Copyright

First published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2016

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is: www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Shane Hegarty 2016

Jacket illustration © James de la Rue 2016

Jacket Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Design by HarperCollinsPublishers © 2017

Character illustration © James de la Rue; claw mark illustration © Peter Crowther

Shane Hegarty asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

James de la Rue asserts the moral right to be identified as the illustrator of the work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007545636

Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780007545698

Version: 2017-02-14

For Caoimhe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

Previously in Darkmouth

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Liechtenstein: Two Months Earlier

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Liechtenstein: Seven Weeks Earlier

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Liechtenstein: Five Weeks Earlier

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Liechtenstein: Two Weeks Earlier

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Liechtenstein: Twelve Hours Earlier

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Liechtenstein: Six Hours Earlier

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Liechtenstein: The Very Same Moment

Chapter 59

Thank Yous

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Shane Hegarty

About the Publisher

Maps

Ten months after returning from the Infested Side, Finn still had to be careful where he sneezed.

If he sneezed in the kitchen, the microwave went ting.

If he coughed too hard, the television changed channels.

One night he snored so loudly it woke him with a terrible start and the sound of thunder in his ears. He sat upright, calming his breath, convinced he had caused something, somewhere to explode.

Things had, after all, exploded before. Everything had exploded. Gateways. Caves. Worlds. People. Finn.

While trying to find his father, Hugo, he had accidentally thrown himself, Emmie and Estravon the Assessor into the Infested Side. There Finn had discovered that he had the ability to ignite – to explode with devastating power, sending out a wave of energy that laid waste to everything around him. Although he had found this out only once he had exploded.

He had been further astonished to find it left him in one piece. More or less. A scar across his chest reminded him of what had happened. As did the occasionally problematic sneezing fit.

So much else had happened on the Infested Side. He had walked with the enemy, blown a giant hole between worlds, found his long-missing grandfather, Niall Blacktongue, become involved in a Legend rebellion and, to the loudest complaints of all, ruined Estravon’s best trousers.

He’d done all of this having landed in the right world, but three decades too early to find his father. It meant he could add time travel to the list of things he hadn’t meant to do.

Yet, despite this, his father had been rescued and the Legends had been defeated at Darkmouth’s Cave at the Beginning of the World.

Ten months on, and that same energy occasionally welled inside him, unexpected, uncontrolled, but otherwise all was quiet in Darkmouth.

Finn sat in his classroom, paying little attention to the teacher, looking instead at the empty chair where Emmie used to sit. With her father, Steve, she had been sent to spy on Finn, but had ended up sharing these adventures with him. When all that was done, she’d had to return to the city with her dad.

Life was quieter without Emmie. He missed her. Not that he’d admit that to her.

Finn stared out of the school window for a while. There wasn’t much to see. No Legends. No gateways. Darkmouth had not been attacked by a single Legend since and was becoming just like any other town. His family was in danger of becoming just like every other. And even the Savage twins sitting here in his class, two bad attitudes and one chewed ear between them, had stopped bothering him and instead treated him with as little interest as they did the rest of the kids.

The collapsed section of the cliffs, where the gateway to the Infested Side had been opened and then dramatically closed, was covered now with tall green grass, bringing a sense of new growth following destruction. The people of Darkmouth wondered if their town might join those others around the world that used to be plagued by Legends, but which were now free from that blight for the first time in a thousand years.

Finn’s birthday was approaching. His thirteenth. A big one, especially for an apprentice Legend Hunter like him: it was the age at which he could finally become Complete. That was something Finn had always dreaded. But, as he gazed out of the school window, he let his mind dwell on dangerous questions. Would he now live an ordinary life, free of the responsibility of being a Legend Hunter? Was the war actually over? Was it this from now on in? No destiny. No prophecies. Just life. Ordinary, everyday, Legend-free, unexciting life.

He might have dwelled on these questions some more except he had to sneeze.

“Bless you, Finn,” said his teacher.

Finn quietly blew through his cheeks, relieved he hadn’t set off the school bell.

What he didn’t realise was that three rooms away the sprinkler system had burst into life, drenching twenty-five panicked kids, one surprised teacher and two very twitchy class hamsters.

The hotel room was quiet and still, untouched for years by anything but the light that sliced through the torn curtain. Its sheets bleached of colour, a bed stood in the corner. It had not been slept in for a very long time. Over the sink, a thin green line of slime hung from the tap. A chair sat at an awkward angle by the wall; a snuffling silverfish carved a track across its layer of dust.

A thump rattled the room, shook the dust, sent the silverfish scurrying for safety.

There was another louder thud, from the other side of the closed door. With one final crunch, and an accompanying grunt, the door swung inwards, crashing against the corner of a small writing table. In the darkness stood the silhouette of a very large man, his green eyes lit by the strip of daylight, a kilt settling about his knees.

Once he had assessed the room for a few seconds, the man bent and entered. Beneath a cracked brown leather jacket, the hem of his kilt danced about hairy legs and his metal sporran clanked under the weight of the seven knives slotted along the top of it. He drew a whistling breath through his whiskers, ran his finger along the writing table’s dust.

A tiny spider pushed through the grime on his fingertip and leaped towards the carpet.

“This room is perfect,” said the man.

He was Douglas, from the Scottish Isle of Teeth. He came from an ancient family of Legend Hunters, whose deeds still echoed through the annals. But Douglas’s deeds did not echo. He was unlucky enough to have been born into an age when Legends bothered only one town and one Legend Hunter family. It meant that he was a Half-Hunter, with the blood of a Legend Hunter, but no Legends to fight.

Instead, Douglas was a pastry chef. This way, he at least got to use knives at work.

Every day, Douglas longed to spill the blood of the Infested Side’s Legends, to prove himself in battle and earn his place in a line of great warriors. But right now, in this room, he had only one very important question.

“What time is breakfast served?”

A stooped woman shuffled in from the dimly lit hallway, carrying an extremely fluffy yellow towel and some shampoo in tiny plastic bottles. She pushed past Douglas and placed them roughly on the bed. This was Mrs Cross, the hotel’s owner, and her name was an appropriate one.

“We haven’t had guests in this place for thirty years,” she complained, “and as soon as I open again you lot demand a slap-up feed served to you as soon as you wake. Isn’t it enough that I brought shower caps?”

She dropped a crumpled plastic hairnet onto the towel.

The Half-Hunter glared at her, decades of pent-up frustration simmering behind his eyes.

“Breakfast is from seven until eight thirty every morning,” Mrs Cross sighed. She shuffled back out of the room, grumbling as she went. “If you’re even a minute late, you can suck on the towel for all I care.”

She pulled the creaking door behind her, until it stopped ajar on the rucked carpet.

Alone in the room, Douglas stood at the bed and, one by one, pulled the knives from his sporran. A short blade. A fat one. Bone-handled. Wooden-handled. Serrated. Smooth. A delicate one that was very useful for cutting apple pies.

He lined them up in a neat row next to the towel, then rummaged further in his sporran and placed a toothbrush alongside the knives.

Behind him, he heard the creak of a floorboard.

“Ah, porter,” Douglas said, not looking around, but fishing in his sporran for something else. “You must ha’ brought m’bag. You can put it in the corner there.”

Douglas pulled a comb from his sporran and added it to the bed’s line-up. Behind him, the unseen porter didn’t move.

“I said to put it over in the corner. Oh, you’ll be wanting a tip, I suppose?” Douglas turned while searching for change. “I coulda just carried the bag up m’self—”

In the shadows of the room, a figure was taking shape, pouring from a floating mouth as if formed by a scream. It filled out between feet and head. What might once have been hair was now a writhing mass of oozing tar. What might once have been a face was now a shifting landscape of scars in which sat eyes fiery with blood. What might once have been human was something even more horrible.

“Is that you?” asked Douglas, pushing up his leather sleeves in anticipation of trouble.

In the shadows, the figure remained. Silent. Watchful. Eyes ablaze.

“They said you were dead,” said Douglas, the edge of his mouth curling in anticipation of a fight. “But ne’er mind, because it’s gonna be a pleasure to send you back to whatever hell you’ve come from.”

The figure held out charred hands, as if in a show of peace. Beneath the depthless black of its hair, those pupils were fixed islands on coursing rivers of blood.

Douglas ducked and grabbed a carving knife, spun while swinging the blade at the figure before him.

The weapon passed uselessly through the phantom.

The horrifying apparition waited until it could see the realisation cross Douglas’s face, a look that said: All the pastry knives in the world wouldnae be enough for this fight.

Then the phantom struck.

In a brief, desperate bid for safety, Douglas gripped the curtain, tore it from the window, so that a burst of light shocked the room.

The curtain did not help.

Douglas was gone.

Outside, ignorant of the terrible events in the hotel room, Darkmouth was busy with shoppers, giddy kids and the source of their excitement: Half-Hunters pulling suitcases behind them, pushing large boxes ahead of them, arriving in steady numbers, trying not to poke passers-by with the ceremonial swords that hung from their waists.

Coming down the centre of the road, ignoring the oncoming traffic, the honking of horns and shouts of protest, were two Half-Hunters in grey leather trousers and red padded jackets. They carried a huge banner, sagging along the ground between them. On it, between two dancing Minotaurs, was large lettering that read:

Finn could hear his own breath. Worse, he could smell it. Stale. Hot. Filling the helmet so that it made his nose twitch and his eyes water.

“My visor’s steaming up and—” A long wooden sword hit him hard on the side of the head. “Ah, come on!” Finn protested, through a ringing ear and murky vision.

The sword clattered him on the other side of the skull.

