‘Tube,’ said No1, proud of his human vocabulary, pointing with the finger that wasn’t altogether there.
After that, things happened very quickly. A flurry of events blurred like mixed stripes of vivid paint. The tube flashed; something exploded over his head. A bee stung No1 on the leg; a female screamed piercingly. A herd of animals, elephants perhaps, passed directly below him. Then, most disconcertingly, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet and everything went black. The blackness was rough against his fingers and face.
The last thing No1 heard before his own personal blackness claimed him was a voice. It was not a demon’s voice – the tones were lighter. Halfway between bird and boar.
‘Welcome, demon,’ said the voice, then sniggered.
They know, thought No1, and he would have panicked, had the chloral hydrate seeping into his system through a leg wound allowed such exertions. They know all about us.
Then the knockout serum caressed his brain, tipping him off a cliff into a deep dark hole.
Artemis watched events unfold from his box. A smile of admiration twitched at the corners of his mouth as the plan unrolled smoothly like the most expensive Tunisian carpet. Whoever was behind this was good. More than good. Perhaps they were related.
‘Keep your camera pointed at the stage,’ Artemis said to Butler. ‘Holly will get the box.’
Butler was squirming to cover Holly’s back, but his place was at Artemis’s side. And after all, Captain Short could look after herself. He made sure his watch crystal was trained on the stage. Artemis would never let him forget it if he missed even a nanosecond of the action.
On stage, the opera was almost over. Norma was leading Pollione to the pyre, where they were both to be burned. All eyes were upon her. Except those involved in a drama of the fairy kind.
The music was lush and layered, providing an unwitting soundtrack to the real-life drama unfolding in the theatre.
It began with an electric crackle downstage, stage right. Barely noticeable, unless you were expecting it. And even if some patrons did notice the glow, they were not alarmed. It could easily be a reflected blotch of light, or one of the special effects these modern theatre directors were so fond of.
So, thought Artemis, feeling the excitement buzz in his fingertips. Something is coming. Another game begins.
The ‘something’ began to materialize inside the crackling blue envelope. It took on a vague, humanoid shape. Smaller than the last one, but definitely a demon, and definitely not a reflected blotch of light. Initially, the shape was insubstantial, wraithlike, but after a second it became less transparent and more of this world.
Now, thought Artemis. Anchor it and tranquillize it too.
A slender silver tube poked from the shadows on the opposite side of the theatre. There was a small pop, and a dart sped from the tube’s mouth. Artemis did not need to follow the dart’s path. He knew that it was headed straight into the creature’s leg. The leg would be best. A good target, but unlikely to be fatal. A silver tip with some kind of knockout cocktail.
The creature was trying to communicate now and making wild gestures. Artemis heard a few gasps from the audience as patrons noticed the shape inside the light.
Very well. You have anchored it. Now you need a distraction. Something flashy and loud, but not particularly dangerous. If somebody gets hurt, there will be an investigation.
Artemis switched his gaze to the demon. Solid now in the shadows. Around him the opera steamrolled towards Act Four’s crescendo. The soprano lamented hysterically and almost every eye in the theatre was riveted on her. Almost every eye. But there are always a few bored audience members at an opera, especially by the time Act Four comes along. Those particular eyes would be wandering around the hall, searching for something, anything, interesting to watch. Those eyes would land on the little demon downstage, stage right, unless they were distracted.
Right on cue, a large stage lamp broke free of its clamp in the rigging and swung on its cable into the back canvas. The impact was both flashy and loud. The bulb exploded, showering the stage and orchestra pit with glass fragments. The bulb’s filament glowed with a magnesium glare, temporarily blinding everyone staring at it. Which was almost the entire audience.
Glass rained down on the orchestra, and the musicians panicked, fleeing en masse towards the green room, dragging their instruments behind them. A cacophony of squealing strings and overturned percussion instruments shattered any echoes of Bellini’s masterpiece.
Nice, thought Artemis appreciatively. The clamp and the filament were rigged. The stampeding orchestra is a lucky bonus.
Artemis appreciated all of this out of the corner of his eye. His main focus was the diminutive demon, lost in the shadows behind a canvas flat.
Now, if it was me, thought the Irish teenager, I would have Butler drop a black sack over that little creature and whisk him out of the stage door into a four-wheel drive. We could be on the ferry to Naples before the theatre crew got the bulb changed.
What actually happened was slightly different. A stage trapdoor opened beneath the demon and it disappeared on a hydraulic platform.
Artemis shook his head in admiration. Fabulous. His mysterious adversaries must have hijacked the theatre computer system. And when the demon appeared, they simply sent a command to open the appropriate trapdoor panel. Doubtless, there was someone waiting below to transfer the sleeping demon to an idling vehicle outside.
Artemis leaned over the railing, gazing into the audience below. As the house lights were brought up, the theatre patrons rubbed their dazzled eyes and spoke in the sheepish tones that follow shock. There was no talk of demons. No pointing and screaming. He had just witnessed the perfect execution of a perfect plan.
Artemis gazed across to the box on the far side of the stage. The three occupants stood calmly. They were simply leaving. The show was over and it was time to go. Artemis recognized the pretty girl from Barcelona and her two guardians. The thin man seemed to have recovered from his leg injury, as his crutches were now tucked underneath one arm.
The girl wore a self-satisfied smile, the kind that usually decorated Artemis’s own face after a successful mission.
It’s the girl, Artemis realized with some surprise. She is the brains here.
This girl’s smile, a reflection of his own, rankled Artemis. He was not accustomed to being two steps behind. No doubt she believed that victory was hers. She may have won this battle, but the campaign was far from over.
It’s time, he thought, that this girl knew she had an opponent.
He brought his hands together in a slow handclap.
‘Brava,’ he called. ‘Brava, ragazza!’
His voice carried easily above the heads of the audience. The girl’s smile froze on her lips and her eyes searched for the source of this compliment. In seconds she located the Irish teenager, and their eyes locked.
If Artemis had been expecting the girl to quail and tremble at the sight of him and his bodyguard, then he was disappointed. True, a shadow of surprise flitted across her brow, but then she accepted the applause with a nod and royal wave. The girl said two words before she left. The distance was too great for Artemis actually to hear them, but even if he hadn’t long since trained himself to lip-read, it would have been easy to guess what they were.
Artemis Fowl, she said. Nothing more. There was a game beginning here. No doubt about it. How intriguing.