Holly paled. “You mean Artemis is . . .”
“No, no. Artemis is home in bed. We’ve pulled a satellite out of orbit to keep twenty-four/seven watch on him.”
“How is this possible?”
Foaly said nothing, so Vinyáya answered the question.“I’ll take this one, because Foaly doesn’t like saying the words.
We don’t know, Holly. This affair leaves a lot of important uestions unanswered. That’s where you come in.”
“How? I don’t know anything about demons.”
Vinyáya nodded craftily. “Yes, but you know a lot about Artemis Fowl. I believe you keep in touch.”
Holly shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t say we really . . .”
Foaly cleared his throat, then called up an audio file on the system.
“Hey, Artemis,” said a recording of Holly’s voice. “I’ve got a little problem you might be able to help me with.”
“Happy to help, Holly,” said Artemis’s voice. “Something difficult, I hope.”
“Well, there’s this pixie I’m after, but he’s a fast one.”
Foaly switched off the file. “I think we can say you’re in contact.”
Holly smiled sheepishly, hoping nobody would ask who gave Artemis a fairy communicator.
“Okay, I call from time to time. Just to keep an eye on him. For the greater good.”
“Whatever your reasons,”said Vinyáya,“we need you to contact him again. Go to the surface and find out how he can predict demon appearances so accurately. According to Foaly’s calculations, there isn’t a demon appearance due for six weeks, but we would like to know where exactly it’s going to be.”
Holly took her time to think about this.
“In what capacity would I be contacting Artemis?”
“Full captain, your old rank. Of course, now you’d be working for Section Eight. Everything you do for us would be hush-hush.”
“A spy?”
“A spy, but with excellent overtime and medical insurance.”
Holly jerked a thumb at Mulch. “What about my partner?”
The dwarf jumped to his feet. “I don’t want to be a spy. Far too dangerous.” He winked slyly at Foaly. “But I could be a consultant, for a fee.”
Vinyáya scowled. “We’re not prepared to grant Diggums a surface visa.”
Mulch shrugged. “Good. I don’t like the surface. It’s too close to the sun and I have sensitive skin.”
“But we
are
prepared to compensate him for loss of earnings.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to put on the uniform again,” said Holly. “I like working with Mulch.”
“Let’s call this mission a probationary term. Do this one for us. See if you like the way we operate.”
Holly mulled it over. “What color is the uniform?”
Vinyáya smiled. “Matte black.”
“Okay,” said Holly. “I’m in.”
Foaly hugged her again. “I knew you’d do it. I knew it. Holly Short cannot resist adventure. I told them.”
Vinyáya saluted stiffly. “Welcome on board, Captain Short. Foaly will complete your briefing and get you set up. I expect you to make contact with the subject as soon as possible.”
Holly returned the salute. “Yes, Commander. Thank you, Commander.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a debriefing with a pixie we’ve managed to place inside the goblin triads. He has been wearing a scale suit for six months, and he’s having a bit of an identity crisis.”
Vinyáya left, her silver mane rippling behind her. The automatic doors closed with barely a whisper.
Foaly dragged Holly from her seat.
“I have so much to show you,” he babbled excitedly. “The fairies here are nice, but a bit on the square side. Sure they ooh and aah, but no one appreciates me like you do. We have our own shuttle port, you know. And field equipment! You are not going to believe the spec. Wait until you see the new Shimmer Suits. And the helmet! Holly, this thing comes home on its own. I built in a series of mini-thrusters into the skin. It can’t fly, but it can bounce and roll. The thing is beyond genius.”
Mulch covered his ears. “Same old Foaly. Modest to a fault.”
Foaly aimed a kick at Mulch, pulling it at the last second.
“Keep it up, Diggums. I could snap at any moment. I am half beast, remember.”
Mulch moved the hoof away from his face with a finger. “I can’t help it,” he whined. “All this melodrama. Someone has to poke fun.”
Foaly turned once more to his precious wall screen. He selected and enlarged an artist’s impression of the island of Hybras.
“I know this all sounds very cloak-and-dagger, and I know you think I’m making an anaconda out of a stink worm. But believe me, somewhere on that island there is an unsuspecting demon who is about to take a reluctant visit to Earth and make life very difficult for us.”