Through the fogged-up visor, Finn saw his father thrust forward from the long white space of the training room, his feet light on the soft mats that covered the floor. Finn dodged quickly and spun away.

“You can’t keep running,” said Hugo, turning to face him. In the sleek reflection of his dad’s helmet, Finn saw his own visor-covered face, the sides of his helmet daubed with red streaks of paint meant to imitate blood.

His father moved in with a skilful swish of a blade aimed at Finn’s nose. Finn just about reacted in time to block it, but his father loomed over him, pressing down slowly, surely, so that Finn’s knees began to buckle beneath him. “Sooner or later,” said Hugo sternly, “you’re going to have to fight back.”

“I hate to admit this,” said Finn, sinking under the pressure of the sword, his back beginning to bend precariously over his legs, “but you’re right.”

He dropped suddenly, almost limboing away from his father as Hugo stumbled forward at the sudden removal of the body that had been holding him up.

Finn hit his father in the hinge of one leg. Hugo dropped to one knee and Finn released a tiny laugh of satisfaction. He immediately regretted this celebration for two reasons.

First, the smell of this morning’s boiled egg filled his helmet.

Second, his father hit back.

The tremor from Hugo’s blow worked its way through Finn’s armour, a rattle that reached his shoulders and shook the golden ropes of the epaulettes that hung on his shoulders.

To catch his breath, Finn pulled the helmet from his head. Gathering himself, Finn glared at the mirror that ran the length of the wall, saw himself in the new fighting suit he’d spent recent months working on. Making your own fighting suit was the Legend Hunter tradition. It was also necessary in Finn’s case, since the last one had been destroyed on the Infested Side.

This new one was made of dull steel, shiny leather, overlapping straps. The fat buckle on his belt was moulded into a wide biting mouth. There was a somewhat unconvincing painting of a Minotaur’s horns and gaping mouth across his chest. And the quivering epaulettes had been added because this was a fighting suit he’d made not just for future battles he hoped to avoid, but also a graduation ceremony he knew he couldn’t. Unfortunately.

“Do we really have to have such a big ceremony?” he hissed.

“Of course,” his father responded, low. “People have come from all over the world to see this.”

“No pressure at all,” said Finn. “It’ll be good to become a Legend Hunter after everything, I suppose. But maybe it could have been just a family occasion.”

“Serves you right for surviving the Infested Side, battling legends, rescuing me, saving Darkmouth and being generally heroic,” said his father.

“I’ll know better next time,” said Finn, a grin curling the edge of his mouth.

Hugo jabbed his weapon forward, and Finn realised too late that it was simply a diversion, something to push him off balance. He made to parry the blow, but his father was already behind him, and before Finn could even react, had wrapped his arms round his chest, hauling him up so that his legs kicked at the air.

Finn felt the breath forced from his lungs, yet remained as calm as he could, refusing to let the crush panic him. He knew this was a test.

“I’m nearly thirteen,” he spluttered, arms jammed down his sides, but his right hand flicking a clasp on his fighting suit. “I’m too old for tickles.”

The whole outfit peeled open like a banana, and Finn slid down through it, free from his father’s grip.

Jumping away, he again saw himself in the mirror, and this time regretted wearing a vest and old sports shorts. His boots were still on his feet, and his legs disappeared into them like bamboo in a plant pot.

Hugo threw the empty fighting suit in a heap on the floor, a smile creeping across his face. “The Goodman Manoeuvre,” he said. “Excellent.”

Finn glanced at the mirror again. “Um … I need to take a break,” he said suddenly, panic and embarrassment flushing through him.

“We’re only just getting started,” responded his father, coiling himself into a highly intimidating pose, a mass of metal over muscle ready to bear down on Finn.

“No, Dad, we need to stop now,” insisted Finn.

“In two days you’ll become a teenager,” his father pressed, his voice low, as if someone was listening.

“I know, but—”

“Tomorrow you have your Completion Ceremony and become a true Legend Hunter.”

“I haven’t forgotten—”

“The first new Legend Hunter in many years,” continued his father. “We need to have these manoeuvres nailed down for the event or they mightn’t let you go through with it.”

“But—”

“And they will cancel it. Trust me. That’s the reason Billy the Loser got his name.” He wound up to attack again. “Well, one of the reasons anyway.”

“No, that’s not the problem,” Finn said, leaning forward while whispering. “It’s my shorts. I’ve torn them.”

His father relaxed from his cobra pose, lifted the visor on his helmet and peered round Finn’s back where, sure enough, the top layer of his shorts was splitting and threatening to reveal the stripy boxers beneath.

Hugo stood tall, seemed to think about it for a moment, before turning to the mirror. Finn looked at it too and again got a glimpse of how weak he appeared beside his father. Then his father flipped the visor down, and immediately resumed his attack stance. “Come on,” he said. “No one can see it.”

In despair, Finn’s eyes opened wider than the split in his shorts. “What? Of course they can see it!”

“They can’t,” Hugo insisted.

Petulant, Finn stepped to a switch on the wall.

“Don’t,” said his father.

Finn pressed the switch anyway.

From a point at the mirror’s dead centre, the reflection cleared, like condensation evaporating from a window, until the full length of the wall became completely see-through. On the other side, two rows of seats were revealed, packed with a couple of dozen people. Some in a variety of fighting suits. Some in just ordinary suits. One wore an all-in-one bodysuit of shimmering blue scales. There was even a family there, a mother and father watching in wide-eyed delight, while their teenage son gazed on with a look of such boredom it would be a wonder if his face ever found the muscles to smile again.

“Half the Half-Hunter population is watching me,” said Finn, pointing at the audience behind the glass. They had won tickets in a raffle: the chance to see the apprentice train before the Completion Ceremony.

“It’s tradition,” Hugo said. “They get to see you.”

“Yes, but I don’t want them to see everything,” said Finn, jabbing his thumb at the tear in the back of his shorts before heading for the door.

Hugo pulled the helmet from his head. “Should we take a break at this point?”

On the other side of the mirror, the Half-Hunter in blue scales shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Yes,” sighed Hugo. “Let’s take a break.”

With a shake of his head, humiliation complete, Finn marched up the corridor, past the paintings of all those Legend Hunters who had gone before him, ignoring the judgemental glare of his famously unhappy great-grandfather, Gerald the Disappointed. The further up the corridor he went, the older the portraits became, until the earliest paintings had faded into faces made unrecognisable by peeling paint. It was a constant reminder of how long Finn’s family had been Darkmouth’s Legend Hunters.

He reached the hallway, where a narrow door brought him into the stark contrast of a house as ordinary as any other in Darkmouth. Apart from one thing: all the people at the windows. Outside were the Half-Hunters who hadn’t won tickets to see him train. The flash of cameras. The dark flicker of silhouettes crossing the garden.

“It’ll all be over soon,” said Finn’s mother, Clara, as she arrived from the living room on her way to the stairs. “But not soon enough. Hold on, you’re wearing shorts.” She looked through the door to the Long Hall, where Half-Hunters were gathering their things to leave. “Your father’s fault, right? Did training not go well?”

Finn bit his lip.

“Just remind yourself it won’t be like this for ever,” Clara said, putting an arm round his shoulder. “I’ve done that pretty much every day since I married into this family.”

Outside, Finn heard the murmur of those loitering Half-Hunters, watched the shapes cross the door, saw one grow larger and darker until it poked a nose through the letterbox.

“Hello. Let me in,” said a voice desperately. A man’s voice. “Please, there is about to be a terrible disaster.”

He sounded French. Or Swedish. Or maybe Korean. Finn wasn’t great with accents.

“Please,” said the Half-Hunter. “I need help.”

Finn sighed, closed his eyes in a long blink to compose himself, while Clara carefully opened the door. A Half-Hunter was dancing about on the doorstep, wearing some kind of black, naval-type uniform, complete with coloured strips on his left breast and chunky red and black cufflinks.

“Thank you,” he said as he burst in. “Where’s the toilet?”

Clara nodded towards a door under the stairs, and the Half-Hunter dashed straight for it.

There was another knock on the door. “Toilet’s already full,” said Finn.

“Do you need me to unblock it?” asked Emmie, pushing her head round the door.

“That’s not what I …” said Finn, flustered. “Hi, Emmie. You’re here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed your big ceremony for anything,” she beamed. “You know you’ve a split in those shorts?”

Finn felt himself blush. “Good. Not my shorts. I mean, it’s good you’re back.”

“Just for the ceremony,” she said. “Unless something goes terribly wrong again in Darkmouth. I’ve my fingers crossed for that.”

“I’ll do my best,” he smiled, while hoping nothing whatsoever would go terribly wrong.

“Hey, Finn, Clara,” said Emmie’s father, Steve, walking in after her. “You know there are a lot of people out there taking pictures of your garden wall.”

“I signed an autograph,” said Emmie, excited.

“No one wanted mine,” said Steve, failing to pretend that this hadn’t bothered him a bit. “I guess no one cares about the guy who rescues you every time you need it.”

Hugo arrived from the Long Hall. “We’re all about to need rescuing from the tourists following me up from the training room.”

“I’m always available to bail you out,” said Steve. “Unless it’s an issue with the toilet.”

Hugo looked puzzled. They heard the toilet flush. The door opened. The now much calmer intruder emerged, drying his hands on his trousers before giving an exaggerated swipe of relief across his forehead. Realising he’d hit the Legend Hunter jackpot, he thrust out a hand to shake Finn’s, who took it reluctantly and squirmed at how damp it still was.

