LITMIR.BIZ

      “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

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