Holly stepped close to the screen. Where was that reluctant demon? she wondered. And did he have any idea that he was about to be snatched from his own dimension and propelled into another?
As it happened, Holly’s questions were inaccurate on two counts. Firstly, the demon in question was not actually a demon, he was just an imp. And secondly, the
imp
in question was anything but reluctant. In fact, visiting Earth was his dearest wish.
CHAPTER 3
One night, Imp N
o
1 dreamed he was a demon. He dreamed his horns were curved and pointed. His hide was coarse and armored, and his talons were sharp enough to rip the hide from a wild boar’s back. He dreamed the other demons cowered before him, then scurried away lest he injure them while in the throes of his battle spasms.
That night he dreamed this magnificent dream, then awoke to find he was still merely an imp. Of course, technically he did not have this dream at night. The sky over Hybras is forever tinged with the red glow of dawn. But N
o
1 thought of his rest period as night, even though he’d never seen one.
Imp N
o
1 dressed quickly and rushed into the hallway to check his reflection in the lodge mirror, just in case he
had
warped in his sleep. But there was no change. Still the same unimpressive figure as usual. One hundred percent imp.
“
Grrr
,” he said to his image, but even the N
o
1 in the mirror was unconvinced. And if he couldn’t scare himself, then he was not a scary creature and might as well get a job changing baby imps’ diapers.
There was
some
potential in the mirror. Imp N
o
1 had the general skeletal structure of a proper demon. He was about the same height as a sheep sitting on its rear. His skin was gray as moon dust and pebbled with armored plating. Spiraling red runes wound their way around his chest, up along his neck, and across his forehead. His eyes had striking orange irises, and his jaw had a noble jut about it, or so he liked to think, though others had called it protruding. He had two arms, slightly longer than an average human ten-year-old, and two legs, slightly shorter. Fingers and toes, eight of each. So nothing weird there. One tail, more of a stump, actually, but excellent for burrowing holes if you’re hunting for grubs. All in all, your typical imp. But at fourteen years old, N
o
1 was the oldest imp in Hybras. Roughly fourteen years old, that is. It was hard to be exact when it was always dawn. “The hour of power,” as the warlocks used to call it before they got sucked into the depths of cold space.
The hour of power
. Very catchy.
Hadley Shrivelington Basset, a demon who was actually six months N
o
1’s junior, but already fully fledged, strolled down the tiled corridor on his way to the washroom. His horns corkscrewed impressively and his ears had at least four points. Hadley enjoyed parading his new demon self in front of the imps. Generally, demons shouldn’t even bunk in the imp lodge, but Basset seemed in no hurry to move out.
“Hey, imp,” he said, snapping his towel at N
o
1’s behind. It connected with a sharp crack. “Are you going to warp any time soon? Maybe if I get you angry enough.”
The towel stung, but N
o
1 didn’t get angry. Just nervous. Everything made him nervous. That was his problem.
Time for a quick subject change. “Morning, Basset. Nice ears.”
“I know,” said Hadley, tipping the points one after another. “Four points already, and I think there’s a fifth coming up. Abbot himself only has six points.”
Leon Abbot, the hero of Hybras. The demons’ self-proclaimed savior.
Hadley snapped N
o
1 again with the towel.
“Don’t you get a pain in your face looking in the mirror, imp? Because you’re giving me a pain in mine.”
He put his hands on his hips, threw back his head, and laughed. It was all very dramatic. You’d think there was an artist in the wings doing sketches.
“Eh, Basset. You’re not wearing any silver.”
The laughing stopped, to be replaced by a froglike gurgle. Shrivelington Basset bolted down the lodge corridor without pause for more bullying. N
o
1 knew scaring people half to death shouldn’t give him any satisfaction, and generally it wouldn’t. But for Basset, he’d make an exception. Not wearing silver on your person is much more than a fashion disaster for a demon or imp. For them it could be fatal, or worse. Painful for all eternity. This rule usually only applied when an imp or demon was near the volcano crater, but luckily Basset was too scared to remember that.