“Oh boy,” said the excited Half-Hunter. “I am Nils, from the Norwegian Blighted Village of Splattafest, and you are all here. In Darkmouth. Together. Are those flowers poisonous?” He inspected a bunch on a small table.

“No,” said Clara.

“But those coat hooks shoot deadly darts, yes?”

“I’ll just get that door for you,” said Hugo. “It’s been lovely to meet you, but …”

“We are all looking forward to the great Completion,” said Nils. “Especially what they plan to do with the dozen golden monkeys. Something to do with the six hundred scorpions, I think.”

“OK, it’s about to get crowded in here,” said Hugo, looking back at the group of raffle winners coming up the Long Hall.

“I made special souvenir cufflinks—” Nils said, but he was cut off as Clara politely ushered him out. As she did, the front door gently swung open to reveal a queue of maybe half a dozen Half-Hunters.

“I need the toilet as well,” said the one at the front, dancing on the spot for added effect.

“Oh yeah, me too,” said the next.

“I’m bursting,” said the third.

Either side of Finn, there were Half-Hunters crowding into the house. He looked at Emmie. “I need rescuing.”

“Rescuing you is my speciality,” she smiled. “Let’s get out of here. Although you should probably put on some trousers first.”

“Do you still get the stink?” Emmie asked Finn, and offered him a sweet from a brown paper bag.

They were sitting on a low step at Darkmouth’s largest monument, a grey, grimy obelisk with a white plaque whose words were so worn no one knew any more why it had been put there. There was warmth in the day, and blue sky mixed with bubbling cloud. Finn had his hoodie pulled tight over his head as a disguise against the Half-Hunters swarming the town.

“Do you mean the smell of the Infested Side?” Finn replied. “Like rotting vegetables that were already stuffed with old cheese?” He dug in the brown paper bag.

“I’d say it smells more like a fish wearing yesterday’s socks,” said Emmie, chewing on something that was gradually turning her tongue blue.

Finn crunched down on a red sweet, letting the sugar fizz through his mouth. “It’s been worse for my dad,” he said. “Because the serpents hid him among Legends so smelly that no one else would go near them, that stench lasted ages afterwards. He had to burn his clothes. And then he had to burn the bonfire he’d burned those clothes on.”

“At least there’s been no Legends since,” said Emmie.

“Yeah,” said Finn.

“Just normal stuff, like school and whatever.”

“Yeah. Just normal stuff.”

They each rummaged in the paper bag open between them, popped a sweet in their mouth and sat quiet for a little while longer.

“It’s boring, isn’t it?” Emmie exclaimed eventually.

“So boring,” said Finn with a burst of relief at being able to share. “I never thought I’d say it. Never. But it’s just that after everything we went through …”

“Legends. Crystals. Serpents,” said Emmie.

“Gateways. Shapeshifters,” said Finn.

“And everything we saw there.”

“Stuff no one has seen,” said Finn. “At the time, I thought I never wanted to see a gateway again, didn’t want to meet another Legend. I just wanted to go on as normal. But—”

“Normal is boring, right?”

Finn gave her a guilty look. “Kind of. I mean, me and Dad still train a lot, but now I’ve nothing to use the moves on.”

“Welcome to my life,” said Emmie.

“He doesn’t like to show it, but I think Dad’s bored too,” said Finn. “He spent weeks on the Infested Side and, even though all that time he just sat there, waiting to escape, it was still like nothing anybody had done before. Well, nobody except Niall Blacktongue, but no one likes to talk about that.”

“At least people know he went to the Infested Side,” said Emmie. “I’m back at school in the city and no one there has a clue what I did. They just think I was away for a while with my dad’s work, but they have no idea what he really does.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That he’s a travelling DJ.”

“What?” laughed Finn.

“I didn’t know what else to say,” she said. “And it sounded kind of cool.”

“DJ Steve.”

“Hmm. Maybe not so cool.”

Finn threw a green sweet into his mouth.

“Anyway,” Emmie said, “you must be all set for the Completion Ceremony, right? It’ll be a big deal. The whole Legend Hunter world is going to be watching.”

Discomfort immediately contorted Finn’s face.

“Sorry,” Emmie said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No,” he grimaced. “Be careful of those green stripy sweets. They’re really sour.”

She laughed at that. He swallowed the offending sweet with an anguished wince.

“Oh, I wish they’d go away,” said Finn, nodding towards a couple of Half-Hunters across the street, irritating locals by taking pictures of every hole in a wall.

“Maybe we can sign another autograph.”

Finn grimaced at the thought. “Or maybe we can get out of here before they spot us,” he said, pushing himself up and heading away from the obelisk.

They darted round a corner, across a couple of narrow alleys with walls that rose high over them and were topped with whatever sharp objects might keep a Legend out. But here and there were gaps, where nails or broken glass had fallen free and not yet been replaced by whoever lived behind the walls. There had been no Legends in a while. The people of Darkmouth were growing a little too used to that.

Down a cobbled lane, Finn and Emmie encountered a couple of Half-Hunters in fur coats rushing excitedly to the spot where Mr Glad’s shop used to be. It had been gutted by fire on the night Mr Glad had turned on Hugo, nearly destroying the town as a result. That was almost a year ago now, but to Finn it was beginning to feel like a lifetime away. It was certainly long enough that the shop had since been rebuilt as a hairdresser’s. Those Half-Hunters in furs would leave not with pictures of the lair of an infamous traitor, but of Snippy Snips.

“Down here,” Finn suggested, and the two of them slunk along an adjoining laneway, in and out of the town’s maze of streets, until they squeezed through a gap and on to the strand close to the slumped remnants of the cliffs. Surrounded by busy Half-Hunters in boiler suits, a scaffold was rising from the ground. It was a stage, still just a half-formed skeleton of steel rods, with huge rectangular pieces of floor leaning against them ready to be put in place.

“Is that it?” Emmie asked.

Finn nodded. This was the place where, the following night, he would become Complete. No matter how incomplete he felt.

“Is that a cannon up there?” said Emmie, looking closer.

“Apparently so,” confirmed Finn.

“And over there, in those tubes?”

“Fireworks,” said Finn, not even looking at them.

“That’ll be enough of a racket to, like, wake the dead,” said Emmie.

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of Legend Hunting,” said Finn. “It’s just becoming a Legend Hunter in front of everyone that I’m not so keen on.”

That triggered something in Finn, and he reached in under his hoodie to withdraw a silver chain. On the end was a cylindrical locket, an ornate swirling pattern on its case surrounding a small window that revealed sparkling scarlet dust within. “Do you still have yours?” he asked.

Emmie pulled out an identical locket from beneath her jacket. Inside was dust and sand, the last pulverised remains of the crystals they’d found in the cave before it was destroyed. Finn’s dad had presented one to each of them, as a reminder of what they’d been through together. “It was nice of your dad to give us these,” she said.

“I know,” said Finn. “For my last birthday he got me a box of spanners. But I think his time on the Infested Side has mellowed him a bit. He’s softer on me too. Some of the time.”

“Even my dad wears his locket,” said Emmie. “Although he says it itches a bit.”

“It does itch,” admitted Finn, rubbing at the front of his neck.

“It’s better to be itchy than dead,” Emmie smiled. “Or worse.”

“Yeah. Suppose.” Finn pushed the locket inside his clothes, tilted his head back to shake out the last sticky shards of sweets from the paper bag. A couple of them fell into his nostrils, irritating his nose. He sneezed.

Down the road, away from the strand, they heard the screech of a car, the growl of an engine.

“Since the Infested Side, my sneezes can, you know, set things off. My parents look at me funny if I get annoyed about anything, like I might blow up the kitchen,” Finn said. The car engine grew louder. “But this is a new one.”

The growling grew nearer, and a moment later a large black block of a car hurriedly took the corner.

“It’s Dad,” said Finn.

The car pulled up in front of them. The tinted window on the passenger side whirred down and Hugo leaned towards them.

“Get in,” he said urgently. “Something’s happened at the hotel.”

Finn, Emmie and Hugo stood at the entrance to the hotel room. Dust still swam in the air from where the door had been roughly pushed open.

But the dust was not what they were looking at.

“I should never have reopened this place,” the hotel owner said, pushing in between them. Mrs Cross held a fluffy yellow towel, or at least half of one, torn raggedly. “But I was begged to. Pushed into it. Convinced it’d only be a few days and they’d be no bother. But it’s been only bother from the start. All I’ve had is complaints since your lot started arriving here. The beds are too soft. The pillows too feathery. The shampoo smells too fruity. And now this.”

From downstairs came the ting of the reception bell. She ignored it. Instead, she pointed at something very strange in the air.

Finn’s father stepped forward to examine it. On the far side of the room, just to the side of a narrow window, about two metres off the ground but fixed and unmoving, was a scar in the air. Three gouges, as if great cracked nails had clawed at empty space.

Ting, ting went the reception bell downstairs.

Hugo walked round the phenomenon, his face registering a measure of surprise. He motioned Finn over to him.

As Finn approached, he examined the marks without touching them, saw how they were almost puckered, with edges raised and uneven like roughly stitched skin. As he passed, the angle narrowed until the marks disappeared entirely. When standing behind them, they were completely invisible. There was nothing at all to see except for Mrs Cross’s deeply annoyed face staring back. Her displeasure was almost strong enough to burn its own hole in the air.

Finn and Hugo moved back round to the front of the room until they could again examine the strange markings from the front.

“Now what am I going to do?” the hotel owner asked them. “I can’t exactly rent out this room, can I? I’ve been in this trade for sixty years and I can tell you this: no one wants a room with ghostly scratch marks imprinted in the ether.”

