Darkmouth (14 page)

“C
ome on, Finn, this could save your life.”

“What life? I don't have a life. I'm here doing this with you.”

Finn was wearing his fighting suit, which his father had handed to him as soon as he had arrived at the training room. Finn took it as an ominous sign, and that sat almost as heavily on him as the loose-fitting armor.

He tried again to perform the move his father was teaching him. He failed again.

Finn was frustrated: He
knew
these moves. He knew how they should go. He could play them out in his head. He could even imagine his own body performing them.

He just couldn't, well, actually
do
them.

But he did the slide, then a bit more of a slide, grimaced, and stumbled to his feet, a wooden training sword outstretched and wobbling. As he rose, he was distracted by a Desiccator lying in a corner. Finn had a nagging concern
that it was there for a reason as yet unrevealed.

Mr. Glad wandered into the room and watched. “Drop your hips and slide,” he suggested. “Don't force it. Use your momentum. Let me show you.”

“We've got this covered, Glad, thanks,” said Finn's father grumpily. “I think there was a problem with the core fluctuator on the device. Would you mind checking that out? It might need a spring or something.”

“The core fluctuator?” asked Mr. Glad.

“It's the thing that looks like the old vacuum cleaner.
Is
the old vacuum cleaner.”

Mr. Glad waited a moment, his eyebrow betraying a ripple of irritation, before slowly shuffling out.

“Now, Finn,” said his dad. “Drop your hips. Feel the patterns.”

“
Feel
the patterns? I don't even know what that means,” said Finn.

“Of movement. In yourself. Your opponents. It's all in your mind.”

Finn's dad threw himself at the ground, slid deftly, and sprang to his feet facing Finn again, his wooden sword held steady at the tip of his son's nose.

“Then you clobber them. Got that, Finn?”

“No.”

“Great,” said his dad. “Now try it again.”

Finn was horribly conscious of how clumsy he was. Rather than the move ending with him springing to his feet with liquid agility, he hauled himself up like an old man trying to get out of bed while wearing a concrete hat.

“That was good,” said his father.

“If you're going to lie, at least put some effort into it,” responded Finn, panting.

His dad ignored him. “Let's do it again.”

Finn gave it another go, this time stumbling backward as he tried to get to his feet, and ending up on his back before rolling over to haul himself up once more.

Closing his eyes to retain some composure, his dad said, “Okay, one more. Slowly. I'll go first.”

“I don't want to,” said Finn.

“You have to.”

“Why?” asked Finn, holding his sword limply by his side. “You're building a machine in there that'll do my job for me. Just press a button and they'll be gone. I don't need to do this now.”

“Wrong,” said his father, the steel now evident in his attitude. “You went to school today and came back with a wound.”

“It was a tree!”

“You got hit by something by the looks of it. Too wide for a stone. Definitely not a branch.” Finn's face betrayed him. His father switched to a more soothing tone. “Finn, twice in a few days you've struggled with people instead of Legends. The truth is that if you can't handle one you can't handle the other. I know this isn't always easy, but I believe in you. I have faith in you. You're my boy. It will click for you.”

“I need to know what—” started Finn.

“I'll teach you exactly what you
need
to know,” interrupted his father.

“No, I need to know what the Hogboon meant.” His father broke away, but Finn pressed on. “You know something, don't you, Dad? There's something you won't tell me.”

His dad's jaw was tense. A small vein pulsed in his neck. “Maybe a challenge will help sharpen you up,” he announced, before striding out of the room.

He returned, carrying something in his arms covered in a blue blanket. He placed it on the ground between Finn and the Desiccator. “Sometimes the quickest way is just to jump in the deep end.” He yanked the blanket away. “I reanimated a Legend for you.”

There, snoring gently, was a Manticore. The poisonous
darts on his tail were each plugged with a wine cork and his mouth was muzzled, but his paws were free.

Finn's dad began backing out of the room.

“Where are you going?” Finn asked, battling the panic in his voice.

“Just remember your training,” said Finn's dad. As he left, he pulled a rope from the belt around his waist and whipped the Manticore's behind. It shrieked into life.

“Dad!”

A grate opened in the door and Finn saw his dad's eyes peering through, then, briefly, his mouth. “You'll be fine. Good lad.”

T
he Manticore was groggy and disoriented, like it was waking from a midafternoon nap, but, upon seeing Finn, its instincts kicked in immediately and it shot a dart at him. The dart bounced off Finn's forehead and rolled away, still wedged in the cork.

The Manticore flapped to the ceiling, dug its claws in, and clung there for a moment, trying to regain its senses. Finn guessed it was also trying to think of a fiendish riddle to shock him with.

Finn's dad reached in through the door and pressed a switch that sent sparks dancing through the ceiling. The Legend howled and dropped to the floor, the nasty aroma of frazzled fur filling the room.

Finn dashed for the door, but too late. It shut again.

Picking itself up, the Manticore focused on Finn.

“Mmmpf mmpf mmmmmmpf,”
the Manticore riddled, only to realize that its jaw was wired shut.

