don’t come cheap, you know.’
‘I know,’ the boy stated. ‘Will thought it was funny to dress me up in one for Percy’s wedding.’
The boy met Charon’s eyes and fixed him with a piercing stare.
‘My father won’t be happy if you ask again, Charon,’ the boy spoke as if he were on Charon’s side, which Artemis seriously doubted. ‘Already, you asked for a rise, less than ten years ago, and you remember how well that went down.’
‘You would have thought, with over three thousand years of experience…’ Charon muttered.
‘Three millennia is a blink of an eye for the dead, let alone a god,’ The boy said quietly.
Charon nodded, resigned.
‘I trust you won’t ask again before I’m six feet under,’ he continued, and closed his hand around the drachmas.
Charon didn’t do anything as the boy began to walk back out of the room. But then, the boy paused suddenly and turned on his heel. He scanned the spirits waiting for eternity as if he was looking for someone. Eventually, his eyes landed on Artemis. He frowned and muttered something under his breath which he couldn’t quite make out. Then he approached the young aristocrat slowly, silently, with a look on his face that Artemis could tell was calculating. Calculating him, might he add. But there was something else that flickered in the boy’s eyes that unsettled Artemis. It was like he recognised something about him, some that told him he didn’t belong here.
‘Who are you?’ the boy asked, quite simply.
Artemis pulled himself together before answering. ‘My name is Artemis Fowl.’
The boy raised both his eyebrows. ‘She won’t like that.’
‘So I’ve been informed,’ he said drily.
The boy smirked a little, as if he found what Artemis had said amusing. He held out his hand, and Artemis took it.
‘Pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m Nico di Angelo.’
‘Son of Hades?’ he asked.
Nico looked taken aback. Artemis sent him one of his signature smiles (the vampire one).
‘Put it this way,’ Artemis said as he dropped Nico’s hand. ‘I’m a genius.’
Nico seemingly recovered himself and stood up a little straighter. ‘So, how come you’re dead?’
He said it in a way which, on the surface, sounded friendly. But there was a hint of malice. Artemis had offended this ‘prince’.
‘An explosion,’ he said.
‘Targeted?’
‘I triggered it. Intentionally.’
‘So, a suicide?’ Nico didn’t miss a beat.
‘A sacrifice.’
Nico looked unimpressed. ‘A sacrifice.’
‘To stop a megalomaniac.’
‘How noble.’
Artemis paused for a fraction of a second too long. The corners of Nico’s lips jerked up a little in a small victory smirk. He really had lost some brain cells.
‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Artemis,’ Nico said.
He turned on his heel, just as a tingling sensation rose from Artemis’ feet, like pins and needles, up his legs. He looked down sharply as the feeling climbed rapidly up his person. His feet were disappearing. He yelped slightly as he jumped up, watching his right thigh disappear.
Nico span quickly as watched with his mouth open as Artemis’ legs, then torso, then arms disappeared and his head began to rise in the air. It was a sight even Nico di Angelo hadn’t seen before. Artemis’ head slowly began to disintegrate, and the particles sped upwards through the ceiling. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost consciousness (whether he’d had it in the first place was another matter entirely), and as the remains of his head disappeared, he left a gaping Nico and Charon in an indifferent waiting room.
Nico stood still for a few seconds. His mouth was hanging open. As he slowly processed what he’d just witnessed, he sighed.
‘This is going to be so much paperwork,’ he muttered.