Ting. Ting. Ting.

“Oh, give it a rest,” she shouted out of the door.

“You must tell no one,” Hugo said to her.

Mrs Cross gasped. “And what do you suggest I do? Just leave it here for guests to hang their hat on?”

“You could tell the Half-Hunters,” said Hugo, “but only if you want to turn this room into the greatest tourist attraction in Darkmouth. You think they’re bothering you now? Wait until you show them this.”

Ting. Ting. Ting. Tingtingting.

“Pack it in!” she yelled from the doorway. “Right, Hugo. I’ll be quiet for now. But if that thing doesn’t fade you will get the bill for a single room, with breakfast, occupied from today until the end of eternity.” She left the room to clomp down the short corridor towards the stairs and the tinging bell in reception. “What do you lot want now?”

“What’s that on the carpet?” asked Emmie.

Bootprints were burned into the floor and surrounded by a sulphuric shadow. It seemed apparent that whoever had been standing in them had been in this spot whenever whatever happened took place.

Hugo crouched to examine the print. “They’re Hunter boots all right. Standard issue. Except they’re made in Scotland.” He caught Finn and Emmie’s reaction to his detective skills. “OK, so I already knew it was a Scotsman who took this room. These were the boots of a Half-Hunter called Douglas. And I have a very nasty feeling that he was standing in them when these marks were made.”

Knives, a toothbrush and a comb were laid out neatly on the bed. Hugo stood again, and the three of them faced the marks branded in the air, glancing at what may or may not have been the remains of Douglas of the Isle of Teeth.

Hugo blew hard through his cheeks. “We can tell no one either,” he said.

“OK,” said Finn.

“Yep,” agreed Emmie.

Hugo fixed his attention on Emmie. “Understand?”

She looked offended. “Just because I spied on Finn once doesn’t mean I’m always spying. It was ages ago and I didn’t even want to anyway. I’m not going to tell anyone about this.”

“Would the Half-Hunters not be able to help, though?” Finn asked.

Hugo moved slowly towards the grimy window, looked out on to the street. Finn and Emmie joined him. Together they watched a Half-Hunter strut down the street, wearing a long chain-mail skirt and samurai sword. He was being followed by a group of small, excitable children and occasionally he would delight them by turning and growling in pantomime fashion.

“Gis a go of your sword, mister,” they heard a kid say to him.

“I would like to,” replied the Half-Hunter, “but the last child I gave it to is still being glued back together.”

The children squealed with delight at that, and kept tailing him as he moved on.

Hugo nodded towards the man down on the street. “That is a fellow called Kenzo. He’s come all the way from Japan just for the ceremony. His Legend Hunter family goes back 1,500 years, and he’s the second generation that’s had nothing to do but use their swords to cut sandwiches. And it’s only a wooden sword anyway.”

Kenzo was holding a scrap of paper, seemingly checking house numbers against it.

“You know what Kenzo does now? He’s a children’s entertainer,” Hugo continued. “Birthday parties. That sort of thing. That fighting suit looks impressive, but it’s had more chocolate biscuit cake on it than blood.”

“You don’t think they’d be up to it?” asked Finn.

“Not only would they not be up to it, this isn’t their Blighted Village,” said Hugo. “It’s ours. Which means this is our problem. That’s the tradition. That’s the Legend Hunter law. That’s the way it’s going to be. So, we tell no one. Not even Steve, Emmie. And for now, Finn, we won’t mention this to your mam either. She’s unhappy enough with all this fuss as it is.”

With queasy horror, Finn realised that a greasy blur on the window was a palm print, large and firm. Was this Douglas’s last desperate act as he tried to escape? Finn stood back, turned away from it as he had an idea. “You don’t think this has anything to do with … Well, you know who?”

“Doubt it,” said Hugo. “Wouldn’t make sense.”

“You know who who?” asked Emmie, baffled.

“Finn, have you told Emmie about him yet?” asked Hugo.

“No,” said Finn.

“Told me what?” asked Emmie.

“If we tell you, you’re not to speak to anyone about it,” Hugo insisted.

“I keep saying I won’t,” she answered, irritated. “And I don’t even know what it is I’m not supposed to tell anyone about anyway.”

“Do you know where to find him?” Hugo asked Finn.

“Same place he always is, I’d say,” answered Finn.

“Same place who is?” asked Emmie.

“I didn’t really say much earlier, because I wasn’t sure I was allowed,” said Finn bashfully. “But there is at least one Legend loose in Darkmouth. Want to see him?”

They found Broonie the Hogboon right where Finn expected to. In a small patch of soil and plants, divided into squares hardly bigger than a double bed, hemmed in by high walls on three sides, and a tall wire fence on the fourth. This was the local allotment, where people came to grow vegetables and fruit – and where the only living Hogboon in Darkmouth came to feast.

“Why has he got his head stuck in that beehive thing?” whispered Emmie as they lurked behind the fence.

“It’s a wormery,” explained Finn.

“A whatery?”

“A wormery. The gardeners use them to make compost. Although, to be honest, I overheard someone saying that the compost hasn’t been great of late. And smells a bit funny. Plus the wormery doesn’t have many worms in it. I didn’t want to tell them I could guess why.”

Broonie’s slurping was quite pronounced, his green legs dangling where he had pulled his skinny frame up to stick his head in.

“He eats the worms?” said Emmie.

“Lots of them,” said Finn. “Even though he complains about the taste.”

Broonie didn’t seem to notice them, just twitched a floppy ear as he continued to eat.

“I thought the Council of Twelve ordered you to desiccate him until they could decide what to do with him,” said Emmie.

“That was the order,” said Finn. “But it wasn’t his fault he ended up here. He just got shoved in through the gateway really. He didn’t want anything to do with any war.”

“You let him out!” she exclaimed.

“Shush,” said Finn. “We don’t allow him out all the time. Just once a week. For twenty-four hours only. The rest of the time he spends in the house. Complaining about everything.”

Broonie paused in his banquet. Belched loudly. Resumed eating.

“The Council of Twelve gave Broonie back to us, but only once he’d been desiccated,” said Finn. “They didn’t want him running loose, causing trouble. He’s still just a Legend as far as they’re concerned, not to be trusted. The Desiccation was horrible. There were shouts and screams and, well, a lot of cursing. Hogboons know a lot of curses. And, when it was all over, they gave him to us in a jar.”

“But you brought him back,” said Emmie.

“Reanimating him was even more horrible. And there was even more cursing. But Dad felt we owed Broonie something given he sided with the resistance over on the Infested Side. Or, at least, got kind of stuck with the resistance. And then got stuck with us.”

Broonie stood upright. A long slurp suggested he was sucking in a worm.

His right ear revolved towards them.

“You know I can hear the two of you,” he said, without turning. “As if I couldn’t smell you before you even arrived.”

Finn gently pushed through the gap in the wire from behind which they had been watching Broonie, holding it open for Emmie to follow. He crept up to the Hogboon.

“Hey, Broonie!” Emmie shouted as she skipped ahead.

“Quiet,” begged Finn. “We don’t want the Half-Hunters knowing he’s here.”

“Look who it is,” Broonie said to Emmie as if she was another trial sent to test him. “Come to see the poor creature in his prison, have you?”

“My dad said I should check on you,” Finn said to the sullen Hogboon. “You know, to make sure you’re OK.”

“To see if I’d escaped again,” sneered Broonie.

“You’ve escaped before?” asked Emmie, examining the Legend’s green skin, droopy ears and droopier nostrils.

“I tried to,” said Broonie. “I got something worse than Desiccation for my troubles. I got a strict talking-to from that grunting Legend Hunter Hugo, and a promise that if I ever tried it again I’d be thrown into a jar and put at the very back of the highest shelf so that no one would ever find me again.”

A car drove by, and they all ducked. Except for Broonie, who was short enough as it was. And petulant enough.

“How would they know if you just ran for the hills?” asked Emmie, once they were sure the car was gone.

Broonie pulled a locket from the rags at his neck. “Because of this.”

“Oh look, you’ve one just like ours,” said Emmie.

“It’s not like yours at all. Yours isn’t welded on to your neck, is it? It’s not locked tightly in place,” said Broonie. “And it isn’t being used to track your every move, like this is.”

“Oh, that’s very clever,” said Emmie.

“It’s very sore,” corrected Broonie.

Another car went by. Again Broonie stayed upright as if in protest.

“What’s that dirt on you?” Emmie asked, after the bright lights had passed on. “It’s like you slept in a skip.”

Neither Finn nor Broonie said anything, and Emmie realised why.

“You slept in a skip?”

“It makes him feel at home,” explained Finn.

“What’s the worst that could happen to me?” Broonie asked, but had no interest in waiting for a reply. “Nothing. Because the worst thing has already happened. Being here. Trapped in this world, with its people and smells and smells of people and its utter lack of scaldgrubs. These earthworms are passable, but they don’t taste nearly as putrid as I would like.”

Finn opened his mouth to say something, but Broonie raised a green, knuckly finger to let it be known he hadn’t yet finished ranting.

“And as if that’s not bad enough,” added the Hogboon, “I have no freedom. And the little bit of life I do have is bound entirely by the clock here, when I must return as planned to be subjected to a lengthy period of torture in your house.”

“Torture?” asked Emmie.

“My dad listens to country music when he’s working in the library,” explained Finn.

“It makes my earwax bleed,” snorted Broonie.

“Make sure to be on time, Broonie,” said Finn, sorry to bring it up. “You were a few minutes late last time and Dad was ready to put you in a biscuit tin for all eternity.”

