Darkmouth (10 page)

F
inn's years of training as a Legend Hunter had been based on the not unreasonable notion that he would have a career hunting Legends.

He may not have been particularly agile, or gifted, or adept, or any other variation on “useful” at the different types of combat needed to fight these creatures, but he knew all the theory.

He could, in theory, take down a Gorgon. He could, in theory, decapitate a snarling Ophiotaurus. He could,
in theory
, douse the fire of a Chimera's breath.

But he had worked hard to learn all he would need to know in order to become a
Legend
Hunter. Not once had he been warned that, in the course of his career, he might need to take on the role of Human Hunter. If he had known, then things might have turned out a whole lot better.

In that half step forward, Finn's toe caught the top
of a thick piece of discarded rope that stretched across the pier. He stumbled slightly, gripping the trigger instinctively and sending a Desiccator shot fizzing through the murk.

Its furious blue fire unfurled a net that nicked the edge of the man's hat and traveled on. An almighty crunch of destruction ripped through the gray curtain of fog, echoing round the harbor. Startled, the man turned and charged at him. Finn struggled to right himself quickly enough to aim again and the man was upon him almost immediately, lifting him from the ground so that his feet kicked the air pathetically.

Finn wriggled and forced his feet onto the ground, where he pushed back. His weapon hung loose around his back as they wrestled. Close in, Finn clawed, swung, kicked out, and lost his balance as both of them spilled to the ground, his Desiccator digging into his side. He tried to reach around for it, but couldn't free it.

But then he spied a piece of metal beside him, star shaped, a fishing weight. Finn stretched out a hand, grabbed it, and slammed it hard into the man's neck, eliciting a grunt of pain followed by a growl of anger as his attacker lifted Finn again and carried him to the edge of the harbor wall.

Finn felt the man release his hold, then an unnerving plunging sensation.

He hit the water hard.

The freezing water rushed into his suit, his protective armor now an enemy dragging him down below the sea. He fought his way to the surface, the cold and panic shocking his lungs, constricting his breathing, quickly tiring him. He sank again. The seawater flooded his helmet, the rank salt and oil of the harbor lapping at his mouth.

He rose again, swiping his visor open so he could splutter a cry for help, yelling as he scrabbled to stay above water, his head bent back to thrust his mouth and nose into the air.

He slid below the sea again.

The fight seeped from him, exhaustion taking hold, the heavy weight of the suit pulling on him. He tried again, pushing himself up, but his mouth felt the longed-for comfort of the air for only a moment before he dropped down again. His eyes wide but unseeing in the murk. His lungs screaming at him to let go. It was like a foot on his chest, arms wrapped around him, squeezing the life from him. Arms
were
wrapped around him. They let go. He felt someone grabbing at his hands. Then around the head,
searching for his shoulders. A fresh surge of panic and adrenaline shot through Finn. The attacker was here, in the sea, ready to finish the job. Finn lashed out. Pushed weak punches through the water.

The hands kept at him, reaching below his shoulders again, grabbing him firmly under the arms and pulling him up. Finn stopped fighting and allowed himself to be dragged to the surface, a hand reaching around his chin and holding it upward so that all he could see was a weak sun poking through the clearing fog. But he could taste the air, crisp and pure. He gulped greedily, choking momentarily on water pouring off the rim of his helmet and down his throat.

Finn felt himself being hauled onto the stony beach, where he fell forward, coughing, spitting up foul seawater.

“You were almost done for there,” said his rescuer. “Thought I wasn't going to be able to get you.”

Finn looked up to see Mr. Glad sitting beside him, panting with effort, water dripping heavily from his long hair and frayed suit. He spat a gob of seawater onto the stones.

On the road behind them, a car screeched to a halt. Finn's father jumped out and raced down the beach toward them, a canister bouncing around on his belt.

“Look at me, Finn. Look at me!” his dad said, grabbing Finn's head and forcing him to make eye contact. “What happened?”

Finn spluttered. “At the gateway.”

“What? A Legend?”

“No . . . a human. A man.”

“What did he want?”

“Give me a chance here, Dad,” Finn said, shaking his head free. He looked at Mr. Glad. “How did you . . . ?”

“You think you're the only one who can keep track of gateways?” he said, fishing a scanner from inside his jacket and letting water pour from it. “Or I could before our swim. Anyway, I heard a sound like the world was caving in before I even got here. The gateway was gone.”

“And the man Finn saw?” asked Finn's dad.

“I didn't see anyone,” said Mr. Glad, standing up again. “But, in that fog, anyone could have slipped by easily enough.”

“Are you absolutely sure you saw someone, Finn? Did you try and stop him? Did you get a shot?”