N
o
1 ducked back into the senior imp dorm, hoping his roommates were still snoring. No such luck. They were knuckling the sleep from their eyes and already searching for the target of their daily ribbing, which was, of course, him. He was by far the oldest in the senior dorm, no one else had made it to fourteen without warping. It was getting to the point where he was a permanent fixture. Each night his legs protruded from the foot of the bed, and his blanket barely covered the swirling moon markings on his chest.
“Hey, Runt,” called one. “Are you going to warp today, do you think? Or will flowers grow out of my armpits?”
“I’ll check your armpits tomorrow,” sniggered another.
More abuse. This time from a couple of twelve-year-old imps who were so pumped up that they were likely to warp before class. But they were right. He would have gone for the pink flowers option, too.
Runt was his imp nickname. They didn’t have real names, not until after they warped. Then they would be given a name from the sacred text. Until that moment, he was stuck with N
o
1, or Runt.
He smiled good-naturedly. It didn’t pay to antagonize his dorm-mates. Even though they were smaller than him today, they could be a lot bigger tomorrow.
“I’m feeling pumped,” he said, flexing his biceps. “Today is going to be my day.”
Everyone in the dorm was excited. Tomorrow they could be out of this room for good. Once they warped, they were transferred to decent accommodations, and nothing in Hybras was off-limits.
“Who do we hate?” shouted one.
“Humans!” came the reply.
The next minute or so was spent howling at the ceiling. Imp N
o
1 joined in, but he wasn’t really feeling it.
It shouldn’t be “who do we hate,” he thought. It really should be “whom.”
But this probably wasn’t a good time to bring that up.
Sometimes N
o
1 wished he had known his mother. This was not a very demonlike desire, so he kept it to himself.
Demons were born equal, and whatever they made of themselves, they did with their claws and teeth. As soon as the female laid an egg, it was tossed in a bucket of mineral-enriched mud and left to hatch. Imps never knew who their family was, and therefore everyone was their family.
But still, some days, when his self-esteem had taken a bit of a pounding, N
o
1 couldn’t help gazing wistfully across at the female compound on his way to school, and wondering which one was his mother.
There was one demoness with red markings like his own, and a kind face. Often she smiled across the wall at him. She was looking for her son, N
o
1 had realized. And from that day he smiled back. They could both pretend to have found each other.
N
o
1 had never experienced a feeling of belonging. He ached for the time when he could wake up and look forward to what lay ahead. That day hadn’t come yet, and it wasn’t likely to, not as long as they lived in Limbo. Nothing would change. Nothing
could
change. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Things could get worse.
Imp School was a low stone building with little ventilation and hardly any light. Perfect for most imps. The stench and the smoky fire made them feel hard done-by and warlike.
N
o
1 longed for light and fresh air. He was uniquely different, a brand new point on the compass. Or maybe an old one. N
o
1 often thought that perhaps he could be a warlock. True, there hadn’t been a warlock in the demon pride since they’d lifted out of time, but maybe he was the first, and that was why he felt so differently about almost everything. N
o
1 had raised his theory with Master Rawley, but the teacher had cuffed his ear hole and sent him digging grubs for the other imps.
There was another thing. Why couldn’t they, just once, have a cooked meal? What would be so horrible about a soft stew and maybe even a few spices? Why did imps delight in chomping their food down before it stopped wriggling?
As usual, N
o
1 was the last to school. The other dozen or so imps were already in the hall, reveling in the thoughts of another day spent hunting, skinning, butchering, and possibly even warping.
N
o
1 wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful. Maybe today would be his day, but he doubted it. The warp spasm was brought on by bloodlust, and N
o
1 had never felt the slightest urge to hurt any other creature. He even felt bad for the rabbits he ate, and sometimes dreamed that their little spirits were haunting him.
Master Rawley sat at his bench, sharpening a curved sword. Every now and then he would hack a chunk from the bench and grunt with satisfaction. The desk surface was littered with various weapons for hacking, sawing, and cutting. And of course one book. A copy of
Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow
. The book Leon Abbot had brought back from the old world. The book that would save them all, according to Abbot himself.
When Rawley had sharpened the blade to a silver crescent, he banged the hilt of the weapon on his bench.
