The Atlantis Complex (Artemis Fowl, Book 7) by Colfer Eoin (z-lib.org).epub

mean? Are you turning metaphorical in your dotage, man? Is Artemis hurt or
not?”

Butler would have much preferred to be facing down a SWAT team than
delivering this news, so he chose his words carefully. “Artemis has developed a
condition, a mental condition. It’s a little like OCD.”

“Oh no,” said Angeline, and for a moment Butler thought she had dropped
the phone, then he heard her breathing, fast and shallow.

“It can be controlled,” he said. “We’re taking him to a clinic right now. The
best clinic the fairies have. He is in absolutely no danger.”

“I want to see him.”
“You will. They’re sending someone for you.” This wasn’t actually the case,
but Butler vowed that it would be, seconds after he hung up the phone. “What
about the twins?”
“The nanny can sleep over. Artemis’s father is in São Paolo at a summit. I’ll
have to tell him everything.”
“No,” said Butler quickly. “Don’t make that decision now. Talk to Artemis
first.”
“W-will he know me?”
“Of course he will,” Butler replied.
“Very well, Butler. I’m going to pack a bag now. Tell the fairies to call when
they’re ten minutes away.”
“I will do.”
“And, Butler?”
“Yes, Mrs. Fowl?”
“Look after my boy until I get there. Family is everything, you know that.”
“I do, Mrs. Fowl. I will.”
The connection was severed, and Angeline Fowl’s picture disappeared from
the little screen.
Family is everything, thought Butler. If you’re lucky.
Mulch stuck his head around the door, beard dripping with some congealing
liquid that seemed to have whole turnips trapped in it. His forehead was covered
in bright blue burn gel.
“Hey, bodyguard. You better get down to the gymnasium. This jumbo pixie
guy is killing your sister.”
“Really?” said Butler, unconvinced.
“Really. Juliet just does not seem to be herself. She can’t put two moves
together. It’s pathetic, really. Everyone is betting against her.”
“I see,” said Butler, straightening as much as he could in the cramped
surroundings.
Mulch held the door. “It’s going to make things really interesting when you

Mulch held the door. “It’s going to make things really interesting when you
show up to help.”

Butler grinned. “I’m not coming to help. I just want to be there when she
stops faking.”

“Ah,” said Mulch, comprehension dawning on his face. “So I should switch
my bet to Juliet?”

“You certainly should,” said Butler, and lumbered down the corridor,
stepping around a pool of turnip soup.













DON’T MISS THE NEXT
THRILLING ADVENTURE IN
THE ARTEMIS FOWL SERIES:

THE LAST GUARDIAN

From the case notes of Dr. Jerbal Argon, Psych Brotherhood

1. Artemis Fowl, once self-proclaimed teenage criminal mastermind, now
prefers the term juvenile genius. Apparently he has changed. (Note to self:
Harrumph.)

2. For the past six months Artemis has been undergoing weekly therapy
sessions at my clinic in Haven City in an attempt to overcome a severe case
of Atlantis Complex, a psychological condition that he developed as a result
of meddling in fairy magic. (Serves him right, silly Mud Boy.)

3. Remember to submit outrageous bill to Lower Elements Police.
4. Artemis appears to be cured, and in record time too. Is this likely? Or even

possible?
5. Discuss my theory of relativity with Artemis. Could make for a very

interesting chapter in my V-book: Foiling Fowl: Outsmarting the Smarty-
pants. (Publishers love the title—Ka-ching!)
6. Order more painkillers for my blasted hip.
7. Issue clean bill of mental health for Artemis. Final session today.

Dr. Argon’s office, Haven City, the Lower Elements

Artemis Fowl grew impatient. Dr. Argon was late. This final session was just as
unnecessary as the past half dozen. He was completely cured, for heaven’s sake,
and had been since week eighteen. His prodigious intellect had accelerated the
process, and he should not have to twiddle his thumbs at the behest of a gnome
psychiatrist.

At first Artemis paced the office, refusing to be calmed by the water wall,
with its gently pulsing mood lights; then he sat for a minute in the oxygen booth,
which he found calmed him a little too much.

Oxygen booth indeed, he thought, quickly ducking out of the chamber.
Finally the door hissed and slid aside on its track, admitting Dr. Jerbal Argon
to his own office. The squat gnome limped directly to his chair. He dropped into

to his own office. The squat gnome limped directly to his chair. He dropped into
the embrace of its padding, slapping the armrest controls until the gel sac under
his right hip glowed gently.

“Aaaah,” he sighed. “My hip is killing me. Nothing helps, honestly. People
think they know pain, but they have no idea.”

“You’re late,” noted Artemis in fluent Gnommish, his voice devoid of
sympathy.

Argon sighed blissfully again as the heated chair pad went to work on his
hip. “Always in a hurry, eh, Mud Boy? Why didn’t you have a puff of oxygen or
meditate by the water wall? Hey-Hey Monks swear by those water walls.”

“I am not a pixie priest, Doctor. What Hey-Hey Monks do after first gong is
of little interest to me. Can we proceed with my rehabilitation? Or would you
prefer to waste more of my time?”

Argon huffed a little, then swung his bulk forward, opening a sim-paper file
on his desk. “Why is it that the saner you get, the nastier you are?”

Artemis crossed his legs, his body language relaxed for the first time. “Such
repressed anger, Doctor. Where does it all stem from?”

“Let’s stick to your disposition, shall we, Artemis?” Argon snagged a stack
of cards from his file. “I am going to show you some inkblots, and you tell me
what the shapes suggest to you.”

Artemis’s moan was extended and theatrical. “Inkblots. Oh, please. My life-
span is considerably shorter than yours, Doctor. I prefer not to waste valuable
time on worthless pseudo-tests. We may as well read tea leaves or divine the
future in turkey entrails.”

“Inkblot readings are a reliable indicator of mental health,” Argon objected.
“Tried and tested.”

“Tested by psychiatrists for psychiatrists,” snorted Artemis.
Argon slapped a card down on the table. “What do you see in this inkblot?”
“I see an inkblot,” said Artemis.
“Yes, but what does the blot suggest to you?”
Artemis smirked in a supremely annoying fashion. “I see card five hundred
and thirty-four.”
“Pardon me?”
“Card five hundred and thirty-four,” repeated Artemis. “Of a series of six
hundred standard inkblot cards. I memorized them during our sessions. You
don’t even shuffle.”
Argon checked the number on the back of the card: 534. Of course.
“Knowing the number does not answer the question. What do you see?”
Artemis allowed his lip to wobble. “I see an ax dripping with blood. Also a
scared child, and an elf clothed in the skin of a troll.”

scared child, and an elf clothed in the skin of a troll.”
“Really?” Argon was interested now.
“No. Not really. I see a secure building, perhaps a family home, with four

windows. A trustworthy pet, and a pathway leading from the door into the
distance. I think, if you check your manual, you will find that these answers fall
inside healthy parameters.”

Argon did not need to check. The Mud Boy was right, as usual. Perhaps he
could blindside Artemis with his new theory. It was not part of the program but
might earn him a little respect.

“Have you heard of the theory of relativity?”
Artemis blinked. “Is this a joke? I have traveled through time, Doctor. I think
I know a little something about relativity.”
“No. Not that theory; my theory of relativity proposes that all things magical
are related and influenced by ancient spells or magical hot spots.”
Artemis rubbed his chin. “Interesting. But I think you’ll find that your
postulation should be called the theory of relatedness.”
“Whatever,” said Argon, waving the quibble away. “I did a little research,
and it turns out that the Fowls have been a bother to fairy folk off and on for
thousands of years. Dozens of your ancestors have tried for the crock of gold,
though you are the only one to have succeeded.”
Artemis sat up straight; this was interesting. “And I never knew about this
because you mind-wiped my forefathers.”
“Exactly,” said Argon, thrilled to have Artemis’s full attention. “When he
was a lad, your own father actually managed to hog-tie a dwarf who was drawn
to the estate. I imagine he still dreams of that moment.”
“Good for him.” A thought struck Artemis. “Why was the dwarf attracted to
our estate?”
“Because the residual magic there is off the scale. Something happened on
the Fowl Estate once. Something huge, magically speaking.”
“And this lingering power plants ideas in the Fowls’ heads and nudges us
toward a belief in magic,” Artemis murmured, almost to himself.
“Exactly. It’s a goblin-and-egg situation. Did you think about magic and then
find magic? Or did the magic make you think about looking for magic?”
Artemis took a few notes on his smartphone. “And this huge magical event
—can you be more specific?”
Argon shrugged. “Our records don’t go back that far. I’d say we’re talking
about back when fairies lived on the surface, more than ten thousand years ago.”
Artemis rose and loomed over the squat gnome. He felt he owed the doctor
something for the theory of relatedness, which would certainly bear some

investigation.
“Dr. Argon, did you have turned-in feet as a child?”
Argon was so surprised that he blurted an honest answer to a personal

question, very unusual for a psychiatrist. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“And were you forced to wear remedial shoes with stacked soles?”
Argon was intrigued. He hadn’t thought about those horrible shoes in

centuries; he had actually forgotten them until this moment.
“Just one, on my right foot.”
Artemis nodded wisely, and Argon felt as though their roles had been

reversed, and that he was the patient.
“I would guess that your foot was pulled into its correct alignment, but your

femur was twisted slightly in the process. A simple brace should solve your hip
problem.” Artemis pulled a folded napkin from his pocket. “I sketched a design
while you kept me waiting these past few sessions. Foaly should be able to build
the brace for you. I may have been a few millimeters off in my estimate of your
dimensions, so best to get measured.” He placed ten fingers flat on the desk.
“May I leave now? Have I fulfilled my obligation?”