Finn was slumped where he sat, finally feeling life reassert itself in his body. “I did. But I didn't . . .”

“He got away then?”

“Yes, he got away,” snapped Finn. “After attacking me and throwing me in the sea. But I'm alive, thanks for asking.”

“Is that canister full, Hugo?” asked Mr. Glad.

Finn's father lifted it on his belt. “Manticore. Just a small one. He hadn't made it too far from the gateway before I got him. Didn't seem worth his while coming through. But he brought this.”

He held up a crystal. It had the rough shape of a claw.

Finn coughed hard, hacking up more foul seawater from his chest. His dad squeezed his shoulders in what was the closest thing to a hug Finn was ever going to get. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” said Mr. Glad, nodding at the harbor wall, where a trawler was now visible—or rather the remains of a trawler. It was listing violently, its stern a hard, disfigured lump of wood, steel, and rope, clinging tightly to the puckered edges of the rest of the vessel.

Finn's shot had hit a target. Just the wrong one.

Farther up the road, in the last tendrils of the mist, a dark van pulled away from the sidewalk. Finn recognized it as the same vehicle that had parked briefly on the street near his house earlier that week.

“Dad, that van—”

But then their attention was diverted by the distant blast of a siren and the flashing lights of an approaching police car.

“We should go,” suggested Finn's dad. No one disagreed.

F
inn sat opposite Mr. Glad at the kitchen table. He had dried off and changed, but Mr. Glad was still wearing his wet clothes. A smell of rank harbor water filled the room.

Outside, at the front door, Finn could hear muffled voices.

“Have you been on many hunts, Finn?” Mr. Glad inquired.

“A few,” Finn answered reluctantly. He was still in shock after the events of the morning and his mouth was in solidarity. He didn't have the energy to respond.

Finn stood up and peered through the crack in the door. He could see his father and Sergeant Doyle in heated conversation at the front of the house. The sergeant was simmering with frustration. He caught a glimpse of Finn, who immediately ducked away and sat back down at the table.

“The first time I saw one, I froze,” said Mr. Glad. “He was a big fella too. A Griffin. Claws that could cut steel. Wings the width of the street. Big dead eyes. Popped down off a roof, right in front of me. And I just stood there. You ever see a Basilisk caught in the headlights?”

He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “That was me. Now I hadn't been trained like you have, but I was a good bit older than you are now, had been in a few scrapes here and there. But that Griffin? It froze me.”

From the hallway, the murmur continued, punctuated by Sergeant Doyle's occasionally raised voice. Finn heard him say “that boy” with clear exasperation.

Mr. Glad looked through the fruit bowl for something that appealed to him. Finn watched silently, feeling ill. His nostrils still stung from where he'd inhaled the seawater. He tasted diesel in his mouth and failure deep in his stomach.

Mr. Glad peeled an orange, his chipped nails digging at the skin while he stared out of the window. “I was always an outsider, deep down. Never really one of them, no matter how much respect they threw my way. I had to be rescued that day, by two generations of Legend Hunters working together. Lived together, trained together, fought together. Tighter than the snakes on a Gorgon's head. I
owed them, but resented them at the same time. And you know who those Legend Hunters were?”

He popped a segment of orange in his mouth and bit down on it, wiping juice off his chin with the back of his hand. “Your father and your great-grandfather, Gerald. Disappointed doesn't even halfway cover that man's mood. If you were in debt to him, he never let you forget it.”

Finn felt he owed Mr. Glad something. His life, for starters. But he also felt a discomfort building inside. Whether it was trauma or his secret, or simply the smell of fish and diesel, he couldn't tell, but he almost needed to prick the tension with words. “There is something. . . .”

He was interrupted by his father's return to the kitchen. “Doyle thinks it was another Legend that we were shooting at and we'll let him believe that. But he's not a happy man and says he's not alone. That boat is going to cost us. We'll have to go to the fund again.”

Finn knew he was talking about a compensation fund that existed for Legend Hunters who needed to pay for damage to civilian property, or to civilians and property. It was started many centuries before, in Ancient Egypt, when a most unfortunate incident had led to the loss of the Sphinx's nose. It was a useful resource, but Finn's
father hated using it because it required a lot of paperwork.

“The fund isn't bottomless,” he added, propping himself back against the kitchen counter. His face was tight with either concern or disappointment. It hadn't been made clear yet. Finn wasn't sure he wanted to know which it was. “And not a word of this to your mother. No point in worrying her.”

“No point in worrying me about what?” she asked, walking into the kitchen.

Mr. Glad stood up immediately to welcome her. “Clara, good to see you.”