“Sit down,”he roared at the imps.“And make it fast, you shower of stinking rabbit droppings. I’ve got a fresh blade here that I’m just itching to test.”
The imps hurried to their places. Rawley would not cut them, but he was certainly not above strapping their backs with the flat of his sword. And then again, maybe he would cut them.
N
o
1 squashed in on the end of the fourth row. Look tough, he told himself. Sneer a bit. You’re an imp!
Rawley sank his blade into the wood, leaving it there quivering. The other imps grunted. Impressed. All N
o
1 could think was:
Show off
. And:
He’s ruined that bench
.
“So, pig slime,” said Rawley. “You want to be demons, do you?”
“Yes, Master Rawley!” roared the imps.
“You think you have what it takes?”
“Yes, Master Rawley!”
Rawley spread his muscled arms wide. He threw back a green head and roared. “Well then, let me hear it!”
The imps screamed and stomped, bashed their desks with weapons, and clattered each other on the shoulders. N
o
1 avoided as much of the ruckus as possible while doing his best to seem involved. Not an easy trick.
Finally Rawley settled them down. “Well, we’ll see. This morning is a big morning for some of you, but for others it will be just be one more day of dishonor, grub hunting with the females.” He stared pointedly at N
o
1. “But before we get to oozing, we have to do some snoozing.”
Much groaning from the imps.
“That’s right, girls. History time. Nothing to kill and nothing to eat, just knowledge for the sake of it.” Rawley shrugged his giant knotted shoulders. “It’s a waste of time, if you ask me. But I’m under orders here.”
“That’s right, Master Rawley,” said a voice from the doorway. “You’re under orders.”
The voice belonged to Leon Abbot himself, paying one of his surprise visits to the school. Abbot was immediately surrounded by adoring imps clamoring to receive a friendly cuff on the ear, or to touch his sword.
Abbot endured this adoration for a moment, then brushed the imps aside. He elbowed Rawley out of the prime spot at the head of the class, then waited for silence. He didn’t have to wait long. Abbot was an impressive specimen, even if you didn’t know a thing about his past. He was almost five feet tall, with curved ram horns that jutted from his forehead. His armored scales were deep red and covered his entire torso and forehead. Very impressive, and of course difficult to penetrate. You could bash away with an ax all day at Abbot’s chest and get nowhere. Indeed, one of his party tricks was to challenge anyone in the room to hurt him.
Abbot threw back his rawhide cloak and slapped his chest. “Right, who wants to have a go?”
Several imps nearly warped right then and there.
“Make a line, ladies,” said Rawley, as if he were still in control.
The imps piled to the head of the class and hammered Abbot with fist, foot, and forehead. They bounced off, every one. Much to Abbot’s amusement.
Idiots, thought N
o
1. As if they could possibly succeed.
Actually, N
o
1 had a theory about armored scales. A few years ago he had been toying with a discarded baby armored scale, and he’d noticed that they were made of dozens of layers, which made them almost impossible to breach head-on, whereas if you went at them at an angle with something hot . . .
“What about you, Runt?”
The raucous laughter of his classmates stomped all over N
o
1’s thoughts.
N
o
1 physically twitched with shock as he realized that not only had Leon Abbot spoken to him, he had actually used his dormitory nickname.
“Yessir, pardon me? What?”
Abbot thumped his own chest. “You think you can get through the thickest plates on Hybras?”
“I doubt they’re the thickest,” said N°1’s mouth before his brain had a chance to catch up.
“
Raahhr!
Are you insulting me, impling?”
Being called
impling
was even worse than being called Runt. The term impling was generally reserved for the recently hatched.
“No, no, of course not, Master Abbot. I just thought that, naturally, some of the older demons would have more layers on their scales. But yours are probably tougher—no dead layers on the inside.”
Abbot’s slitted eyes squinted at N
o
1. “You seem to know a lot about scales. Why don’t you try to get through these.”
N
o
1 tried to laugh it off. “Oh, I really don’t think—”
But Abbot wasn’t smiling. “I really
do
think, Runt. Get your stumpy tail up here before I give Master Rawley license to do what he has wanted to do for a long time.”