The doctor nodded glumly, thinking that he would possibly omit this session
from his book. He watched Artemis stride across the office floor and duck
through the doorway.

Argon studied the napkin drawing and knew instinctively that Artemis was
right about his hip.

Either that boy is the sanest creature on earth, he thought, or he is so
disturbed that our tests cannot even begin to scratch the surface.

Argon pulled a rubber stamp from his desk, and on the cover of Artemis’s
file he stamped the word FUNCTIONAL in big red letters.

I hope so, he thought. I really hope so.

Artemis’s bodyguard, Butler, waited for his Principal outside Dr. Argon’s office
in the large chair that had been a gift from the centaur Foaly, technical
consultant to the Lower Elements Police.

“I can’t stand to look at you perched on a fairy stool,” Foaly had told him. “It
offends my eyes. You look like a monkey passing a coconut.”

“Very well,” Butler had said in his gravelly bass. “I accept the gift, if only to
preserve your eyes.”

In truth he had been mighty glad to have a comfortable chair, being more
than six and a half feet tall in a city built for three-footers.

The bodyguard stood and stretched, flattening his palms against the ceiling,
which was double-height by fairy standards. Thank God Argon had a taste for

which was double-height by fairy standards. Thank God Argon had a taste for
the grandiose, or Butler wouldn’t even have been able to stand up straight in the
clinic. To his mind, the building, with its vaulted ceilings, gold-flecked
tapestries, and retro sim-wood sliding doors, looked more like a monastery
where the monks had taken a vow of wealth than a medical facility. Only the
wall-mounted laser hand-sanitizers and the occasional elfin nurse bustling past
gave any hint that this place was actually a clinic.

I am so glad this detail is coming to an end, Butler had been thinking at least
once every five minutes for the past two weeks. He had been in tight spots many
times; but there was something about being confined in a city clamped to the
underside of the earth’s crust that made him feel claustrophobic for the first time
in his life.

Artemis emerged from Argon’s office, his self-satisfied smirk even more
pronounced than usual. When Butler saw this expression, he knew that his boss
was back in control of his faculties and that his Atlantis Complex was certified
as cured.

No more counting words. No more irrational fear of the number four. No
more paranoia and delusions. Thank goodness for that.

He asked anyway, just to be certain. “Well, Artemis, how are we?”
Artemis buttoned his navy woolen suit jacket. “We are fine, Butler. That is to
say that I, Artemis Fowl the Second, am one hundred percent functional, which
is about five times the functionality of an average person. Or to put it another
way: one point five Mozarts. Or three-quarters of a da Vinci.”
“Only three-quarters? You’re being modest.”
“Correct,” said Artemis, smiling. “I am.”
Butler’s shoulders sagged a little with relief. Inflated ego, supreme self-
confidence. Artemis was most definitely his old self.
“Very good. Let’s pick up our escort and be on our way then, shall we? I
want to feel the sun on my face. The real sun, not the UV lamps they have down
here.”
Artemis felt a pang of sympathy for his bodyguard, an emotion he had been
experiencing more and more in recent months. It was difficult enough for Butler
to be inconspicuous among humans; down here he could hardly have attracted
more attention if he had been wearing a clown suit and juggling fireballs.
“Very well,” agreed Artemis. “We will pick up our escort and depart. Where
is Holly?”
Butler jerked a thumb down the hallway. “Where she generally is. With the
clone.”

Captain Holly Short of the Lower Elements Police Recon division stared at the
face of her archenemy and felt only pity. Of course, had she been gazing at the
real Opal Koboi and not a cloned version, then pity might not have been the last
emotion on her list, but it would certainly have ranked far below rage and
intense dislike bordering on hatred. But this was a clone, grown in advance to
provide the megalomaniacal pixie with a body double so that she could be
spirited from protective custody in the J. Argon Clinic if the LEP ever managed
to incarcerate her, which they had.

Holly pitied the clone because she was a pathetic, dumb creature who had
never asked to be created. Cloning was a banned science both for religious
reasons and the more obvious fact that, without a life force or soul to power their
systems, clones were doomed to a short life of negligent brain activity and organ
failure.

This particular clone had lived out most of its days in an incubator,
struggling for each breath since it had been removed from the chrysalis in which
it had been grown.

“Not for much longer, little one,” Holly whispered, touching the ersatz
pixie’s forehead through the sterile gloves built into the incubator wall.

Holly could not have said for sure why she had begun to visit the clone.
Perhaps it was because Argon had told her that no one else ever had.

She came from nowhere. She has no friends.
She had at least two friends now. Artemis had taken to joining Holly on her
visits and often would sit silently beside her, which was very unusual for him.
The clone’s official designation was Unauthorized Experiment 14, but one of
the clinic’s wits had named her Nopal, which was a cruel play on the name Opal
and the words no pal. Cruel or not, the name stuck; and now even Holly used it,
though with tenderness.
Argon assured her that Unauthorized Experiment 14 had no mental faculties,
but Holly was certain that sometimes Nopal’s milky eyes reacted when she
visited. Could the clone actually recognize her?
Holly gazed at Nopal’s delicate features and was inevitably reminded of the
clone’s gene donor.
That pixie is poison, she thought bitterly. Whatever she touches withers and
dies.
Artemis entered the room and stood beside Holly, resting a hand lightly on
her shoulder.
“They’re wrong about Nopal,” said Holly. “She feels things. She
understands.”
Artemis knelt down. “I know. I taught her something last week. Watch.”
He placed his hand on the glass, tapping his fingers in sequence slowly,

He placed his hand on the glass, tapping his fingers in sequence slowly,
building up a rhythm. “It is an exercise developed by Cuba’s Dr. Parnassus. He
uses it to generate a response from infants, even chimpanzees.”

Artemis continued to tap, and slowly Nopal responded, raising her hand
laboriously to Artemis’s, slapping the glass clumsily in an attempt to copy his
rhythm.

“There, you see?” said Artemis. “Intelligence.”
Holly bumped him gently, shoulder to shoulder, which was her version of a
hug. “I knew your brains would eventually come in handy.”
The acorn cluster on the breast of Holly’s LEP jumpsuit vibrated, and Holly
touched her wi-tech earring, accepting the call. A quick glance at her wrist
computer told her that the call was from LEP technical consultant Foaly, and that
the centaur had labeled it urgent.
“Foaly. What is it? I’m at the clinic, babysitting Artemis.”
The centaur’s voice was crystal clear over the Haven City wireless network.
“I need you back at Police Plaza, right now. Bring the Mud Boy.”
The centaur sounded theatrical, but then Foaly would play the drama queen
if his carrot soufflé collapsed.
“That’s not how it works, Foaly. Consultants don’t give orders to captains.”
“We have a Koboi sighting coming through on a satellite. It’s a live feed,”
countered the technical consultant.
“We’re on our way,” said Holly, severing the connection.

They picked up Butler in the corridor. Artemis, Holly, and Butler were three
allies who had weathered battlefields, rebellions, and conspiracy together and
had developed their own crisis shorthand.

Butler saw that Holly was wearing her business face.
“Situation?”
Holly strode past, forcing the others to follow.
“Opal,” she said in English.
Butler’s face hardened. “Eyes on?”
“Satellite link.”
“Origin?” asked the bodyguard.
“Unknown.”
They hurried down the retro corridor toward the clinic’s courtyard. Butler
outstripped the group and held open the old-fashioned hinged door with its
stained window depicting a thoughtful doctor comforting a weeping patient.
“Are we taking the Stick?” asked the bodyguard, his tone suggesting that he

would rather not take the Stick.
Holly walked through the doorway. “Sorry, big man. Stick time.”
Artemis had never been one for public transport, human or fairy, and so

asked, “What’s the stick?”
The Stick was the street name for a series of conveyor belts that ran in

parallel strips along Haven City’s network of blocks. It was an ancient and
reliable mode of transport from a less litigious time, which operated on a hop-on/
hop-off basis similar to certain human airport-walkway systems. There were
platforms throughout the city, and all a person had to do was step onto a belt and
grab hold of one of the carbon-fiber stalks that sprouted from it. Hence the name
Stick.

Artemis and Butler had of course seen the Stick before, but Artemis had
never planned to use such an undignified mode of transport and so had never
even bothered to find out its name. Artemis knew that, with his famous lack of
coordination, any attempt to hop casually onto the belt would result in a
humiliating tumble. For Butler, the problem was not one of coordination or lack
of it. He knew that, with his bulk, it would be difficult just to fit his feet within
the belt’s width.

“Ah, yes,” said Artemis. “The Stick. Surely a green cab would be faster?”
“Nope,” said Holly, hustling Artemis up the ramp to the platform, then
poking him in the kidneys at just the right time so that he stepped unconsciously
onto the belt, his hand landing on a stick’s bulbous grip.
“Hey,” said Artemis, perhaps the third time in his life he had used a slang
expletive. “I did it.”
“Next stop, the Olympics,” said Holly, who had mounted the belt behind
him. “Come on, bodyguard,” she called over her shoulder to Butler. “Your
Principal is heading toward a tunnel.”
Butler shot the elf a look that would have cowed a bull. Holly was a dear
friend, but her teasing could be relentless. He tiptoed onto the belt, squeezing his
enormous feet onto a single section and bending his knees to grasp the tiny stick.
In silhouette, he looked like the world’s bulkiest ballerina attempting to pluck a
flower.
Holly might have grinned had Opal Koboi not been on her mind.

The Stick belt trundled its passengers from the Argon Clinic along the border of
an Italian-style piazza toward a low tunnel, which had been laser-cut from solid
rock. Fairies lunching alfresco froze with forkfuls of salad halfway to their
mouths as the unlikely trio passed by.

