Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer [3]
“Book?” she said cautiously. “I don’t know about no book. I am healer. You want book, go to library.”
Artemis sighed with exaggerated patience. “You are no healer. You are a sprite, p’shóg, fairy, ka-dalun. Whichever language you prefer to use. And I want your Book.”
For a long moment, the creature said nothing, then she threw back the shawl from her forehead. In the green glow of the night-vision goggles, her features leaped at Artemis like a Halloween mask. The fairy’s nose was long and hooked under two slitted golden eyes. Her ears were pointed, and the alcohol addiction had melted her skin like putty.
“If you know about the Book, human,” she said slowly, fighting the numbing effects of the whiskey, “then you know about the magic I have in my fist. I can kill you with a snap of my fingers!”
Artemis shrugged. “I think not. Look at you. You are near dead. The rice wine has dulled your senses. Reduced to healing warts. Pathetic. I am here to save you, in return for the Book.”
“What could a human want with our Book?”
“That is no concern of yours. All you need to know are your options.”
The sprite’s pointed ears quivered. “Options?”
“One, you refuse to give us the Book and we go home, leaving you to rot in this sewer.”
“Yes,” said the fairy. “I choose this option.”
“Ah, no. Don’t be so eager. If we leave without the Book, you will be dead in a day.”
“A day! A day!” the healer laughed. “I will outlive you by a century. Even fairies tethered to the human realm can survive the ages.”
“Not with half a pint of holy water inside them,” said Artemis, tapping the now empty whiskey bottle.
The fairy blanched, then screamed, a high keening horrible sound.
“Holy water! You have murdered me, human.”
“True,” admitted Artemis. “It should start to burn any minute now.”
The fairy poked her stomach tentatively. “The second option?”
“Listening now, are we? Very well then. Option two. You give me the Book for thirty minutes only. Then I return your magic to you.”
The sprite’s jaw dropped. “Return my magic? Not possible.”
“Oh, but it is. I have in my possession two ampoules.
One, a vial of spring water from the fairy well sixty meters below the ring of Tara—possibly the most magical place on earth. This will counteract the holy water.”
“And the other?”
“The other is a little shot of man-made magic. A virus that feeds on alcohol, mixed with a growth agent. It will flush every drop of rice wine from your body, remove the dependence, and even bolster your failing liver. It’ll be messy, but after a day you’ll be zipping around as though you were a thousand years old again.”
The sprite licked her lips. To be able to rejoin the People? Tempting.
“How do I know to trust you, human? You have tricked me once already.”
“Good point. Here’s the deal. I give you the water on faith. Then, after I’ve had a look at the Book, you get the booster. Take it or leave it.”
The fairy considered. The pain was already curling around her abdomen. She thrust out her wrist.
“I’ll take it.”
“I thought you might. Butler?”
The giant manservant unwrapped a soft Velcroed case containing a syringe gun and two vials. He loaded the clear one, shooting it into the sprite’s clammy arm. The fairy stiffened momentarily, and then relaxed.
“Strong magic,” she breathed.
“Yes. But not as strong as your own will be when I give you the second injection. Now, the Book.”
The sprite reached into the folds of her filthy robe, rummaging for an age. Artemis held his breath. This was it. Soon the Fowls would be great again. A new empire would rise, with Artemis Fowl the Second at its head.
The fairy woman withdrew a closed fist.
“No use to you anyway. Written in the old tongue.”
Artemis nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
She opened her knobbly fingers. Lying in her palm was a tiny golden volume the size of a matchbox.
“Here, human. Thirty of your minutes. No more.”
Butler took the tiny tome reverentially. The bodyguard activated a compact digital camera and began photographing each wafer-thin page of the Book. The process took several