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Earth

地

Fowl Manor, Past.

Artemis had been playing finger paints with the twins, and Juliet had been laughing as Beckett smeared "war paint" on Arty's face. The parents and Domovoi had been upstairs, sleeping, because it was nearly bedtime, after all. The twins didn't seem to realize that.

Juliet had run out to get a camera at Myle's cry of, "Camma! Camma!" Artemis playfully protested as Beckett sat on his stomach, giggling mischievously the whole time. Myles was in charge of sitting on Arty's knees. Artemis was laughing so hard he didn't have the strength to heave them off. Not that he particularly minded.

Couldn't he see it? Couldn't he? The memory was far too clear. It was etched in his mind, permanently. He could see it perfectly, would for the rest of his life…

The twins had had a change of heart and were wiping off Artemis' war paint (which had been messily applied and somehow covered half his face in sloppy kitty-whiskers) with baby wipes, while Artemis had alternately spluttered and laughed. Beckett had finally declared: "All clean!" and Artemis was getting up—

There was a man in the doorway.

Artemis shoved the twins behind him, leaping to his feet.

"Little Arty," the man said. He was smiling. "Artemis Fowl."

"Spiro," Artemis said, warily.

A glint in Spiro's hand. A metallic glint—a gun. Artemis stiffened. This was a madman. How had he escaped? Juliet should come down the steps any moment—

"I've come for something I should have had a long time ago," Spiro said pleasantly. An excitement hummed in his voice. "I missed last time, didn't I? I've always been a bad shot…"

The weapon drifted up to point at Artemis' torso.

"Artemis Fowl, you should never have crossed me," Spiro said, satisfied. The businessman was grinning. "I've always told you you would regret it, and today I collect on that promise. This is for six years of prison. A bullet for each year."

An electric current sparked underneath Artemis' skin. It was almost like static electricity, tracing upwards from the ground below to vibrate under his skin. Was it fear? Heart fluttered. There was no time for thought—

Six shots were fired. Only one hit.

The impact knocked Artemis violently backwards.

As he staggered, three things registered in Artemis' mind at that moment.

One, there was an acrid stench of smoke in the air. Somewhere in the manor, there was a fire. Caused by Spiro. At the speed the flames were moving, there must have been gasoline or some other flammable splashed on the ground—

Two, the twins were screaming, and Spiro's weapon was shifting aim—

And three, the static electricity under his skin suddenly rushed up from the earth, through Artemis' arm, and burst from his fingertips in the form of blue sparks.

The blue current arced through the air elegantly, to hit Jon Spiro straight in the chest. There was a sizzling sound, a brief hiccup as Spiro's eyes widened.

And then a rushing in Artemis' ears, as the world seemed to tilt and deposit him, down, down, still with a thrumming under his skin and in his heart…

Present.

I must have blacked out, Artemis thought. That is the only explanation.

Artemis woken up sometime later with the twins shaking him, sobbing and coughing. The rest had been rather straight forward. Just get the twins out. Avoid the flames. He hadn't thought about or seen Spiro's body.

It was magic.

Those blue sparks must have been magic. Real magic, not the stolen variety he had been dabbling with; those kind had always given him headaches.

The static electricity—or magic—had felt natural. Like an extension of the earth. Exactly what Holly had described when Artemis had pressed her for details.

But it couldn't be magic. All logic told him no. But his emotions told him yes.

Why hadn't the magic healed him? Logic argued. Holly's magic did for her. Even when she was unconscious, as long as she had some in her tank, her magic acted on its own and healed her wounds. If it was actually magic that had protected Artemis, why hadn't he woken up with nothing but a scar in his chest?

It's not the same kind of magic, the non-rational side said. It's your own kind.

Human magic?

Unheard of. Humans didn't respect the earth.

Artemis almost snorted, but stopped himself—Juliet and the twins were sleeping peacefully on the grass beside him.

He was thinking like a fairy. Fairies believed that humans had lost their magic from how they treated the earth. More likely, humans hadn't needed it as much as fairies, who were much smaller and therefore lower on the food chain. Magic was connected to the earth, but it wasn't connected or affected by emotions.

Was it? His emotions argued. Logic tossed aside.

Artemis sighed to himself and lay backwards, painfully. Assuming he did have magic, solving his little puzzle, what good would it do them? Half the family were. . .gone. . .and magic wouldn't bring them back. He had to take care of the family he had left.

Artemis glanced over. Juliet's face was peaceful in a way it never was when she was awake. Artemis hoped that crying on his shoulder had, or would, help her with whatever turmoil she was feeling. He didn't have much experience in that area. His approach to emotions was much different, and less healthy, supposedly.

He closed his eyes.

What to do…? We have to live somewhere. We could rebuild the manor, and live here. Emotions recoiled at that idea. No, then.

Logic decided to intervene. We'll go to the Paradizos…It makes sense. We could fly to France. Artemis had no doubt the Paradizos would gladly take them in. The Fowls had visited them before, and vice versa, and they absolutely loved children. They would have had more children than simply Beau and Minerva if not for a tragic accident that had occured with Mrs. Paradizo some years back.

What to do…?

The fairies had to pay.

The thought threw Artemis completely. It sounded like a line from Opal, or Cudgeon, or Spiro. Vengeance. Repayment for a betrayal. Not an emotion Artemis was accustomed to. It had no logic in it, after all.

But then again…

Logic, he thought. He flexed a hand, and a faint blue sheen exuded from his palm. I fear it's beginning to hold less sway.