The sight of a jumpsuit-clad LEP officer was common enough on a Stick

The sight of a jumpsuit-clad LEP officer was common enough on a Stick
belt, but a gangly human boy dressed like an undertaker and a troll-sized, buzz-
cut man-mountain were quite unusual.

The tunnel was barely three feet high, so Butler was forced to prostrate
himself over three sections, flattening several handgrips in the process. His nose
was no more than a few feet from the tunnel wall, which he noticed was
engraved with beautiful luminous pictograms depicting episodes from the
People’s history.

So the young fairies can learn something about their own heritage each time
they pass through. How wonderful, thought Butler; but he suppressed his
admiration, as he had long ago disciplined his brain to concentrate on bodyguard
duties and not waste neurons being amazed while he was belowground.

Save it for retirement, he thought. Then you can cast your mind back and
appreciate art.

Police Plaza was a cobbled crest into which the shape of the Lower Elements
Police acorn insignia had been painstakingly paved by master craftsmen. It was a
total waste of effort as far as the LEP officers were concerned, as they were not
generally the type who were inclined to gaze out of the fourth-floor windows
and marvel at how the sim-sunlight caught the rim of each gold-leafed cobble
and set the whole arrangement a-twinkling.

On this particular day it seemed that everyone on the fourth floor had slid
from their cubicles like pebbles on a tilted surface and gathered in a tight cluster
by the Situation room, which adjoined Foaly’s office/laboratory.

Holly made directly for the narrowest section of the throng and used sharp
elbows to inch through the strangely silent crowd. Butler simply cleared his
throat once and the crowd peeled apart as though magnetically repelled from the
giant human. Artemis took this path into the Situation room to find Commander
Trouble Kelp and Foaly standing before a wall-sized screen, raptly following
unfolding events.

Foaly noticed the gasps that followed Butler wherever he went in Haven, and
glanced around.

“May the fours be with you,” the centaur whispered to Artemis—his
standard greeting/joke for the past six months.

“I am cured, as you well know,” said Artemis. “What is going on here?”
Holly cleared a space beside Trouble Kelp, who seemed to be morphing into
her former boss, Commander Julius Root, as the years went on. Commander
Kelp was so brimful of gung-ho attitude that he had taken the name Trouble
upon graduation and had once tried to arrest a troll for littering, which accounted
for the sim-skin patch on the tip of his nose, which glowed yellow from a certain

for the sim-skin patch on the tip of his nose, which glowed yellow from a certain
angle.

“Haircut’s new, Skipper,” Holly said. “Beetroot had one just like it.”
Commander Kelp did not take his eyes from the screen. Holly was joshing
because she was nervous, and Trouble knew it. She was right to be nervous. In
fact, outright fear would have been more appropriate, given the situation that
was being beamed in to them.
“Watch the show, Captain,” he said tightly. “It’s pretty self-explanatory.”

There were three figures on-screen, a kneeling prisoner and two captors; but
Holly did not place Opal Koboi right away because she was searching for the
pixie among the standing pair. She realized with a jolt that Opal was the
prisoner.

“This is a trick,” she said. “It must be.”
Commander Kelp shrugged. Watch it and see.
Artemis stepped closer to the screen, scanning the picture for information.
“You are sure this is live?”
“It’s a live feed,” said Foaly. “I suppose they could be sending us a pre-
record.”
“Where is it coming from?”
Foaly checked the tracer map on his own screen. The call line ran from a
fairy satellite down to South Africa and from there to Miami and then on to a
hundred other places, like the scribble of an angry child.
“They jacked a satellite and ran the line through a series of shells. Could be
anywhere.”
“The sun is high,” Artemis mused aloud. “I would guess by the shadows that
it is early noon. If it is actually a live feed.”
“That narrows it down to a quarter of the planet,” said Foaly caustically.
The hubbub in the room rose as, on-screen, one of the two bulky gnomes
standing behind Opal drew a human automatic handgun, the chrome weapon
looking like a cannon in his fairy fingers.
It seemed as though the temperature had suddenly dropped in the Situation
room.
“I need quiet,” said Artemis. “Get these people out of here.”
On most days Trouble Kelp would argue that Artemis had no authority to
clear a room, and would possibly invite more people into the cramped office just
to prove his point—but this was not most days.
“Everybody out,” he barked at the assembled officers. “Holly, Foaly, and the
Mud Boy, stay where you are.”
“I think perhaps I’ll stay too,” said Butler, shielding the top of his head from

“I think perhaps I’ll stay too,” said Butler, shielding the top of his head from
lamp burn with one hand.

Nobody objected.
Usually the LEP officers would shuffle with macho reluctance when ordered
to move, but in this instance they rushed to the nearest monitor, eager not to miss
a single frame of unfolding events.
Foaly shut the door behind them with a swing of his hoof, then darkened the
window glass so there would be no distraction from outside. The remaining four
stood in a ragged semicircle before the wall screen, watching what would appear
to be the last minutes of Opal Koboi’s life. One of the Opal Kobois, at any rate.

There were two gnomes on-screen, both wearing full-face anti-UV party masks
that could be programmed to resemble anyone. These had been modeled on Pip
and Kip, two popular kitty-cat cartoon characters on TV, but the figures were
still recognizable as gnomes because of their stocky barrel torsos and bloated
forearms. They stood before a nondescript gray wall, looming over the tiny pixie
who knelt in the mud tracks of some wheeled vehicle, waterline creeping along
the legs of her designer tracksuit. Opal’s wrists were bound and her mouth taped,
and she seemed genuinely terrified.

The gnome with the pistol spoke through a vox-box in the mask, disguising
his voice as Pip the kitty-cat.

“I can’t make it any plainer,” he squeaked, and somehow the cartoon voice
made him seem more dangerous. “We got one Opal, you got the other. You let
your Opal go, and we don’t kill this one. You had twenty minutes; now you have
fifteen.”

Pip the kitty-cat cocked his weapon.

Butler tapped Holly’s shoulder.
“Did he just say–?”
“Yeah. Fifteen minutes, or Opal’s dead.”
Butler popped a translator bud into his ear. This was too important to trust to

his dubious grasp of Gnommish.
Trouble Kelp was incredulous. “What kind of deal is that? Give us a

terrorist, or we kill a terrorist?”
“We can’t just let someone be murdered before our eyes,” said Holly.
“Absolutely not,” agreed Foaly. “We are not humans.”
Artemis cleared his throat.
“Sorry, Artemis,” said the centaur. “But you humans are a bloodthirsty

bunch. Sure, we may produce the occasional power-crazed pixie, but by and
large the People are peace-loving folk. Which is probably why we live down

large the People are peace-loving folk. Which is probably why we live down
here in the first place.”

Trouble Kelp actually snarled, one of his leadership devices—which not
many people could carry off, especially when they stood barely more than three
feet high in what Artemis was sure were stacked boots. But Trouble’s snarl was
convincing enough to stifle the bickering.

“Focus, people,” he said. “I need solutions here. Under no circumstances can
we release Opal Koboi, but we can’t just stand by and allow her to be murdered
either.”

The computer had picked up the references to Koboi on-screen and had
elected to run her file on a side screen, in case anyone needed their memory
refreshed.

Opal Koboi. Certified genius pixie industrialist and inventor.
Orchestrated the goblin coup and insurrection. Cloned herself to
escape prison and attempted to lead the humans to Haven.
Responsible for the murder of Commander Julius Root. Had human
pituitary gland implanted to manufacture growth hormone
(subsequently removed). Younger version of Opal followed Captain
Short from the past and is currently at large in present time line.
It is assumed she will attempt to free her incarcerated self and
return to her own time stream. Opal is in the unprecedented
position of occupying places one and two on the LEP Most Dangerous
list. Categorized as highly intelligent, motivated, and psychotic.

This is a bold move, Opal, thought Artemis. And with potentially
catastrophic repercussions.

He felt rather than saw Holly at his elbow.
“What do you think, Artemis?”
Artemis frowned. “My first impression is to call it a bluff. But Opal’s plans
always take into account first impressions.”
“It could be a ruse. Perhaps those goblins would simply shoot her with a
blank?”
Artemis shook his head. “No. That would deliver no payoff other than
momentary horror on our part. Opal has planned this so that she wins whatever
the eventuality. If you free her, then she’s free. If the younger Opal dies, then . . .
Then what?”
Butler weighed in. “You can do all sorts of things with special effects these
days. What if they computer-graphic her head to explode?”
Artemis was disappointed in this theory, which he felt he had already
discounted. “No, Butler. Think. Again, there’s nothing to gain.”

discounted. “No, Butler. Think. Again, there’s nothing to gain.”
Foaly snorted. “At any rate, if they do kill her, we will know very soon

whether this whole thing is real or not.”
Artemis half laughed. “True. We will certainly know.”
Butler groaned. This was one of those times when Artemis and Foaly were

aware of something sciencey and assumed that everyone else in the room also
had all the facts. Moments like this were guaranteed to drive Holly crazy.

“What are you talking about?” shouted Holly. “What will we know? How
will we know whatever it is?”

Artemis stared down at her as though waking from a dream. “Really, Holly?
You have two versions of the same individual occupying a time stream, and you
are unaware of the ramifications?”

On-screen, the gnomes stood like statues behind the shivering pixie. The armed
one, Pip, occasionally checked a wristwatch by tugging his sleeve with his gun
barrel, but otherwise they waited patiently. Opal pleaded with her eyes, staring at
the camera lens, fat tears streaming down her cheeks, sparkling in the sunlight.
Her hair seemed thinner than usual and unwashed. Her Juicy Couture tracksuit,
purchased no doubt from the children’s section of some exclusive store, was torn
in several places, the rips caked in blood. The picture was super-high-def and so
clear that it was like looking through a window. If this was a spurious threat,
then young Opal did not know it.