“I don’t know if I care any more, such is the anguish of my life here,” said Broonie, dismissive.

“You’re so funny, Broonie,” said Emmie.

Broonie grunted, then thrust his face in the hole at the top of the wormery and began chomping again. Finn and Emmie lingered briefly before backing away and leaving through the gap in the fence.

Evening was drawing in. As Finn and Emmie crossed a couple of alleyways that ran off the strand, Finn thought he saw something move in the twilight. He stopped and peered towards it.

“What is it, Finn?” asked Emmie.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Do you remember when we were on the Infested Side and felt we were being watched by Legends?”

“Which we were. By a lot of them.”

“I just have that sense again. As if there’s somebody out there.”

They waited, watched. There was nothing but settling darkness.

“This is why I love Darkmouth,” said Emmie. “Always something odd going on.” She shoved him in the shoulder playfully and ran off. “Race you!”

Finn hesitated just a moment, then followed, belting after her.

Across the lane, a succession of shadows skittered across the dim alleyway.

Kenzo the Japanese Half-Hunter rang the rusted doorbell on the house, hummed its cheery tune as he waited.

The letterbox opened, fingers propping it open from inside, and a man’s voice asked gruffly, “What?”

“Excuse me,” said Kenzo as politely as he could, and yet loud enough to speak over the rattle of his metal skirt as he stepped back. “Your sign says this is a bed and breakfast?”

“Go away,” said the man. “We’re shut. We’re always shut. And we’re especially shut now.”

Kenzo bent down level with the letterbox, and could see nothing but those splayed fingers and a single bloodshot eye. “I require only bed. No breakfast. In fact, a floor will do fine—”

A walking stick thrust through the letterbox, forcing Kenzo to retreat sharply. Its owner waggled it from side to side in a manner that was not likely to cause any damage, but still managed to very neatly get across the message that no Half-Hunters were wanted here. And, in case it didn’t, the man in the house shouted, “Shoo!” for extra effect.

Kenzo had spent what now felt like half a lifetime travelling to Darkmouth, and the other half wandering about the town. He had long wished that he would one day get to visit this, the only true Blighted Village left on Earth. It was not quite turning out how he had imagined.

He could ask the other Half-Hunters for help, but that would require, well, asking for help. And he didn’t like to do that. A true Legend Hunter should not require assistance. They must be self-sufficient. Quick-witted. And, every now and again, a bit uncomfortable wherever they lay their head.

So, Kenzo left, deciding to make his way towards where the houses crowded in on the rocky beach. He heard voices ahead of him in the fading light. A boy. Then a girl. She was laughing, and he could make out two small figures breaking into a sprint up a laneway that led back to the main street of Darkmouth.

Away up the strand, he could see the scaffold being set up for the Completion Ceremony, what would be a stage for the big event. Even now, as it grew late, there was life, lights, busy Half-Hunters, tasked with setting up the platform, preparing to work through the night. Shivering as the chilly breeze moved across the stones, Kenzo saw the skeleton of an old boat, upturned and washed up on the beach, its hull rotten but holding on to enough wood to offer some shelter for the night.

The crescent of the moon had been blanketed by cloud. There was a flicker of lightning. No thunder followed.

The wreck’s hull had rotted away so that it looked like a giant’s ribcage half buried in the beach. Kenzo stooped to enter it, then smoothed out the shingle at his feet, pulled the coat from his shoulders and placed it across the flattened spot. He lay down. Kenzo would stay here tonight. It was not perfect, but he was always one to keep his spirits up. He would treat this as an adventure. It was the best he could do.

Something stirred in his bag. Kenzo sat upright and undid its rope to reach in with both hands. He gently removed a white rabbit, and immediately began snuggling at its soft neck with his nose, shushing it to keep it calm. He took a head of lettuce from his pocket and let the rabbit eat it while it sat on his chest.

“Good Nibbles,” Kenzo said. “Nice Nibbles.” His fluffy pal was the big star of his magic tricks at children’s parties.

There was the scrunch of stone. Something was moving around the wreck.

“Hello?” he said. “Who is there?”

The stones scrunched again, footsteps forcing the beach aside.

“Hello?”

A presence moved in front of him, darkening the decaying wreck, disappearing again. Kenzo leaped to his feet, sending the rabbit hopping to the ground while he scrabbled for his sword, which was wooden because no parent wants a real samurai sword at a kids’ party.

“Come out and show yourself.”

The shadow moved behind him. He turned and arced the sword until it quivered at the nose of his stalker.

A little boy gasped, his eyes wide with shock and fear. Behind him, two other kids gasped with fright.

Kenzo exhaled, withdrew the weapon.

“You must stop following me,” he said, but the children were already running away, scrambling across the stony beach, carried by the fright of nearly losing a nose.

A little stunned, Kenzo watched them leave, shaking his head in bemusement before returning to his temporary bed, where Nibbles was already resting.

Scrunch.

Kenzo sighed, tired of these intrusions.

Scccrunch.

“Please, children,” he muttered, “I must get my rest.”

Kenzo stood again, but this time found himself under a tall shadow. The shadow of a shadow. A shifting shape that emerged from the air, pulled from a scream, the edges coalescing in a swirl. Its hair was like thin snakes writhing from its head, the eyes pinwheels of red, and the distorted mouth carrying a malevolence that could cut a person in two.

Kenzo swung his sword at the intruder, catching it in the side. But the ghost’s molecules moved away, letting the blunt blade pass through.

The phantom reached out, touched Kenzo’s chest.

The last thing Kenzo saw before he disappeared was the very person he had come to Darkmouth to celebrate. It was Finn. Approaching the wreck.

Their eyes met.

Then Kenzo was full of stars.

To Finn it was as if the Half-Hunter had been sliced by light from neck to belly, the light dancing for a moment before spreading out in each direction and swallowing the man.

The victim’s stare burned on to Finn’s mind. Eyes wide. Fear vivid. And then nothing. Just a vague yellow smudge carried across the air slowly. And, in the sand where he had stood, scorch marks around bootprints.

Lingering, a face that was mutated and mutating, a figure rearranging itself in the breeze. But Finn recognised who this was instantly. Even if he couldn’t believe it.

“Tick, tock,” said the phantom before scattering into nothingness in the grey light of evening.

Emmie scrunched on to the scene. “What’s going on, Finn?” she asked. “Why did you come over here?”

Finn gawped dumbly, hardly able to explain. “I thought I saw something, like a light dropping from the sky, and came over to look. But when I got here …”

He stood aside to let her see the scratches in the air.

He showed her the scorched bootprints.

“That’s Kenzo,” he said. “The Japanese Half-Hunter. Was Kenzo. He was swallowed or something.”

“It’s like those marks at the hotel,” Emmie said, eyes wide in amazement.

“But that’s not the scariest thing,” said Finn.

“It’s not?”

“No. I saw what swallowed him,” Finn said. “It was Mr Glad. He’s back. He killed Kenzo.”

The headquarters of the Council of Twelve was on a side street, in the small capital city at the heart of the tiny Alpine country of Liechtenstein. There was no sign above the door, no plaque on the wall, no hint at all that this was the nerve centre of the Legend Hunter world except for a missing chunk of the third floor caused when someone pressed the wrong button on the wrong weapon many years ago.

Inside was a warren of corridors and staircases, criss-crossing at odd points, or leading to dead ends. There were large doors to small rooms and small doors to large rooms and at least one door that for some reason opened to nowhere but a fatal six-storey drop to the pavement outside.

On the seventh floor – which could be reached only by first taking an elevator to the ninth floor – there was a small room with a plaque on the door describing it as the Office of Lost Arts.

Inside that room sat a fellow by the name of Lucien, one of the great many assistants to the Council of Twelve. One early afternoon, he was pondering what was generally the most serious decision of his working day – whether to have a sandwich or a salad for his lunch – when a small canister arrived through the communications tubes that networked the building and landed with a fwhop on his desk.

Lucien adjusted his oversized glasses, which immediately slid back down the bridge of his small nose. He twisted open the container and unfurled the pages inside. These were notes from the Council of Twelve and they detailed a tale of heroism and survival so extraordinary, and an invasion so fierce, that it was almost unprecedented in the annals of the Legend Hunters.

It told the story of mere children, Finn and Emmie, of the last active Legend Hunter, Hugo the Great, of Estravon the Assessor. Of gateways and lost Legend Hunters. Of time travel and a beach battle.

The message further instructed Lucien to read up on it, check all the reports and to write a report about those reports. And then he would be expected to report back on whether there was anything further to report.

He was ordered to do all this without delay.

Naturally, Lucien went for lunch first. Later, munching on a salad sandwich, he licked a finger, turned the pages, peered at a blurry photograph of Darkmouth’s beach post-battle, which showed a carpet of desiccated Legends half buried under collapsed earth. He marvelled quietly at this scene.

What Finn, Emmie, Estravon and Hugo had achieved simply by returning from the Infested Side was unprecedented. Here was a small group of people – a Legend Hunter, an Assessor, two children – who had done not just something extraordinary, but almost unbelievable.

They had gone to a stale and ruined world full of creatures hellbent on destroying humans. A place where, it was said, even the soil tried to kill you. And they had lived to tell a story that would echo through the generations.

As he pushed a rogue piece of lettuce into his mouth, Lucien felt a twinge of envy towards those Half-Hunters who had been there for the battle. He had a bolt of longing for the adventure experienced by mere children, especially that boy Finn who had now gone through two gateways in his lifetime and come back alive each time.

