LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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