Trouble pounded the desk, an affectation of Julius Root’s that he had
adopted.

“What are the ramifications? Tell me!”
“Just to be clear,” said Artemis, “do you wish to be told what the word
ramifications means? Or to know what the ramifications are?”
Holly elbowed Artemis in the hip, speeding him along. “Artemis, we’re on a
clock here.”
“Very well, Holly. Here is the problem . . .”
“Come on,” pleaded Foaly. “Let me explain. This is my kingdom, and I will
be simple and to the point, I promise.”
“Go on, then,” said Trouble, who was known for his love of simple and to
the point.
Holly laughed, a single harsh bark. She could not believe everyone continued
to act like their everyday selves even though a life was at stake.
We have become desensitized, like the humans.
Whatever Opal had done, she was still a person. There had been dark days
when Holly had dreamed of hunting the pixie down and issuing a little Mud Man
justice, but those days were gone.

justice, but those days were gone.
Foaly tugged at his outrageously coiffed forelock.
“All beings are made of energy,” he began in the typical pompous imparting

important info voice that he used at times like this. “When these beings die, their
energy slowly dissipates and returns to the earth.” He paused dramatically. “But
what if a being’s entire existence is suddenly negated by a quantum anomaly?”

Trouble raised his arms. “Whoa! Simple and to the point, remember?”
Foaly rephrased. “Okay. If young Opal dies, then old Opal cannot continue
to exist.”
It took Trouble a second, but he got it. “So, will it be like the movies? She
will fizzle out of existence, and we will all look a bit puzzled for a moment, then
forget about her?”
Foaly snickered. “That’s one theory.”
“What’s the other theory?”
The centaur paled suddenly, and uncharacteristically yielded the floor to
Artemis.
“Why don’t you explain this bit?” Foaly said. “I just flashed on what could
actually happen, and I need to start making calls.”
Artemis nodded curtly. “The other theory was first postulated by your own
Professor Bahjee over five centuries ago. Bahjee believes that if the time stream
is polluted by the arrival of the younger version of a being and that younger
version subsequently dies, then the present-tense version of the being will
release all its energy spontaneously and violently. Not only that, but anything
that exists because of the younger Opal will also combust.”
Violently and combust were words that Commander Kelp understood well.
“Release its energy? How violently?”
Artemis shrugged. “That depends on the object or being. Matter is changed
instantaneously into energy. A huge explosive force will be released. We could
even be talking about nuclear fission.”
Holly felt her heart speed up. “Fission? Nuclear fission?”
“Basically,” said Artemis. “For living beings. The objects should cause less
damage.”
“Anything Opal made or contributed to will explode?”
“No. Just the things she influenced in the past five years of our time line,
between her two ages, though there will probably be some temporal ripples on
either side.”
“Are you talking about all of her company’s weapons that are still in
commission?” asked Holly.
“And the satellites,” added Trouble. “Every second vehicle in the city.”
“It is just a theory,” said Artemis. “There is yet another theory that suggests

“It is just a theory,” said Artemis. “There is yet another theory that suggests
nothing at all will happen, other than one person dying. Physics trumps quantum
physics, and things go on as normal.”

Holly found herself red-faced with sudden fury. “You’re talking as though
Opal is already dead.”

Artemis was not sure what to say. “We are staring into the abyss, Holly. In a
short time, many of us could be dead. I need to stay detached.”

Foaly looked up from his computer panel. “What do you think about the
percentages, Mud Boy?”

“Percentages?”
“Theory-wise.”
“Oh, I see. How likely are the explosions?”
“Exactly.”
Artemis thought about it. “All things considered, I would say about ninety
percent. If I were a betting man and there were someone to take this kind of bet,
I would put my last gold coin on it.”
Trouble paced the small office. “We need to release Opal. Let her go
immediately.”
Now Holly was uncertain. “Let’s think about this, Trubs.”
The commander turned on her. “Didn’t you hear what the human said?
Fission! We can’t have fission underground.”
“I agree, but it could still be a trick.”
“The alternative is too terrible. We turn her loose and hunt her down. Get
Atlantis on the line now. I need to speak to the warden at the Deeps. Is it still
Vinyáya?”
Artemis spoke quietly but with the commanding tone that had made him a
natural leader since the age of ten.
“It’s too late to free Opal. All we can do is save her life. That’s what she
planned for all along.”
“Save her life?” objected Trouble. “But we still have . . .” Commander Kelp
checked the countdown clock. “Ten minutes.”
Artemis patted Holly’s shoulder, then stepped away from her. “If fairy
bureaucracy is anything like the human kind, you won’t be able to get Opal into
a shuttle in that time. What you might be able to do is get her down to the reactor
core.”
Kelp had not yet learned the hard way to shut up and let Artemis explain, and
so kept asking questions, slowing down the process, wasting valuable seconds.
“Reactor core? What reactor core?”
Artemis raised a finger. “One more question, Commander, and I will be
forced to have Butler restrain you.”

forced to have Butler restrain you.”
Kelp was a breath away from ejecting Artemis or charging him with

something, but the situation was critical and if there was a chance that this
human could in some way help . . .

He clenched his fists till his fingers creaked. “Okay. Talk.”
“The Deeps is powered by a natural fission reactor in a uranium ore layer set
on a bed of granite similar to the one in Oklo, Gabon,” said Artemis, tugging the
facts from his memory. “The People’s Power Company harvests the energy in
small pods set into the uranium. These pods are constructed with science and
magic to withstand a moderate nuclear blast. This is taught in schools here.
Every fairy in the room knows this, correct?”
Everyone nodded. Technically it was correct, as they did know it now.
“If we can place Opal inside the pod before the deadline, then the blast will
at least be contained and theoretically, if we pump in enough anti-rad foam, Opal
might even retain her physical integrity. Though that is something I would not
bet my last gold coin on. Opal, apparently, is prepared to take the risk.”
Trouble was tempted to poke Artemis in the chest but wisely resisted.
“You’re saying that all of this is an elaborate escape plan?”
“Of course,” said Artemis. “And not all that elaborate. Opal is forcing you to
release her from her cell. The alternative is the utter destruction of Atlantis and
every soul in it, which is unthinkable to anyone except Opal herself.”
Foaly had already brought up the prison plans. “The reactor core is less than
a hundred yards below Opal’s cell. I’m contacting the warden now.”
Holly knew that Artemis was a genius and that there was no one more
qualified to second-guess kidnappers. But still, they had options.
She gazed at the figures on-screen and was chilled by how casual the gnomes
seemed, in the light of what they were about to do. They slouched like
adolescents, barely glancing at their captive, cocky in their abilities and not even
a jot self-conscious about their cartoon-character smart-masks, which “read”
their faces and displayed the appropriate emotions in exaggerated cartoon style.
Smart-masks were very popular with the karaoke crowd, who could then look
like their idols as well as trying to sound like them.
Perhaps they don’t know exactly what’s at stake here, Holly thought
suddenly. Perhaps they are as clueless as I was ten seconds ago.
“Can they hear us?” she asked Foaly.
“They can, but we haven’t responded yet. Just press the button.”
This was just an old figure of speech; there was of course no actual button,
just a sensor on the touch screen.
“Hold it, Captain!” ordered Trouble.
“I am a trained negotiator, sir,” said Holly, hoping the respect in her tone

“I am a trained negotiator, sir,” said Holly, hoping the respect in her tone
would get her what she wanted. “And I was once . . .” She glanced guiltily at
Artemis, sorry that she had to play this card. “I was once a hostage myself, so I
know how these things go. Let me talk to them.”

Artemis nodded encouragingly, and Holly knew that he understood her
tactics.

“Captain Short is correct, Commander,” he said. “Holly is a natural
communicator. She even managed to get through to me.”

“Do it,” barked Trouble. “Foaly, you keep trying to reach Atlantis. And
assemble the Council; we need to begin evacuating both cities now.”

Though you could not see their real faces, the gnomes’ cartoon expressions were
bored now. It was in the slant of their heads and the bend of their knees. Perhaps
this whole thing was not as exciting as they hoped it would be. After all, they
could not see their audience, and no one had responded to their threats. What had
started out as a revolutionary action was now beginning to look like two big
gnomes picking on a pixie.

Pip waggled his gun at Kip, and the meaning was clear. Why don’t we just
shoot her now?

Holly activated the microphone with a wave of her hand.
“Hello, you there. This is Captain Holly Short of the LEP. Can you hear

me?”
The gnomes perked up immediately, and Pip even attempted a whistle,

which came through the vox-box as a raspberry.
“Hey, Captain Short. We heard of you. I’ve seen pictures. Not too shabby,

Captain.”
Holly bit back a caustic retort. Never force a kidnapper to demonstrate his

resolve.
“Thank you, Pip. Should I call you Pip?”
“You, Holly Short, can call me anything and any time you like,” squeaked

Pip, and he extended his free hand toward his partner for a knuckle bump.
Holly was incredulous. These two were about to totally incapacitate the

entire fairy world, and they were goofing about like two goblins at a fireball
party.

“Okay, Pip,” she continued evenly. “What can we do for you today?”
Pip shook his head sorrowfully at Kip. “Why are the pretty ones always
stupid?” He turned to the camera. “You know what you can do for us. We told
you already. Release Opal Koboi, or the younger model is gonna take a long

you already. Release Opal Koboi, or the younger model is gonna take a long
sleep. And by that I mean, get shot in the head.”