Lucien was here in Liechtenstein, twiddling his thumbs, shuffling through bits of paper, finding occasional excitement from seeing how far he could tip his chair back on two legs before he fell over.

Meanwhile, Darkmouth was the last battlefront in a long war against Legends. And it was home to a true hero. There was no doubt about Finn’s heroism. No doubt whatsoever.

Unless you thought about it.

Which Lucien began to do.

Finn sat on the edge of his bed, his toes wriggling in giant claw slippers he’d got for Christmas, knuckles pressed hard into his stinging eyes as he tried to rub away the images of the night before. As morning sun slanted through the blinds, his mind was still unable to comprehend the reappearance of a man he thought long gone, but who was back. Just not in a form Finn recognised. He’d called his father immediately and together with Emmie they’d spent the late hours examining a scene none of them could fully understand.

As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, he was waking to a momentous couple of days. The Completion Ceremony would take place tonight. He would be thirteen tomorrow. It had been building to this his whole life.

But, right now, something else was beginning to dominate his senses.

Pancakes. He could smell pancakes.

He stood and put his head out of the bedroom door.

“Something’s going on,” said Clara, passing him on her way to the stairs. “Something is always going on.”

Finn didn’t know what she knew, and thought it best not to offer any information. He didn’t like holding things back from his mother, but neither did he want to be responsible for blurting out that a couple of Half-Hunters had been disintegrated by the returning phantom of Mr Glad. That kind of thing would spoil anyone’s morning.

He followed his mother, trudging downstairs and realising he could hear a couple of voices in the kitchen already.

“Do you want more pickles with that?” he heard his father asking.

“Mmmm-mmmm,” he heard Broonie agree, his mouth clearly full, presumably with pancakes and pickles. This was highly unusual.

Clara reappeared in the hallway, grabbing her keys. “I know this is a big day for you, Finn. But I really need to get out before that breakfast is over.”

Finn didn’t know what she was talking about. “Mam, why is Dad making Broonie pancakes?”

“Last meal of a condemned man,” said Clara, throwing on her jacket and heading for the front door. “A condemned Hogboon actually. Your dad’s looking after things before the Completion tonight. Anyway, it’s going to be a crazy day for you. For us. So I’m going to go to work and find something more relaxing to do for a while. Maybe look at pictures of rotting teeth or something.”

He could hear Broonie slurping while Hugo asked him if he would like more moss on his pancakes. Clara sighed and left.

Finn went into the kitchen, the shuffling of his huge slippers announcing him.

“Hey, Finn,” his dad said, with a cheeriness so forced Finn knew it could only be building up to something bad.

Finn gave him a wary look. Broonie raised a knobbly hand in acknowledgement, unable to speak because his mouth was so full of pancakes, moss and something that looked like a fat twig. Or a skinny slug. Finn couldn’t be sure.

“I was just explaining to Broonie about what happened last night,” said Hugo.

“Nasty business,” said Broonie, specks of food spraying from his mouth. “That scoundrel Mr Glad is back. Doesn’t bode well.”

“No,” said Finn, unsure about what was going on here.

Hugo spooned some more moss on to Broonie’s plate. “I’ve had to tell the Council of Twelve about this,” he said to Finn. “We’ve got some ghostly version of Mr Glad disappearing Half-Hunters into thin air, and he said those words …”

“Tick, tock,” said Finn, still watching Broonie slurp up his treat.

“Tick, tock is not good. Tick, tock sounds like something’s about to go off. The Twelve were on their way to your ceremony anyway, so there’s no point in trying to keep this to ourselves any longer.”

Finn had hoped for a bit more reassurance than this. That his father was stumped was not a good sign.

“The ceremony is definitely going ahead then …?” asked Finn, torn between a desire to be made a Legend Hunter and the hope it might be done without too much fuss.

“I’d expect so,” said Hugo, matter of fact, while fishing about in a drawer in search of something. “Even if things are going badly, the Council of Twelve likes a spectacular event. In fact, I was just telling Broonie what a big day it is for you.”

“I’ll stay out of your way,” said Broonie, licking his lips clean of squished pickles.

“And I was reminding Broonie,” continued Hugo in a pointed tone, “that lots of special guests are due in Darkmouth. The Council of Twelve. More Half-Hunters. The golden monkeys.”

“Ah no, are they really doing the golden monkey thing?” groaned Finn.

“They won’t get so much as a whiff of this old Hogboon,” said Broonie, giving his armpit a quick sniff. “No need to worry on that score.”

Hugo turned, and Finn saw that he had a roll of electrical tape and a pair of scissors in his hand. Broonie realised this too and stopped mid-munch, looked at each of them. “Pancakes,” he said as if just figuring out a vital clue in a great mystery. “Pancakes. I should have known when you gave me pancakes!”

“Do we need to do this?” Finn asked his dad.

“We do, I’m afraid,” said Hugo.

“The pancakes weren’t even that great, to be truthful,” hissed Broonie. “Not enough eggshell pieces for my liking.”

“Do we have to tie him up?” Finn asked.

“No,” said Hugo, “but only if he’ll … you know what … willingly.”

Broonie’s drooping eyelids opened wide as he understood fully what was going on. “Oh, it’s desiccated I’m to be? Maybe you should try getting shrunk some day!” he screamed at them. “I promise you it’s a treat beyond delight!”

“The Twelve think you’re already desiccated,” said Hugo. “If they see you like this, they’ll make sure to do it themselves, and they won’t be as gentle as us.”

“I was being sarcastic, you do realise that?” said Broonie. “It’s not a treat. Or a delight.”

“Let’s all agree it’s not pleasant,” continued Hugo. “But we have bigger problems at the moment.”

“So I must pay the price for your problems.”

Finn sighed and shrank a little. It was too early in the day for this. It would always be the wrong time of day for it. “We’ll make it quick,” he promised.

“It’ll only be quick for you,” complained Broonie. “For me, it is a slow, cruel trip towards oblivion. After all I’ve done for you.”

“You’re right,” said Hugo. “You helped Finn defeat a rampant Minotaur. But, let’s be honest here, we’ve saved your life too. You could easily be back with the Council of Twelve being questioned and examined—”

“And prodded,” added Broonie. “There was lots of prodding.”

“No one wants to hurt you, Broonie,” said Finn, genuinely upset by all of this.

“Really?” asked Broonie.

“Really,” said Hugo. “I promise we’ll reanimate you when this is over, give you a big chisel and you can go out there and eat all the old, hard chewing gum you can dig off the pavement.” Hugo held out a hand. “So what do you say?”

Broonie eyeballed him in return, assessing the offer for a few seconds before making his decision. “You know,” he said, “you humans really do have the most appalling eyebrows.”

Then he ran.

Four minutes and twenty-six seconds later, and after the loss of a couple of pieces of crockery, Broonie was wrapped in tape and protesting as loudly as his gagged mouth would allow.

“We’ll get him to the library. You’re going to have to grab his feet,” said Hugo.

“Why do I have to grab his feet?” protested Finn. “They’re vile.”

“Hhhggmmm!” Broonie complained. “Hhhhgggmmmmmm!”

They lifted the Hogboon like a roll of carpet to a spot on the kitchen floor between the bin and the washing machine.

“You watch him while I grab a Desiccator and get this thing over and done with,” said Hugo and nipped out of the door towards the Long Hall before Finn could protest.

“Hhhhggghhkkmmm!”

“I know,” said Finn, hating every moment of this. “I’m sorry.”

“Hhhgggmmmm,” added Broonie, then “kkhhhhhhukkkk,” as if choking a bit.

The Hogboon seemed in genuine distress now, all trussed up like that, with the locket clamped tight in his neck. “Kkkgggggggggurrrrrrrkkk.” He writhed on the floor, thrust his head back, struggling for breath. It was awful to see.

Finn couldn’t stand it any longer and bent down to pull a corner of the tape from Broonie’s mouth. The Hogboon gasped a breath. “My neck,” he rasped. “The clasp. Too tight. Can’t breathe.”

The doorbell rang. Bing bong.

“Dad!” Finn called out of the door into the hall. “Can you get that?”

“Help,” gasped Broonie, a spray of spittle leaping from his lips.

“I’ll loosen it,” Finn said. “But just a bit.” He fumbled with the lock on the very back of the necklace. What code? He tried the house’s alarm code and sure enough the lock loosened and Finn could let the clasp out a bit, to the evident relief of Broonie who gulped in breath as if it was his last chance.

The bell rang again, urgent now. Bing bong. Bing bong.

“OK!” Finn shouted at the door. “I’m coming. Stay here, Broonie. There’s no point in trying to wriggle anywhere.”

Pressing the tape across Broonie’s mouth again, he ran from the kitchen, opened the door.

Emmie stood on the doorstep.

“They’re coming,” she announced urgently, pushing past Finn.

“Who’s coming?” asked Finn.

“What’s going on?” enquired Hugo, appearing in the hall with a Desiccator barrel in one hand, its canister in the other. A breeze tickled each of them, air whooshing through the house as if a door or window was open elsewhere. Hugo looked at the open door of the kitchen. “Where’s Broonie?” he asked, walking towards it.

Finn tensed immediately, and followed Emmie to the kitchen. They each peered under one of Hugo’s armpits as he stood, shaking his head, the restrained fury clear in every hard breath through his nostrils.

On the floor was a pair of scissors and shorn electrical tape. But no Broonie. Over the sink, a small window was open to the yard out the back, and the walled alleyways leading into Darkmouth.

“Fantastic,” said Hugo.

“He was choking, Dad,” explained Finn, feeling the world sink away beneath him.

