Artemis Fowl_ The Arctic Incident - Eoin Colfer [60]
‘Holly,’ groaned Root.
‘O-OK,’ she stammered. ‘OK.’
She laid her hands on Root’s chest, sending the magic scurrying down her fingers. ‘Heal,’ she breathed.
The commander’s eyes rolled back in his head. The magic was shutting him down for recuperation. Holly laid a medi-pac on the unconscious LEP officer’s chest.
‘Hold that,’ she instructed Artemis. ‘Ten minutes only. Otherwise there’ll be tissue damage.’
Artemis applied pressure to the pack. His fingers were quickly submerged in a pool of blood. Suddenly the desire to pass a smart remark utterly deserted him. First physical exercise, then actual bodily harm. And now this. These past few days were turning out to be quite educational. He’d almost prefer to be back in St Bartleby’s.
Holly returned quickly to the cockpit, panning the external cameras towards the supply tunnel.
Butler squeezed into the co-pilot’s chair. ‘Well,’ he asked. ‘What’ve we got?’
Holly grinned. And for a second her expression reminded the manservant of Artemis Fowl. “We’ve got a big hole.’
‘Good. Then let’s go visit an old friend.’
Holly’s thumbs hovered over the thrusters. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s.’
The Atlantean shuttle disappeared into the supply tunnel faster than a carrot down Foaly’s gullet. And for those who don’t know, that’s pretty fast.
THE CROWLEY HOTEL, BEVERLY HILLS, LOS ANGELES
Mulch made it back to his hotel undetected. Of course, this time he didn’t have to scale the walls. It would have been more of a challenge than Maggie V’s building. The walls here were brick, very porous. His fingers would have leeched the moisture from the stone and lost their suction.
No, this time Mulch used the main foyer. And why wouldn’t he? As far as the doorman was concerned, he was Lance Digger, reclusive millionaire. Short, maybe. But short and rich.
‘Evening, Art,’ said Mulch, saluting the doorman on his way to the lift.
Art peered over the marble-topped desk.
‘Ah, Mister Digger, it’s you,’ he said, slightly puzzled. ‘I thought I heard you passing below my sightline only moments ago.’
‘Nope,’ said Mulch, grinning. ‘First time tonight.’
‘Hmm. The night wind perhaps.’
‘Maybe. You’d think they’d block up the holes in this building. All the rent I’m paying.’
‘You would indeed,’ agreed Art. Always agree with the tenants, company policy.
Inside the mirrored lift, Mulch used a telescopic pointer to push P for penthouse. For the first few months, he had jumped to reach the button, but that was undignified behaviour for a millionaire. And besides, he was certain that Art could hear the thumping from the security desk.
The mirrored box rose silently, flickering past the floors towards the penthouse. Mulch resisted the urge to take the Academy Award out of his bag. Someone could board the lift. He contented himself with a long drink from a bottle of Irish spring water, the closest to fairy pure it was possible to get. As soon as he had stowed the Oscar he would run a cold bath and give his pores a drink. Otherwise he could wake up in the morning glued to the bed.
Mulch’s door was key-coded. A fourteen-number sequence. Nothing like a bit of paranoia to keep you out of prison. Even though the LEP believed that he was dead, Mulch could never quite shake the feeling that one day Julius Root would figure it all out and come looking for him.
The apartment’s decor was quite unusual, for a human dwelling. A lot of clay, crumbling rock and water features. More like the inside of a cave than an exclusive Beverly Hills residence.
The northern wall appeared to be a single slab of black marble. Appeared to be. Closer inspection revealed a forty-inch flat-screen television, a DVD slot and a tinted