“You need to give us some time to show good faith. Come on, Pip. One more
hour? For me?”

Pip scratched his head with the gun barrel, pretending to consider it. “You
are cute, Holly. But not that cute. If I give you another hour, you’ll track me
down somehow and drop a time-stop on my head. No thanks, Cap. You have ten
minutes. If I was you, I would get that cell open or call the undertaker.”

“This kind of thing takes time, Pip,” persisted Holly, repeating the name,
forging a bond. “It takes three days to pay a parking fine.”

Pip shrugged. “Not my problem, babe. And you can call me Pip all day and it
won’t make us BFFs. It ain’t my real name.”

Artemis deactivated the microphone. “This one is smart, Holly. Don’t play
with him, just tell the truth.”

Holly nodded and switched on the mike. “Okay, whatever your name is. Let
me give it to you straight. There’s a good chance that if you shoot young Opal,
then we’re going to have a series of very big explosions down here. A lot of
innocent people will die.”

Pip waved his gun carelessly. “Oh yeah, the quantum laws. We know about
that, don’t we, Kip?”

“Quantum laws,” said Kip. “Of course we know about that.”
“And you don’t care that good fairies, gnomes that could be related to you,
will die?”
Pip raised his eyebrows so that they jutted over the top of the mask. “You
like any of your family, Kip?”
“Ain’t got no family. I’m an orphan.”
“Really? Me too.”
While they bantered, Opal shivered in the dirt, trying to speak through the
tape. Foaly would get voice analysis on the muffled mumbles later—if there was
a later—but it didn’t take a genius to figure out she was pleading for her life.
“There must be something you need,” said Holly.
“There is one thing,” replied Pip. “Could I get your com-code? I sure would
love to hook up for a sim-latte when this is all over. Might be a while, of course,
what with Haven City being in ruins.”
Foaly put a text box on the screen. It read: They’re moving Opal now.
Holly fluttered her eyelids to show she understood, then continued with the
negotiation. “Here’s the situation, Pip. We have nine minutes left. You can’t get
someone out of Atlantis in nine minutes. It’s not possible. They need to suit up,
pressurize, maybe; go through the conduits to open sea. Nine minutes is not long
enough.”

enough.”
Pip’s theatrical responses were getting a little hard to take. “Well then, I

guess a lot of people are going swimming. Fission can put a hell of a hole in the
shield.”

Holly broke. “Don’t you care about anyone? What’s the going rate for
genocide?”

Pip and Kip actually laughed.
“It’s a horrible feeling, impotency, ain’t it?” said Pip. “But there are worse
feelings. Drowning, for example.”
“And getting crushed by falling buildings,” added Kip.
Holly banged her tiny fists on the console.
These two are so infuriating.
Pip stepped close to the camera, so that his mask filled the screen. “If I don’t
get a call from Opal Koboi in the next few minutes telling me she is in a shuttle
on her way to the surface, then I will shoot this pixie. Believe it.”
Foaly rested his head in his hands. “I used to love Pip and Kip,” he said.

COMING FROM
EOIN COLFER IN SPRING 2020

The first book in a new series about Artemis Fowl’s younger
brothers,

by internationally best-selling author Eoin Colfer

There are things to know about the world.
Surely you realize that what you know is not everything there is to know. In

spite of humankind’s ingenuity, there are shadows too dark for your kind to fully
illuminate. The very mantle of our planet is one example; the ocean floor is
another. And in these shadows we live. The Hidden Ones. The magical creatures
who have removed ourselves from the destructive human orbit. Once, we fairies
ruled the surface as humans do now, as bacteria will in the future, but for now,
we are content for the most part to exist in our underground civilization. For ten
thousand years, fairies have used our magic and technology to shield ourselves
from prying eyes, and to heal the beleaguered Earth mother, Danu. We fairies
have a saying that is writ large in golden tiles on the altar mosaic of the Hey Hey
Temple, and the saying is this: WE DIG DEEP AND WE ENDURE.

But there is always one maverick who does not care a fig for fairy mosaics
and is hell-bent on reaching the surface. Usually this maverick is a troll. And
specifically in this case, the maverick is a troll who will shortly and for a
ridiculous reason be named Whistle Blower.

For here begins the second documented cycle of Fowl adventures.

The Baddie: Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye. The Duke of Scilly.

If a person wants to murder the head of a family, then it is very important that
the entire family also be done away with, or the distraught survivors might very
well decide to take bloody revenge, or at least make a detailed report at the local
police station. There is, in fact, an entire chapter on this exact subject in The
Criminal Mastermind’s Almanac, an infamous guidebook for aspiring ruthless
criminals by Professor Wulf Bane, which was turned down by every reputable
publisher but is available on demand from the author. The actual chapter name is
“Kill Them All. Even the Pets.” A gruesome title that would put most normal
people off from reading it, but Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye, Duke of Scilly, was
not a normal person, and the juiciest phrases in his copy of The Criminal
Mastermind’s Almanac were marked in pink highlighter, and the book itself was
dedicated as follows:

To Teddy

From one criminal mastermind to another

Don’t be a stranger

Wulfy

Lord Bleedham-Drye had dedicated most of his one hundred and fifty years
on this green earth to staying on this green earth as long as possible—as opposed
to being buried beneath it. In television interviews he credited his youthful
appearance to yoga and fish oil, but in actual fact, Lord Teddy had spent much
of his inherited fortune traveling the globe in search of any potions and pills,
legal or not, that would extend his life span. As a roving ambassador for the
Crown, Lord Teddy could easily find an excuse to visit the most far-flung
corners of the planet in the name of culture, when in fact he was keeping his
eyes open for anything that grew, swam, waddled, or crawled that would help
him stay alive for even a minute longer than his allotted four score and ten.

So far in his quest, Lord Teddy had tried every so-called eternal youth
therapy for which there was even the flimsiest of supporting evidence. He had,
among other things, ingested tons of willow-bark extract, swallowed millions of
antioxidant tablets, slurped gallons of therapeutic arsenic, injected the
cerebrospinal fluid of the endangered Madagascan lemur, devoured countless
helpings of Southeast Asian liver-fluke spaghetti, and spent almost a month
suspended over an active volcanic rift in Iceland, funneling the restorative
volcanic gas up the leg holes of his linen shorts. These and other extreme
practices—never ever to be tried at home—had indeed kept Bleedham-Drye
breathing and vital thus far, but there had been side effects. The lemur fluid had
caused his forearms to elongate so that his hands dangled below his knees. The
arsenic had paralyzed the left corner of his mouth so that it was forever curled in
a sardonic-looking sneer, and the volcanic embers had scalded his bottom,
forcing Teddy to walk in a slightly bowlegged manner as though trying to keep
his balance in rough seas. Bleedham-Drye considered these secondary effects a
small price to pay for his wrinkle-free complexion, luxuriant mane of hair, and
spade of black beard, and of course the vigor that helped him endure lengthy
treks and safaris in the hunt for any more rumored life-extenders.

But Lord Teddy was all too aware that he had yet to hit the jackpot,
therapeutically speaking, in regards to his quest for an unreasonably extended
life. It was true that he had eked out a few extra decades, but what was that in the
face of eternity? There were jellyfish that, as a matter of course, lived longer
than he had. Jellyfish! They didn’t even have brains, for heaven’s sake.

Teddy found himself frustrated, which he hated, because stress gave a fellow
wrinkles.

A new direction was called for.
No more penny-ante half measures, cribbing a year here and a season there.
I must find the fountain of youth, he resolved one evening while lying in his
brass tub full of electric eels, which he had heard did wonders for a chap’s
circulation.
As it turned out, Lord Bleedham-Drye did find the fountain of youth, but it
was not a fountain in the traditional sense of the word, as the life-giving liquid
was contained in the venom of a mythological creature. And the family he would
possibly have to murder to access it was none other than the Fowls of Dublin,
Ireland, who were not overly fond of being murdered.

This is how the entire regrettable episode kicked off.
Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye reasoned that the time-honored way of doing a

thing was to ask the fellows who had already done the thing how they had

thing was to ask the fellows who had already done the thing how they had
managed to do it, and so he set out to interview the oldest people on earth. This
was not as easy as it might sound, even in the era of worldwide-webbery and
marvelous miniature communication devices, for many aged folks do not
advertise the fact that they have passed the century mark lest they be plagued by
health-magazine journalists or telegrams from various queens. But nevertheless,
over the course of five years, Lord Teddy managed to track down several of
these elusive oldsters, finding them all to be either tediously virtuous, which was
of little use to him, or lucky, which could neither be counted on nor stolen. And
such was the way of it until he located an Irish monk who was working in an
elephant sanctuary in California, of all places, having long since given up on
helping humans. Brother Colman looked not a day over fifty, and was, in fact, in
remarkable shape for a man who claimed to be almost five hundred years old.

Once Lord Teddy had slipped a liberal dose of sodium Pentothal into the
Irishman’s tea, Brother Colman told a very interesting story of how the holy well
on Dalkey Island had come by its healing waters when he was a monk there in
the fifteenth century.

Teddy did not believe a word of it, but the name Dalkey did sound an alarm
bell somewhere in the back of his mind. A bell he muted for the present.