“I presume he went through a whole routine, did he?” said Hugo, and began to imitate a choking Hogboon. “Kkkgggggggggurrrrrrrkkk. Help me. Kkkgggggurrrrkk.”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” said Finn, even though it had been exactly like that.

Hugo turned, pushed past Finn and Emmie to get to the Long Hall, quickly returning with a scanner: a chubby box with a screen that winked into view, displaying a hand-drawn map of Darkmouth. A blue dot appeared. This was the tracking device in Broonie’s locket. He was already moving at pace from the house.

Hugo clicked the Desiccator, arming it. There was a meek wheeze from its canister, the sound of its fluid engaging for action.

“This is getting serious,” said Hugo. “Mr Glad has killed two Half-Hunters. More may die. He’s up to something, even if we don’t know what it is yet. So we’ll go and bring Broonie back, but this time we’ll do it without any messing around, without playing nice. We’ll track him like we would any Legend. Hunt him down. Shrink him. Bring him back. Then we’ll start dealing with this situation properly.”

“Are we going to tell the Twelve he’s loose?” asked Finn.

“I’ll think about it,” answered Hugo.

“Oh yeah,” said Emmie, “that’s what I came to tell you.”

“Hello,” said a voice. “Anyone home?” Steve stuck his head round the door. “Hey, Hugo. You’d better have the kettle on.”

“Ah, it’s just you,” said Hugo.

“And me too, delighted to finally be back in Darkmouth,” said Estravon the Assessor, appearing from behind Steve, his hair black, slick and combed so neatly it looked like he may have measured each individual strand to make sure they were all the same length. He stepped into the house, his long legs encased in a blue suit with a velvety sheen. He wore a bright red tie.

“Good morning, Hugo, Finn, Emmie. Doing some training already?” Estravon asked, spotting the Desiccator. He looked at his watch. “Anyway, that’s all the time allocated for small talk; we must get on with business.”

He stood aside to reveal a group of people behind him. They were ancient men and women in colourful robes and heavy chains, and each had their own drably suited assistant just a step behind their right shoulder.

Hugo’s face fell.

Estravon thrust his chin out, and announced proudly, “Allow me to introduce the Council of Twelve.”

“What a day this is,” exclaimed Estravon, running a hand down his fine suit, and unable to restrain his enthusiasm as the Council of Twelve and their assistants settled in the library. Surrounded by the armour and relics of generations of Legend Hunters, and by shelves filled with the desiccated remains of countless Legends, the new arrivals sat and slumped on the various kitchen chairs and even a sofa that had been dragged down the Long Hall to the library.

Hugo and Finn sat behind the main desk. Emmie was half sunk into a beanbag to their right. There had been no seats left.

Finn’s father was distracted by the scanner tucked away between their feet and the blue blob that was Broonie skipping through Darkmouth in a somewhat haphazard pattern. And a conspiratorial glance between them back in the main house had been all that was needed for the three of them to agree that they were better off not mentioning this small but important detail right now.

“Yes, what a day,” repeated Estravon, looking towards Finn and Hugo. “The Completion of a new Legend Hunter. After which, Hugo shall become a member of the Council of Twelve. And here they all are in Darkmouth for this historic occasion.”

However, Estravon dropped his voice and grew sombre at this moment. “Actually, not all of the Twelve are here. As everyone will be aware, Zero the First has been unable to attend due to a long-standing appointment with his doctor which, unfortunately, turned into a more permanent appointment with a cemetery.”

Everyone in the room bowed their heads for a moment in memory of the recently departed Zero the First. While they did this, Finn took his chance to examine the Council of Twelve.

They were about as old as any people Finn had ever seen. They wore robes, every one a different colour, but all heavy enough that they appeared almost weighed down by them. One woman wore a yellow garment that, on second glance, might actually have been a very old, grimy white. On her shoulders was a scaly green trim. A man sported a faded red robe with spiked epaulettes, another a deep purple one with an orange fur collar.

Around their necks were chains festooned with medallions – the very bottom of these engraved with a number. One of the great privileges of becoming a member of the Council of Twelve was that, having worked for so long to earn their Legend Hunter name, they then traded it in for a mere number between 1 and 12. Hugo the Great would become Hugo the Twelfth, but only once Finn became Complete.

Every other medallion on the chain was decorated with carvings of their families’ triumphs or their own personal battles. Because while they were slow now, and obviously reliant on the assistants who stood attentive behind each of them, with their grey suits and empty expressions, the Twelve were old enough to have known a time when Blighted Villages were invaded regularly, when the world was in constant need of protection. As very much younger men and women, they had fought those battles themselves, felled Legends.

Now one elder in a silver robe was battling sleep. And losing.

The moment of silence was over and Estravon waved his hand in the direction of one of the Twelve. “Allow me first to present the most noble Cedric the Ninth.” With that simple introduction, Estravon sat.

Cedric rose. The medallions resting on his red robes bore images of serpents and sea creatures, and one panel showed what must have been a younger version of him striking down a giant.

Now the thin skin of his neck just about held up his large tottering head. And he coughed, like an engine trying to start. His assistant, blond and tall with a blank face, moved to help him, but Cedric waved him away as if he did not want to be seen to be weak. Finally, after one last hack and a thump to his chest, he got the words out.

“Is it true you saw Mr Glad?”

Finn looked to his father, whose nod told him he could answer freely.

“I saw him,” confirmed Finn. “But not him. He was there, but kind of wasn’t, if you know what I mean.”

He could see that they didn’t know what he meant at all.

“Did he run away?” asked Cedric.

“No,” said Finn. “He just sort of vanished. Or drifted away.”

“And the marks in the air,” interjected the yellow-robed woman, grey hair piled on her head like rocks and a great scar running from the centre of her forehead around her eye and ending at the cleft of her chin. “What did they look like?”

Estravon stood. “Allow me to introduce Aurora the Third.” He sat down again.

Finn grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from his father’s desk, and walked round to the front of it.

He sketched the marks from the hotel room and the beach, then held them up.

“Claw marks?” said Aurora, running a finger along her scar.

“Possibly,” Hugo answered. “Or the victims may have torn the air themselves in some last act before death.”

Aurora noticed Finn’s feet. “Are you wearing those claws to your Completion Ceremony?”

So cosy were they, Finn had completely forgotten he was wearing the giant slippers. His face reddening, he opened his mouth to answer only to be distracted by a giggle from Emmie.

This was followed by a loud snort from the sleeping member of the Twelve. “Three!” he announced.

“Does Stumm the Eleventh wish to contribute?” asked Estravon.

Stumm the Eleventh belched in his sleep slowly, as part of his natural exhalation at that moment. Hugo’s impatience practically radiated from him as he took the chance to glance again at the scanner. Returning to his seat, Finn looked too, and could see that Broonie was moving deeper into Darkmouth.

“Or they may be the marks from whatever Glad uses to snatch his victims, or vaporise them, or whatever he’s doing,” Hugo continued, his focus back on the room.

“Two!” blabbed Stumm the Eleventh, sitting up sharply from his apparent slumber. His eyes were wide open, pushing up his pile of eyebrows. Every member of the Twelve and their assistants looked at him. Apparently satisfied with his contribution, Stumm the Eleventh nodded off again while the fur of his robes rose and fell to his snores.

“He’s telling us it’s a countdown,” said Steve, from where he leaned against a curved shelf at the back of the room. “That’s what Stumm is saying. Three. Two. And presumably—”

“One!” shouted Stumm, not even opening his eyes.

“There you go,” said Steve.

Aurora looked at Finn. “And Mr Glad said, ‘Tick, tock’?”

“Yes.”

“Then it would certainly appear to be a countdown,” she said. “He’s planning something. Building up to something. And he wants us to know it.”

There was a brief outbreak of whispering and discussions between the members of the Twelve and their assistants. Finn saw his own father silently berate himself. He was so distracted by Broonie’s escape he’d missed this vital deduction.

While this was going on, Finn noticed that the impassive assistant to the sleeping Stumm, light bouncing off his utterly bald head, carried a square briefcase. It was red and weathered, the gold paint of its locks largely peeled away. Spotting Finn eyeing it, the assistant gripped the briefcase just a smidgen tighter.

“I wonder what’s in that case?” Finn whispered to Emmie.

“I don’t know,” she said, leaning forward on her beanbag for a better look. “Their lunch?”

“They handcuff their lunch to an assistant?” He had noticed a chain running from the man’s sleeve to a cuff at the case’s handle.

Cedric cleared his throat. “If it’s a countdown, then what is it counting down to?”

“More victims?” wondered Estravon.

“Or something bigger,” said Steve.

“What of the Hogboon who arrived here from the Infested Side?” asked Aurora. “Were we able to extract information from him?”

Finn hoped they didn’t see his eyes widen at the mention of Broonie.

“He is contained,” said Hugo calmly, even as the scanner at his feet showed Broonie loose about Darkmouth. “Besides, I think he answered all he could. There was a fair amount of prodding.”

“True, there was prodding,” said Cedric. His blond assistant leaned in and whispered something. “And quite a lot of poking,” concluded Cedric.

Finn could see that the blue dot was on the move. Not towards the wormery at the allotments, but further into town. It looked like Broonie was heading for the main street. Hugo was doing well to hide his anxiety, but they both knew that this was about to get very messy indeed.

“About Mr Glad,” said Aurora. “Tell us again how he died. It was, I believe, in this very room.”

Finn and Emmie exchanged a glance. They’d both been there at that terrible moment.

“I pushed him,” Finn answered. “Into a gateway. And he became sort of stuck in it.”

