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.
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