The fool is raving, he thought. I gave him too much truth serum.
With the so-called monk in a chemical daze, Bleedham-Drye performed a
couple of simple verification checks, not really expecting anything exciting.
First he unbuttoned the man’s shirt, and found to his surprise that Brother
Colman’s chest was latticed with ugly scars, which would be consistent with the
man’s story but was not exactly proof.
The idiot might have been gored by one of his own elephants, Teddy
realized. But Lord Bleedham-Drye had seen many wounds in his time and never
anything this dreadful on a living body.
There ain’t no fooling my second test, thought Teddy, and with a flash of his
pruning shears he snipped off Brother Colman’s left pinky. After all,
radiocarbon dating never lied.
It would be several weeks before the results came back from the Advanced
Accelerator Mass Spectrometer Laboratory, and by that time Teddy was back in
England once again, lounging dejectedly in his bath of electric eels in the family
seat: Childerblaine House, on the island of St. George in the Scilly Isles.
Interestingly enough, the island had been so named because in one of the various
versions of the St. George legend, the beheaded dragon’s body had been dumped
into Cornish waters and drifted out to the Scilly Isles, where it settled on a
submerged rock and fossilized, which provided a romantic explanation for the
small island’s curved spine of ridges.

small island’s curved spine of ridges.
When Lord Teddy came upon the envelope from AAMSL in his pile of mail,

he sliced it open listlessly, fully expecting that the Brother Colman excursion
had been a big waste of precious time and shrinking fortune.

But the results on that single page made Teddy sit up so quickly that several
eels were slopped from the tub.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, his halo of dark hair curled and vibrating
from the eel charge. “I’m off to Dalkey Island, begorra.”

The laboratory report was brief and cursory in the way of scientific reports:
The supplied specimen, it read, is in the four-hundred- to five-hundred-year-
old age range.
Lord Teddy outfitted himself in his standard apparel of high boots, riding
breeches, and a tweed hunting jacket, all topped off with his old commando
beret. And he loaded up his wooden speedboat for what the police these days
like to call a stakeout. It was only when he was halfway across the Irish Sea in
the Juventas that Lord Teddy realized why the name Dalkey sounded so familiar.
The Fowl fellow hung his hat there.
Artemis Fowl.
A force to be reckoned with. Teddy had heard a few stories about Artemis
Fowl, and even more about his son Artemis II.
Rumors, he told himself. Rumors, hearsay, and balderdash.
And even if the stories were true, the Duke of Scilly’s determination never
wavered.
I shall have that troll’s venom, he thought, opening the V-12 throttles wide.
And I shall live forever.

The Goodies (relatively speaking)
Dalkey Island, Dublin, Ireland.
Three Weeks Later.

Behold Myles and Beckett Fowl, passing a late summer evening on the family’s
private beach. If you look past the superficial differences—wardrobe, spectacles,
hairstyles, and so on—you notice that the boys’ facial features are very similar
but not absolutely identical. This is because they are dizygotic twins, and were,
in fact, the first recorded nonidentical twins to be born conjoined, albeit only
from wrist to little finger. The attending surgeon separated them with a flash of
her scalpel, and neither twin suffered any ill effects, apart from matching pink
scars that ran along the outside of their palms. Myles and Beckett often touched
scars to comfort each other. It was their version of a high five, which they called
a wrist bump. This habit was both touching and slightly gross.

a wrist bump. This habit was both touching and slightly gross.
Apart from their features, the fraternal twins were, as one tutor noted, “very

different animals.” Myles had an IQ of 170 and was fanatically neat, while
Beckett’s IQ was a mystery, because he chewed the test into pulpy blobs from
which he made a sculpture of a hamster in a bad mood, which he titled Angry
Hamster.

Also, Beckett was far from neat. In fact, his parents were forced to take up
Mindfulness just to calm themselves down whenever they attempted to put some
order on his catastrophically untidy side of the bedroom.

It was obvious from their early days in a double cradle that the twins did not
share similar personalities. When they were teething, Beckett would chew
pacifiers ragged, while Myles chose to nibble thoughtfully on the eraser end of a
pencil. As a toddler, Myles liked to emulate his big brother, Artemis, by wearing
tiny black suits that had to be custom-made. Beckett preferred to run free as
nature intended, and when he finally did agree to wear something, it was plastic
training pants, which he used to store his pet goldfish, Gloop (named for the
sound it made—or at least the sound the goldfish was blamed for).

As the brothers grew older, the differences between them became more
obvious. Myles became ever more fastidious, 3-D–printing a fresh suit every day
and taming his wild jet-black Fowl hair with a seaweed-based gel that both
moisturized the scalp and nourished the brain, while Beckett made zero attempt
to tame the wild blond curls that he had inherited from his mother’s side of the
family, and continued to sulk when he was forced to wear any clothes, with the
exception of the only article he never removed—a golden necktie that had once
been Gloop. Myles had cured and laminated the goldfish when it passed away,
and Beckett wore it always as a keepsake. This habit was both touching and
extremely gross.

Perhaps you have heard of the Fowl family of Ireland? They are quite
notorious in certain shadowy circles. The twins’ father was once the world’s
preeminent crime lord, but he had a change of heart and reinvented himself as a
champion of the environment. Myles and Beckett’s older brother, Artemis II,
had also been quite the criminal virtuoso, hatching schemes involving massive
amounts of gold bullion, fairy police forces, and time travel, to name but a few.
Fortunately for more or less everyone except aliens, Artemis had recently turned
his attention to outer space, and was currently six months into a five-year
mission to Mars in a revolutionary self-winding rocket ship that he had built in
the family barn. By the time the world’s various authorities, including NASA,
ASCO, ALR, CSNA, and UKSA, had caught wind of the project and begun to
marshal their objections, Artemis had already passed the moon.

The twins themselves were to have many adventures, some of which would

The twins themselves were to have many adventures, some of which would
kill them (though not permanently), but this particular episode began a week
after their eleventh birthday. Myles and Beckett were walking along the stony
beach of Dalkey Island, where the Fowl family had recently moved to Villa Éco,
a newly built, state-of-the art, environmentally friendly house attached to a
renovated Martello tower. The twins’ father had donated Fowl Manor, their
rambling ancestral home, to a cooperative of organic farmers, declaring, “It is
time for the Fowls to embrace planet Earth.”

On this summer evening, the twins’ mother was delivering a lecture in
Dublin’s National Library with her husband in attendance. Some years
previously, Angeline had suffered from what Shakespeare called “the grief that
does not speak,” and, in an effort to understand her depression, had completed a
mental health doctorate at Trinity College and now spoke at conferences around
the world. The twins were being watched over by the house itself, which had an
Artemis-designed Nano Artificial Neural Network Intelligence system, or
NANNI, to keep an electronic eye on them.

Myles was collecting seaweed for his homemade hair gel, and Beckett was
trying to learn seal language from a dolphin just offshore.

“We must be away, brother,” Myles said. “Bedtime. Our young bodies
require ten hours of sleep to ensure proper brain development.”

Beckett lay on a rock and clapped his hands. “Arf,” he said. “Arf.”
Myles tugged at his suit jacket and frowned behind the frames of his thick-
rimmed glasses. “Beck, are you attempting to speak in seal language?”
“Arf,” said Beckett, who was wearing knee-length cargo shorts and his gold
necktie.
“That is not even a seal. That is a dolphin.”
“Dolphins are smart,” said Beckett. “They know things.”
“That is true, brother, but a dolphin’s vocal cords make it impossible for it to
speak in the language of a seal. Why don’t you simply learn the dolphin’s
language?”
Beckett beamed. “Yes! You are a genius, brother. Step one, swap barks for
whistles.”
Myles sighed. Now his twin was whistling at a dolphin, and they would once
again fail to get to bed on time.
Myles stuffed a handful of seaweed into his bucket. “Please, brother. My
brain will never reach optimum productivity if we don’t leave now.” He tapped
an earpiece in his right ear. “NANNI, help me out. Please send a drobot to carry
my brother home.”
“Negative,” said the house system in a strangely accented female voice,
which Beckett instinctively trusted for some reason. “No flying Beckett home.

which Beckett instinctively trusted for some reason. “No flying Beckett home.
Mother’s orders.”

Myles could not understand why his mother refused to authorize short-range
flights for Beckett. In tests, the drone/robots had only dropped the dummy
Becketts twice, but his mother insisted the drobots were for emergencies only.

“Beckett!” he called. “If you agree to come back to the house, I will tell you
a story before bed.”

Beckett flipped over on the rock. “Which story?” he asked.
“How about the thrilling discovery of the Schwarzschild radius, which led
directly to the identification of black holes?” suggested Myles.
Beckett was not impressed. “How about the adventures of Gloop and Angry
Hamster in the Dimension of Fire?”
Now it was Myles’s turn to be unimpressed. “Beck, that’s preposterous. Fish
and hamsters do not even share the same environment. And neither could
survive in a dimension of fire.”
“You’re preposterous,” said Beckett and went back to his whistling.
The crown of Beck’s head will be burned by the evening UV rays, thought
Myles.
“Very well,” he said. “Gloop and Angry Hamster it is.”
“And Dolphin,” said Beckett. “He wants to be in the story, too.”
Myles sighed. “Dolphin, too.”
“Hooray!” said Beckett, skipping across the rocks. “Story time. Wrist
bump?”
Myles raised his palm for a bump and wondered, If I’m the smart one, why
do we always do exactly what Beck wants us to?
Myles asked himself this question a lot.
“Now, brother,” he said, “please say good night to your friend, and let us be
off.”
Beckett turned to do as he was told, but only because it suited him.
If Beckett had not turned to bid the dolphin farewell, then perhaps the entire
series of increasingly bizarre events that followed might have been avoided.
There would have been no nefarious villain, no ridiculously named trolls, no
shadowy organizations, no interrogations by a nun (which are known in the
intelligence community as nunterrogations, believe it or not), and a definite lack
of imaginary head lice. But Myles did turn, precisely two seconds after a troll
had surged upward through the loose shale at the water’s edge and collapsed
onto the beach.

