“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 an
yway, 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,” an
swered 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.
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