That was clearly the final indignity. Muscles pulsed through its forelegs, ligaments rippling downwards until its claws sprang into view. They were ivory daggers, bright white in the dull light. The Legend went for Finn, who raised an arm instinctively, deflecting the Manticore into the wall with a thump. But the Legend quickly recovered and came at Finn again, who backed away and raised his wooden sword, pressing it into the creature's belly and flipping the Manticore over his head.

“Good boy,” shouted his dad from outside.

“Stop it, Dad, this is unfair!”

“You're doing great. Watch out!”

The Manticore landed directly on Finn's chest, claws scrabbling at the boy's armor plate and winding Finn as it forced him to the floor. Finn gripped the sword at each end, using it to hold off the creature as it scratched furiously at his face, until he instinctively used its handle to jab the Legend in the eye.

As the Manticore howled and dropped off him, Finn quickly pushed himself to his feet. “Doing great!” he heard his dad say, but time had slowed, his vision had narrowed. All he saw was the Manticore, squaring off at the opposite end of the room and then leaping toward him.

Finn felt attuned to each moment as the Legend arced through the air. He slid under it, sword by his side, toward the Desiccator and, with a deftness that surprised him, returned to his feet in a single move.

He just happened, like Wrigley the Headless before him, to do it a moment too soon.

Finn collided with the Manticore's rib cage, sending both of them collapsing to the ground and groaning in pain.

His dad came back in. “That was much better, Finn,” he said. “Best you've done.”

Finn's ears were ringing. The Manticore gurgled in protest on the floor.

“That wasn't fair!” yelled Finn, slapping at his ears in the hope that the ringing would clear.

“But it worked, Finn,” his dad said, gripping him by the shoulders. “More or less anyway. You'll be a great Legend Hunter someday. You just need a push, that's all.”

“All you do is push,” spat Finn. “Maybe everybody is right. Maybe the Legends only come here because of us. Because of
you
.”

His dad let go of him, took a step back.

“Why is it, Dad, that you've spent every year fighting these things, that everyone in those paintings spent their lives fighting these things, but they're still coming? Yet you never change. I'm the one who's supposed to be
learning, but you never learn anything at all.”

Finn threw the wooden sword to the floor and began tearing off his fighting suit.

“Look, Finn,” said his father, “ours is not an easy life—”

“Maybe it's not supposed to be
my
life!” shouted Finn, tugging the fighting suit over his head. “There's something you won't let me hear, something you're not telling me. That Hogboon keeps trying to say it and you keep shutting him up.”

“I'm doing my best for you, Finn.”

“You keep telling me what I'm going to be. You've never asked me what I
want
to be,” said Finn, on the floor now, kicking off the fighting suit's leg armor. “I won't be this. I won't be you.”

His fighting suit finally flung off, Finn stood up and ran out of the door, leaving his father alone in the training room.

From the floor, the Manticore gave a muzzled gurgle of protest. Remembering it was there, Finn's dad reached for the Desiccator and casually blasted it. The Legend's brief and stunted mumble was a parting reminder to itself to just shut up in the future.

F
inn ran straight to Emmie's house. He knocked on her door loudly. There was no answer. Standing back, he searched for signs of life, but there was nothing. He banged on the door again, just in case, and this time it gave way. He pushed it open and, after a moment's hesitation, went inside.

“Emmie?”

Still no response. He looked around the kitchen, gazed into the small yard out the back, and snooped around the living room, where the only sign of life was the TV left on with the sound low.

Each part of the house was sparse. There were no pictures on the walls, little furnishing, no decorations or lamps. Other than some food in the kitchen, it hardly looked like anyone lived there.

On the TV, an audience burst into laughter and
applause. From above, Finn heard a noise. A scrape of shoes perhaps.

“Emmie?”

Cautiously, he climbed the narrow stairs. A creak above stopped him briefly, but he urged himself to go on. He chose a door and opened it slowly. Something fell out at him. Startled, he kicked back, before realizing it was just a pile of towels and that he'd opened the door to the linen closet.

He composed himself, picked another door, and opened it.

This room was dim, the blinds half-pulled so that the light edged through the slats. But he could clearly see the row of cameras, all set up on tripods and facing a window.

Sure there was no one in the room, Finn walked over to the equipment. There was one video camera and the rest had long lenses that Finn knew were used for taking pictures from a distance. But of what? Finn stood on his toes to examine one. What he saw made his head spin.

The lens was focused on a house. Finn's house.

Finn moved to the other camera. This one was also trained on his house, as was the video camera. Finn looked for a play button, pressed it, and watched footage of himself running through his front door a couple of
hours before, wool hat pulled over his head.

He rewound. There was Mr. Glad entering the house. He rewound farther and watched the footage of his dad going in and out from the car with parts, his mother giving Finn a peck on the cheek as she headed to work.

Finn felt nausea rise through him.

Emmie and her dad were
spying
on him.

A toilet flushed. Footsteps. A door to Finn's left opened and standing there was a man with a newspaper under his arm and his eyes wide with surprise. He moved toward Finn. “Oh hello. You're not supposed to be in here.”