Fairies are defined as being “small, humanoid, supernatural creatures possessed
of magical powers,” a description that applies neatly to elves, gnomes, sprites,

of magical powers,” a description that applies neatly to elves, gnomes, sprites,
and pixies. It is, however, a human definition, and therefore as incomplete as
human knowledge on the subject. The fairies’ definition of themselves is more
concise and can be found in the Fairy Book, which is their constitution, so to
speak, the original of which is behind crystal in the Hey Hey Temple in Haven
City, the subterranean fairy capital. It states:

Fairy, faerie, or faery: A creature of the earth. Often magical.
Never willfully destructive.

No mention of small or humanoid. It may surprise humans to know that they
themselves were once considered fairies and did indeed possess some magic,
until many of them stepped off the path and became extremely willfully
destructive, and so magic was bred out of humans over the centuries, until there
was nothing left but an empath here and there, and the occasional telekinetic.

Trolls are classed as fairies by fairies themselves, but would not be so
categorized according to the human definition, as they are not magical—unless
their longevity can be considered supernatural. They are, however, quite feral
and only slightly more sentient than the average hound. Fairy scientists have
discovered that trolls are highly susceptible to chemical-induced psychosis while
also tending to nest in chemically polluted sites, in much the same way as
humans are attracted to the sugar that poisons them. The toxins ingested by trolls
often result in uncharacteristically aggressive behavior and uncontrollable rage.
Again, similar to how humans behave when experiencing sugar deprivation.

But this particular troll was not sick, sluggish, or aggressive—in fact, he was
in remarkable physical health, all pumping limbs and scything tusks, as he
followed his second most powerful instinct:

REACH THE SURFACE.
Trolls’ most powerful instinct being EAT, GOBBLE, DEVOUR.
This troll’s bloodstream was clear because he had never swum across a
chromium-saturated lake and he had never carved out his burrow in mercury-
rich soil. Nevertheless, healthy or not, this specimen would never have made it
to the surface had the Earth’s crust under Dalkey Island not been exceptionally
thin, a mere mile and a quarter, in fact. This troll was able to squeeze himself
into fissures that would have made a claustrophobe faint, and he wriggled his
way to the open air. It took the creature four sun cycles of agonizingly slow
progress to break through, and you might think the cosmos would have granted
the fellow a little good fortune after such Herculean efforts, but no, he had to
pop out right between the Fowl twins and Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye, who was
lurking on a mainland balcony and spying on Dalkey Island through a telescopic
monocular, thus providing the third leg of a teetering tripod of fate, which,

monocular, thus providing the third leg of a teetering tripod of fate, which,
considering the personalities and intellects involved, could not result in anything
but skulduggery.

So, the troll emerged, joint by joint, reborn to the atmosphere, gnashing and
clawing. And in spite of his almost utter exhaustion, some spark of triumph
drove him to his feet for a celebratory howl, which was when Lord Teddy, for
diabolical reasons that shall presently be explored, shot him.

Once the shot had been fired, the entire troll-related rigmarole really got
rigmarolling, because the microsecond that NANNI’s sensors detected the
bullet’s sonic boom, she upgraded her alert status from beige to red, sounded the
alarm Klaxon, and set the security system to Siege mode. Two armored drobots
were dispatched from their charging plates to extract the twins, and forty decoy
flares were launched from mini mortar ports in the roof as countermeasures to
any infrared-guided missiles that may or may not be inbound.

This left the twins with approximately twenty seconds of earthbound liberty
before they would be whisked into the evening sky and secured in the eco-
house’s ultrasecret safe room, blueprints of which did not appear on any set of
plans.

A lot can happen in twenty seconds. And a lot did happen.
Firstly, let us discuss the marksman. When I say Lord Teddy shot the troll,
this is possibly misleading, even though it is accurate. He did shoot the troll, but
not with the usual explosive variety of bullet, which would have penetrated the
troll’s hide and quite possibly killed the beast through sheer shock trauma. That
was the absolute last thing Lord Teddy wanted, as it would void his entire plan.
This particular bullet was a gas-powered cellophane virus slug that was being
developed by the Japanese munitions company Myishi and was not yet officially
on the market. Known as “shrink wrappers” by the development team, the CV
bullet released its virus on impact and then wrapped the target in a coating of
cellophane that was porous enough to allow shallow breathing but had been
known to crack a rib or two—and did, in fact, crack four of the troll’s ribs and
both his femurs.
And then there was the physicality of the troll itself. There are many breeds
of troll. From the ten-foot-tall behemoth Antarctic Blue, to the silent jungle killer
the Amazon Heel Claw. The troll on Dalkey Island Beach was a one-in-a-million
anomaly. In form and proportion he was the perfect Ridgeback, with the
distinctive thick comb of spiked hair that ran from brow to tailbone, and the
blue-veined gray fur on his chest and arms all present and correct. But this
creature was no massive predator. In fact, he was a rather tiny one. Standing
barely eight inches tall, the troll was one of a relatively new variety that had

barely eight inches tall, the troll was one of a relatively new variety that had
begun to pop up in recent millennia since fairies were forced deep into the
earth’s mantle. Much in the same way as schnauzer dogs had miniature
counterparts known as toy schnauzers, some troll breeds also had their shrunken
varieties, and this troll was one of perhaps half a dozen toy Ridgebacks in
existence and the first to ever reach the surface.

Not at all what Lord Teddy had been expecting. Having seen Brother
Colman’s scars, the duke had imagined his quarry would be somewhat larger.

When the little troll’s heat signature had popped up in his eyepiece like an
oversize Jelly Baby, the duke had exclaimed, “Good heavens! Could that little
fellow be my troll?”

It certainly matched Brother Colman’s description, except for the
dimensions. In truth, the duke couldn’t help feeling a little let down. He had
been expecting something more substantial. That diminutive creature didn’t look
like it could manufacture enough venom to keep a hamster alive.

“Nevertheless,” muttered the duke, “since I’ve come all this way . . .”
And he squeezed the trigger on his sniper rifle.
The supersonic cellophane slug made a distinctive warbling noise as it sped
through the air, sounding like a juvenile Swiss yodeler, and impacted the toy
Ridgeback square in the solar plexus, releasing its payload in a sparkling globule
that quickly sprawled over the tiny creature, wrapping it in a restrictive layer of
cellophane before it could do much more than squeak in indignation.
Beckett Fowl spotted the cartwheeling toy troll, and his first impressions
were of fur and teeth, and so, consequently, his first thought was Angry
Hamster!
But the boy chided himself, remembering that Angry Hamster was a
sculpture he himself had constructed from chewed paper and bodily fluids and
therefore not a living thing, and so he would have to revise his guess as to what
this tumbling figure might be.
But by this time the troll had come to rest at his feet, and Beckett was able to
snatch it up and scrutinize it closely, so there was no need for guessing.
Not alive, he observed then. Doll, maybe.
Beckett thought the figure had moved of its own accord, perhaps even made
a squealing noise of some kind, but now he could see it was a fantasy action
figure with a protective plastic coating.
“I shall call you Whistle Blower, little chap,” he whispered into the troll’s
pointed ear. The boy had chosen this name after barely a second’s consideration,
because he had seen on Myles’s preferred news channel that people who
squealed were sometimes called whistle-blowers. Also, Beckett was not the kind
of fellow who wasted time on decisions.

of fellow who wasted time on decisions.
Beckett turned to show Myles his beach salvage, though his brother had

always been a little snooty when it came to toys, claiming they were for children
even though he was patently himself a child and would be for a few more years.

“See, brother?” he called, waggling the action figure. “I found a new friend.”
Myles sneered as expected, and opened his mouth to pass a derogatory
remark along the lines of “Honestly, Beck. We are eleven years old now. Time
to leave childish things behind.”
But his scorn was interrupted by a deafening series of honks.
The emergency Klaxon.
It is true to say that there is hardly a more alarming sound than a Klaxon,
heralding as it does the arrival of some form of disaster. Most people do not
react positively to this sound. Some scream, some faint. There are those who run
in circles wringing their hands, which is also pointless. And of course there are
people who have involuntary purges, which shall not be elaborated upon here.
The reactions of the Fowl twins could seem strange to a casual observer, for
Myles discarded his seaweed bucket and uttered a single word: “Finally.”
While Beckett spoke to his sparkling necktie. “Do you hear that, Gloop?” he
asked. “We’re going flying!”
To explain: Myles had worked with Artemis to design the security system, so
he had a cool scientific interest in putting the extraction drobots through their
paces as thus far they had only been tested with crash dummies. Beckett, on the
other hand, was just dying to be yanked backward into the air at a high speed
and dumped into a security chute, and he fervently hoped the ride would last
much longer than the projected half a minute.
Myles forgot all about getting to bed on time. He was in action mode now as
the countermeasure flares fanned out behind his head like fireworks painting the
undersides of passing cumuli. NANNI broadcast a message to his earpiece,
which Myles repeated aloud to Beckett in melodramatic tones that he knew his
brother would respond to, as it made him feel like he was on an adventure.
“‘Red alert!’” Myles called. “‘Extraction position.’”
The twins had been drilled on this particular position so often that Beckett
reacted to the command with prompt obedience—two words that he would never
find written on any of his school report cards.
Extraction position was as follows: chin tucked low, arms stretched
overhead, and jaw relaxed to avoid cracked teeth.
“Ten seconds,” said Myles, slipping his spectacles into a jacket pocket.
“‘Nine, eight . . .’”
Beckett also slipped something into his pocket before assuming the position.
“‘Three,’” said Myles. “‘Two . . .’”