“He wriggled,” said Emmie. “Tried to get out.”

“But it was like he was being bitten, and the jaws were tightening,” said Finn. “Eventually, it became too much and when the gateway closed he just kind of vaporised in a spray of light.”

“Golden light,” said Emmie. “Right over there.” She pointed to the spot where it had happened, now betraying no evidence of the strange events that had taken place there not even a year before.

“If he was caught between gateways, could it be that …?” Aurora asked quietly, addressing the rest of the Twelve.

“Could it be what?” Emmie whispered to Finn, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Such a phenomenon was never proven,” Cedric spluttered. “Rumoured but never proven.”

“Yes,” replied Aurora, “but there is one important place where it was once rumoured to have occurred.”

“What are they talking about?” asked Finn.

“The Trapped,” said his father bluntly, as if it was something he had hoped to avoid saying. “They’re talking about the Trapped.”

“Ahem, if I may,” said Estravon, taking a few steps towards Finn and Emmie. “The Trapped are a myth even among myths, talked of but never seen. They are those souls caught in gateways, between worlds, and said to live in that space thereafter.”

“But they do not come back,” said Aurora with certainty.

“There have been stories,” said Cedric. “At least one Legend Hunter who believed they could.”

“That is for another time,” Hugo said, sounding like he wanted to cut off this discussion before it got any further. “For now, what is the plan? I presume that as Darkmouth’s Legend Hunter I will be expected to deal with this situation?”

“Yes,” said Cedric, glancing at the other members of the Twelve.

“Good,” said Hugo, making to stand up.

“And … no,” said Aurora, leaving Hugo to hover, neither sitting nor standing. “This is a big day for our kind. The biggest in many years. Our greatest triumph in decades. A new Legend Hunter. After which you will join us as a member of the Twelve. Then, perhaps, we can start making plans for Emmie here too.”

Finn blushed. He sensed Emmie sitting a little taller at the compliment.

“We must not hesitate,” said Cedric.

“If necessary,” continued Aurora, looking to the bald assistant attached to the case, “we must take extraordinary measures. You will deal with it for now, Hugo. But if things are not resolved quickly we will intervene.”

Hugo glanced at the case too, sighed. “Fair enough.”

Finn looked down at the scanner. It showed Broonie wandering straight into the centre of Darkmouth. There would be chaos out there. And disgust. Panic. Excitement. Trouble. His dad was obviously thinking the same thing.

Further along the row of the Twelve, another member stood, a very tall man in a black robe with light blue leather edges, and a medallion bearing the number 2. The skin sagged on his face and on the finger he raised.

“Lazlo the Second,” announced Estravon, realising he needed to introduce him as was the way of things.

The rest of the room hushed. Lazlo inhaled, working himself up to what was obviously going to be a very important intervention.

“In my blighted village we have a saying,” he said. “Hairy feet are no substitute for comfortable shoes.”

Lazlo sat again, with the aid of his assistant who draped his black robe over the back of a floral kitchen chair.

No one seemed to know quite how to respond.

“I’m going to have to find a way to break up this meeting,” Hugo mumbled to Finn as the thrum of elders and assistants rose again.

Finn had a moment of inspiration, words so powerful that for a long time after he would be shocked by their impact. “Who needs to use the toilet?”

There was quite a rush for the door.

They hurried the ten members of the Twelve and their assistants from the house without wanting to give the impression they were pushing them out.

They jumped in the car without wanting to give the impression they were hurrying anywhere in particular.

They tracked Broonie through Darkmouth without wanting to look like they were tracking anything at all.

Blip went the scanner.

“I can’t believe he escaped,” went Hugo.

“Sorry,” said Finn.

“Just as the Council of Twelve turns up.”

“I know.”

“While Half-Hunters are being vaporised by Mr Glad.”

“That bit’s hardly my fault,” said Finn. He wasn’t so sure, though.

The scanner told them the Hogboon was scampering around the centre of the town, apparently in some kind of panic judging by the pattern. In and out of alleyways, trying to find ways into backyards, hugging the edges of every wall. But one thing was clear. He was heading towards Broken Road, and the calm of the unsuspecting people of Darkmouth was about to be shattered.

“There’s to be no screwing up this time,” said Hugo, with such a grip on the steering wheel that his knuckles were white.

“You’re the one who left me alone with a choking Hogboon,” replied Finn. “Anyway, you’re just taking all this out on me because the Council of Twelve has shown up and you’re trying to pretend we’re in control of things.”

“Hold that Desiccator,” said Hugo sternly. “We’re about to turn sharply.”

He swung the car round a corner while Finn held the Desiccator on his lap, praying it wouldn’t accidentally discharge and shrink the car door. Or the entire car.

It wouldn’t be the first time Finn had accidentally shrunk something. Almost a year ago, when Mr Glad first turned on them, Finn had desiccated half a fishing boat in the harbour. Still, compared to some unfortunate Legend Hunters of the past, he wasn’t doing too badly. Most famous was André the Clumsy, who had inadvertently desiccated his mother-in-law during their very first meeting – which wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been on a bicycle at the time. It is said to have taken him four weeks to properly separate the woman from the bike, and even then a bell rang every time she hiccuped.

“What’s in the briefcase, Dad?” Finn asked.

“Briefcase?”

“The one that assistant had chained to his wrist.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I know you’d tell me if you needed to,” responded Finn.

“It’s the worst thing I can imagine,” said Hugo. “So we’re going to make sure they don’t need to open it. Now tell me where Broonie is on that scanner.”

“He’s gone into Scraper’s Lane,” said Finn, watching their target move on the map. “Hold on, he’s back out on Broken Road now.”

At that moment, his father pressed on the accelerator in order to dash through the lights just as they went from orange to red, a short scream of the tyres giving an indication of his urgency. Hugo almost clipped the front edge of a small oncoming car, and gave the driver a wave of forced jolliness that was supposed to make up for the fact he had almost crushed him pancake-flat.

They arrived at the top end of Broken Road.

“There!” shouted Finn, pointing towards a spot further down the road, where the scanner said Broonie should be. The place was obscured by parked cars and the usual mix of Darkmouth locals and Half-Hunter tourists. None seemed as yet to have noticed the rogue Legend.

“Let’s draw up slowly beside him,” said Hugo, keeping his speed steady. “Get good and close for a shot.”

They moved on, the blue dot on the scanner getting very near.

Blip. Blip. Blipblipblip.

Still Broonie was obscured. Finn saw a low figure flit between a gap in some parked cars, hugging the ground. “There!”

In just a few more metres, Hugo would get a clean shot through a space between cars. He took the Desiccator from Finn’s lap, kept his other hand on the wheel. Nerveless. Steady. He pulled in to the kerb, waited for Broonie to emerge. “Ready,” he said. “Three. Two. One …”

“Hey, Hugo!” Nils, the Norwegian Half-Hunter stuck his head right in the window. “And it’s the boy Finn. What a hero! Oh wow, yes.”

“Listen,” said Hugo, trying to look over his shoulder, “we’re in the middle of something here so—”

“Great car,” said Nils, oblivious to the urgency. “Does it have an ejector seat?”

Finn watched the scanner as the dot approached the street side of their car.

Blipblipblip.

“No ejector seats either,” replied Hugo. “Look, we’ll have plenty of time to—”

“But it has Desiccators in the bumper, right?” asked Nils, undeterred. He pushed his arm into the car. “I love gadgets. Have I shown you my souvenir cufflinks? I wanted something really explosive for my trip and—”

“Dad,” said Finn as the dot passed right by them, hidden by parked cars and Nils’s big head. Hugo pushed open the door, practically shoving Nils out of the way. Finn got out of his side of the car, the scanner held low under his hooded jacket. Blipblipblip. Blip. Blip.

“He’s gone down the alleyway to our one o’clock,” said Hugo.

“What’s at one o’clock?” asked Nils, standing in his way. “Can I come?”

“Nils,” said Hugo. “Do you want to know a Darkmouth secret?”

Nils nodded with the enthusiasm of a toddler.

“That postbox over there is a spring-loaded Legend trap. You should go and have a look. But only look. One touch and you might lose a foot.”

“Oh wow.” Nils bounded away.

Hugo grabbed the Desiccator, tucked it tight under his armpit. “I’ll take this alleyway, you take that one just behind us. They meet at a dead end. There’s nowhere for him to go.”

Finn jogged back to the alley known as the Gutted Narrows, eye on the scanner, watching the Hogboon move along the curve between them, just ahead out of sight. Each time he thought he might glimpse Broonie, the creature scuttled on a little further, before stopping at the very corner where the two laneways met.

Finn rejoined his father there, at a fruit and veg shop at the elbow of the two paths. On one side of the door was a tall rack of potatoes and onions. On the other, boxes of apples and melons. And, in the middle, the door inside which they knew would be a cowering Hogboon.

“It’s quiet,” whispered Finn.

“Not for much longer,” replied his father.

They burst in, Desiccators high, ready to fire, Hugo shouting, “Right, you little scut, it’s bedtime!”

The shopkeeper shrieked and dropped a lettuce.

Kenzo’s rabbit hopped over to where the vegetable lay and nibbled on its leaves. Finn bent down. On the animal’s neck was a locket with a combination lock on it.

Finn remembered loosening it when it was on Broonie’s neck, but now wasn’t entirely sure he’d locked it properly afterwards.

“Any idea how Broonie got out of that lock?” Hugo asked.

“No clue,” said Finn.

He wanted to hide now. From responsibility. From everything. He felt like his face might burn up with guilt.

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