“Ah, Ernest. It's good to see you too,” she said. “It seems like a long time since you paid us a visit.”

“You remember how it is, Clara. The shop keeps me busy, between one thing and, you know, the other.” He seemed a little uncomfortable, concentrated on rubbing orange juice off his hands.

“And your other work?”

“Well, it's not what it used to be, that's true.” He looked at Finn's father. “But no complaint in that. It's the way of the, you know . . .” The sentence trailed off.

“So, what happened to you, Ernest?” asked Finn's mother. “It hasn't been raining heavily as far as I could tell.”

They all remained quiet.

“And that smell . . .”

Silence.

“It's like that, is it? Great secrets of the Legend Hunters. My mother warned me I should have married an accountant.”

“Or a Fixer?”

“Ah now, Ernest,” she said, seriousness snapping into her voice.

“I didn't mean to . . .”

“I've had a long day at work. I'm going for a rest,” she said, but looked at Hugo before leaving. “When I come back, I'll be hoping for a cup of tea, so don't go dismantling the kettle or anything while I'm gone.”

His dad waited until she was out of earshot before saying, in lowered tones, “Glad, I believe we're being watched. A van one night. Just a vague sense another. And—”

“The van was at the harbor again too,” said Finn, feeling he ought to contribute something. “I saw it drive off.”

“And then this happens—this man at the gateway,” said his dad. “Someone has been keeping an eye on us.”

“I don't know who it was,” said Mr. Glad, “but I can
guess what they wanted. I had been on my way to talk to you about this.”

From his trouser pocket, he pulled a felt bag tied with string. Water dribbled out as he opened it, releasing the crystal onto the table and a pungent waft of the harbor with it.

Finn's dad threw the latest crystal down beside it.

“Do you know what these are, young man?” asked Mr. Glad, leaning forward over the table at Finn, his matted hair slapping at his neck, his palms open. “Well, I'm pretty sure I do. They're magic. Of sorts anyhow. The kind that brings badness into this world.”

He picked up one of the crystals, holding it upright between his fingers. He was obviously enjoying this bit of showmanship. “There aren't many records of this sort of thing appearing on our side of the gateways. Official records anyway. But I'm pretty sure that what I'm holding is not just any crystal, but the very substance that allows the Legends to create a hole between their world and ours.”

“Coronium,” said Finn's dad. “A lifetime dealing with Legends and I've never seen one before.”

“Very few have,” said Mr. Glad. “We've known about this substance for years, but it is normally only found
on the Infested Side. And now you have a piece all of your own.”

Mr. Glad placed it in front of Finn and sat back again, with a squelch of wetness.

“And you're sure it's Coronium?” asked Finn's dad.

“I believe so,” said Mr. Glad.

“We would have touched on it in your training, Finn,” said his dad. “From what we know, the Legends attach it to the air, snag it there somehow. And once they've done that . . .”

“Boom,”
said Mr. Glad, spreading his hands. “They open the door and walk on in. They don't usually knock first.”

“And they don't usually bring their Coronium with them.”

In the quiet of the kitchen, the last drops of seawater fell from Mr. Glad's elbows, hitting the floor,
plip-plip-plip
.

Finn thought back to the encounter at the harbor. “Do you think that's what I saw at the gateway? Someone getting one of these crystals passed to them?”

“I doubt it,” said his father. “They can't just pass Coronium through the gateways. At least we don't think they can. From what we understand, Coronium can only travel through the gateways when attached to living tissue.”

“That's the theory all right,” said Glad.

They both looked at Finn, and it dawned on him that they were waiting for him to join the dots. He obliged. “Like a Hogboon's finger.”

“Or a Manticore's claw,” said his father.

“But why?” asked Finn.

“Maybe that's not the question, boy,” said Mr. Glad. “Maybe the question is now that we have some, what do we do with them?”

Finn's dad considered this. “Coronium is powerful and volatile. It can rip through the fabric between entirely separate worlds. Way back, at the beginning, it created catastrophic gateways at random.”

“Ask the dinosaurs about it,” Mr. Glad said to Finn.

“Which means it can be naturally explosive. But it seems that the Legends learned long ago how to control it. To use it to create gateways.”

Mr. Glad rolled a crystal between his fingers. “So the Coronium could be a key. Or a weapon.”

“Could it be a power source?” Finn's dad asked him.

“Now there's a thought. Have you told the boy what you've been making in that library of yours, Hugo?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, let's go one better,” said Mr. Glad. “I'm here.
He's here. Neither of us has seen it. Why wait any longer?”

Finn's father kept his chin tucked into his chest for a few seconds. “Yes, maybe it's time I showed you,” he said. “It might change your lives, after all.”