“‘Three,’” said Myles. “‘Two . . .’”
Then the boy allowed his jaw to relax and spoke no more.
The two drobots shot out from under the villa’s eaves and sped unerringly
toward the twins. They maintained an altitude of six feet from the ground by
dipping their rotors and adjusting their course as they flew, communicating with
each other through coded clicks and beeps. With their gear retracted, the drobots
resembled nothing more than the old propeller hats that children used to wear in
simpler times as they rode their bicycles.
The drobots barely slowed as they approached the twins, lowering micro–
servo cable arms that lassoed the boys’ waists, then inflated impact bags to avoid
injuring their cargo.
“Cable loop in place,” said Myles, lowering his arms. “Bags inflated. Most
efficient.”
In theory, the ride should be so smooth his suit would not get wrinkled.
“No more science talk!” shouted Beckett impatiently. “Let’s go!”
And go they did.
The servo cables retracted smoothly to winch the twins into the air. Myles
noted that there had been no discernible impact on his spine, and while
acceleration was rapid—zero to sixty miles an hour in four seconds according to
his smart watch—the ride was not excessively jarring.
“So far so good,” he said into the wind. He glanced sideways to see Beckett
ignoring the flight instructions, waving his arms around as though he were on a
roller coaster.
“Arms folded, Beck!” he called sternly to his brother. “Feet crossed at the
ankles. You are increasing your own drag.”
It was possible that Beckett could not hear the instructions, but it was
probable that he simply ignored them and continued to treat their emergency
extraction like a theme park ride.
The journey was over almost as soon as it began, and the twins found
themselves deposited in two small chimneylike padded tubes toward the rear of
the house. The drobots lowered them to the safe room, then sealed the tubes with
their own shells.
NANNI’s face appeared in a free-floating-liquid speaker ball, which was
held in shape by an electric charge. “Shall I activate the EMP?”
Myles considered this as he unclipped the servo cable. Villa Éco was
outfitted with a localized electromagnetic-pulse generator that would knock out
any electronic systems entering the island’s airspace. The Fowls’ own
electronics would not be affected, as they had backups that ran on optical cable.
A little old-school, but it could keep systems ticking until the danger was past.
“Hmm,” said Myles. “That seems a little drastic. What is the nature of the

“Hmm,” said Myles. “That seems a little drastic. What is the nature of the
emergency?”

“Sonic boom detected,” said the comforting female voice. “Origin uncertain.
Possibly a high-powered rifle.”

A sonic boom could be many things, and the majority of those things were
harmless. Still, Myles now had a valid excuse to employ the EMP, something he
had been forbidden to do unless absolutely necessary.

It was, in fact, a judgment call.
Beckett, who had somehow become inverted in the delivery chute, tumbled
onto the floor and cried, “Activate the EMP!”
And for once, Myles found himself in agreement with his brother.
“I concur,” he said. “Activate the EMP, NANNI. Tight radius, low intensity.
No need to knock out the mainland.”
“Activating EMP,” said NANNI, and promptly collapsed in a puddle on the
floor as her own electronics had not yet been converted to optical cable.
“See, Beck?” said Myles, lifting one black loafer from a glistening wet
patch. “That is what we scientists call a design flaw.”

Lord Bleedham-Drye was doubly miffed and thrice surprised by the
developments on Dalkey Island.

Surprise number one: Brother Colman spoke the truth, and trolls did indeed
walk the earth.

Surprise the second: The troll was tiny. Whoever heard of a tiny troll?
Surprise the last (for the moment): Flying boys had sequestered his prey.
“What on earth’s going on?” he asked no one in particular.
The duke expertly broke down his rifle and cleaned the component parts with
a chamois cloth, still muttering to himself. “These Fowl people seem prepared
for a full-scale invasion. They have flare countermeasures. Drones flying off
with children. Who knows what else? Antitank guns and trained bears, I
shouldn’t wonder. Even Churchill couldn’t take that beach.”
It occurred to Lord Teddy that he could blow up the entire island for spite.
He was partial to a spot of spite, after all. But after a moment’s consideration, he
dismissed the idea. It was a cheery notion, but the person he would ultimately be
spiting was none other than the Duke of Scilly, i.e., his noble self. He would
hold his fire for now, but when those boys reemerged from their fortified house,
he would be ready with his trusty rifle. After all, he was quite excellent with a
gun, as his last shot had proven. Off the battlefield, it was unseemly to shoot
anything except pheasant, unless one were engaged in a duel. Pistols at dawn,
that sort of thing. But he would make an exception for a troll, and those
blooming Fowl boys.

blooming Fowl boys.
Lord Teddy reassembled the rifle and set it on the balcony floor, muzzle

pointed toward the island.
You can’t stay in that blasted house forever, my boys, he thought. And the

moment you poke your noses out from cover, Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye shall
be prepared.

He could wait.
He was prepared to put in the hours. As the duke often said to himself: One
must spend time to make time.
Teddy lay on the yoga mat, which had been his bed for almost a month now,
and ran a sweep of the island through his night-vision monocular. The whole
place was lit up like a fairground with roaming spotlights and massive halogen
lamps. There was not a square inch of space for an intruder to hide.
Clever chappies, these Fowls, thought the duke. The father must have a lot of
enemies.
Teddy fished a boar-bristle brush from his duffel bag and began his evening
ritual of one hundred brushes on his beard. The beard rippled and glistened as he
brushed, like the pelt of an otter, and Teddy could not help but congratulate
himself. A beard required a lot of maintenance, but, by heaven, it was worth it.
On stroke fifty-seven, Lord Teddy’s hunter senses registered that something
had changed. It was suddenly darker. He looked up, expecting to find that the
lights had been shut off on Dalkey Island, but the truth was more drastic.
The island itself had disappeared.
Lord Teddy checked all the way to the horizon with his trusty monocular. In
the blink of an eye the entirety of Dalkey Island had vanished with only an
abandoned stretch of wooden jetty to hint that the Fowl residence might ever
have existed at the end of it.
Lord Bleedham-Drye was surprised to the point of stupefaction, but his
manners and breeding would not allow him to show it.
“I say,” he said mildly. “That’s hardly cricket, is it? What has the world
come to when a chap can’t bag himself a troll without entire landmasses
disappearing?”
Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye’s bottom lip drooped. Quite the sulky
expression for a 150-year-old. But the duke did not allow himself to wallow for
long. Instead, he set his mind to the puzzle of the disappearing island.
“One can’t help but wonder, Teddy Old Boy,” mused the duke to the mirror
on the flat side of his brush, “if all this troll malarkey is indeed true, then is the
rest also true? What Brother Colman said vis-à-vis elves, pixies, and gnomes all
hanging around for centuries? Is there, in fact, magic in the world?”
He would, Lord Teddy decided, proceed under the assumption that magic did

He would, Lord Teddy decided, proceed under the assumption that magic did
exist, and therefore by logical extension, magical creatures.

“And so it is only reasonable to assume,” Teddy said, “that these fairy chaps
will wish to protect their own, and perhaps send their version of the cavalry to
rescue the little troll. Perhaps the cavalry has already arrived, and this
disappearing-island trick is actually some class of a magical spell cast by a
wizard.”

The duke was right about the cavalry. The fairy cavalry had already arrived.
One fairy, at least.
But he was dead wrong about a wizard casting a spell. The fairy who had
cast the spell was a far cry indeed from being a wizard of even the most basic
level. She had made a split-second decision and was now pretty certain that it
was absolutely the wrong one.

Praise for EOIN COLFER’S
ARTEMIS FOWL SERIES

ARTEMIS FOWL
“Will grab your interest, no matter what your age.”

—The New York Post

ARTEMIS FOWL: THE ARCTIC INCIDENT
“The world that Colfer creates is as vivid and fantastical as any

shire,
Gotham, or galaxy far, far away in recent memory.”

—Entertainment Weekly

ARTEMIS FOWL: THE ETERNITY CODE

“Agile prose, rapid-fire dialogue and wise-acre humor ensure
that readers will burn the midnight oil to the finish.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

ARTEMIS FOWL: THE OPAL DECEPTION
“This book is magical.”
—The Washington Post

ARTEMIS FOWL: THE LOST COLONY
“Fast-paced, funny, and wholly enjoyable, the book is

an action-packed thrill ride.”
—Voice of Youth Advocates

ARTEMIS FOWL: THE TIME PARADOX
“The author once again offers an exhilarating ride through

the fantastical world of Artemis Fowl.”

—School Library Journal

ARTEMIS FOWL: The Atlantis Complex
“Colfer keeps the action moving with laughs and gadgetry. . . .

A treat for series fans.”
—Booklist

ARTEMIS FOWL: THE LAST GUARDIAN
“A fitting end to a brilliantly conceived and developed

series.”
—Kirkus (starred review)

Praise for EOIN COLFER’S
W.A.R.P. SERIES

W.A.R.P.: THE RELUCTANT ASSASSIN
“This science-fiction thriller provides readers with a breathless

ride through modern and Victorian Londons as these two
resourceful teens struggle to stay alive and one step ahead of their

pursuer . . . the intricate plot, strong writing, and intrepid
characters who must survive by their wits will make it hard to put

down.”
—School Library Journal

“One of the most engaging aspects of Colfer’s books is the
brilliantly witty

and imaginative plots that he devises. This book is no exception. .
. .

Fans of his other books will love this new addition and eagerly
await

the next installment in the series.”
— Voice of Youth Advocates

“Artemis Fowl fans will cheer to see Colfer return at the top of
his game.”

—Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

“Readers mourning the end of the Artemis Fowl series can
take heart:

this first book in the time-bending W.A.R.P. series is an all-out
blast.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

W.A.R.P.: The Hangman’s Revolution

“Time travel makes the future a fluid reality, but it looks like it
may be saved