Finn bolted before the man could grab him, jumping down the stairs four at a time and almost collapsing out of the front door in the panic to get home. Emmie arrived at the same time, a shopping bag in her hand. He stared at her. His friend was suddenly a stranger to him.

“Finn?” she asked.

He kept running.

A
s soon as Finn ran into his house, blurting out a stream of hurried information, his father grabbed the Desiccator and sprinted out onto the street. Mr. Glad followed, frowning.

The man from Emmie's house was running around the corner toward them. Instead of coming to a sudden halt at the sight of the weapon, he slowed to a jog before walking casually forward as if it was a totally normal thing to have a Desiccator pointed at him.

Finn saw Emmie standing a little distance behind the man. She gave him a pleading look. He didn't hold eye contact, instead letting the hurt burn through him.

“Who are you?” demanded Finn's father, with an authority that removed any need to shout.

“I'm Emmie's father.”

“Interesting.” Finn's dad kept the weapon steady. “I'd guess that ‘stay-at-home dad' is not what's on your
business card. So what is?”

“I wouldn't wave that Desiccator around. If it goes off, you won't get many answers from me.”

“If I have to ask again, it'll be after I've desiccated you and then reanimated you inside the belly of a diseased Cerberus. So, for the last time . . .”

Emmie's father inflated his chest. “I am the son of Eric the Invincible. Grandson of James the Everlasting. Great-grandson of—”

“Did I ask you to list your great-aunts or did I ask for
your
name?”

“It's Steve,” said Emmie, stepping forward. Her father shot an angry glare at her.

“Steve?” Hugo spluttered a mocking laugh. “Really?
Steve?
Did you hear that, Glad? Not much of a name for a traitor.
Steve
. If you're going to pick a cover name, pick something just a little more evil, like . . .”

“Herman,” suggested Mr. Glad.

“Or Attila,” added Finn's father. “Something more, I don't know, traitorous.” He looked at Mr. Glad. “Is ‘traitorous' a word?”

Mr. Glad shrugged.

Emmie's father looked riled. “I am no traitor.”

“We only came to help,” said Emmie. She was speaking
directly to Finn, quietly imploring him for a response.

“I let you in my house,” said Finn, stepping back. He felt the world dissolving beneath his feet, the deep well of disappointment eating into his chest. “I told you stuff.”

“Leave this to me, Emmie,” her dad said.

“Yes, listen to Steve, young lady,” said Finn's father. “So, what really brings you to Darkmouth, Steve? Are you a fan? If you just wanted an autograph, all you had to do was ask. Finn, grab a pen.”

“You really don't know, do you, Hugo?”

“Of course I do.” Finn's father strode forward, weapon still raised. “You're a Legend Hunter, as your little family history lesson suggested, but you have the soft skin of a Legend Hunter who doesn't actually hunt Legends, and the giddiness of a puppy. I know your type. You became Complete long ago, but haven't seen a real Legend in what, years? Decades? The question is, why am I being spied on by you and Santa's little helper?”

Steve stepped up to his stare. “You're going to be on the Council of Twelve, Hugo. You think they just drop an invitation in the post and wait for you to turn up?”

“I don't expect them to stick a camera lens through my window.”

“Checks, Hugo. Procedures. They would have told you that.”

“And
you're
what they sent? They running short on minions these days?” said Finn's father.

“They have to know they can trust you to join them, Hugo,” Steve continued, working hard to maintain a sense of control, that he had the upper hand. “And that they could trust your boy to stay behind and look after Darkmouth when you're not here.”

Finn's mouth dropped open. But there was nothing he could say as humiliation bedded into his mind once more.

“So, I was sent here to check on you. And what did I find?” said Steve. “Legends causing havoc. You leaving your boy alone at a gateway so that he almost drowns.”

“This is a Blighted Village,
Steve
.”

“The only one still actually blighted by Legends.”

“What did you expect? A carnival? Maybe a petting zoo,” retorted Finn's father.

“I didn't expect
this
mess, that's for sure,” said Steve.

“So,” said Finn's father. “The Council of Twelve sent you to make things worse.”

“To observe,” said Steve. “To report back. To step in if necessary. Did you expect them to just sit back and hope
for the best? That's not how the Council operates. Wars are not won that way.”

“Nice speech. Did you practice that in front of the mirror last night?” sneered Finn's father.

“And for your information I
have
been fighting Legends,” said Steve, lifting his chin. “Many of them.”

“Where?” asked Hugo. “Last time I checked, they weren't making guest appearances anywhere else.”

“In training. The Twelve have a store of them they reanimate when required.”

“Ah, in
training
. Lovely. Did you get special badges for that? Or maybe they gave you a good Hunter name. What is it again?”

Steve didn't reply. Finn's dad lifted the Desiccator again. “Let's guess, shall we? Any ideas, Glad?”

“Steve the Nameless,” suggested Mr. Glad, hanging back beside Finn.

“Finn, want a guess?”

He didn't. He just wanted to go inside, collapse in bed, and not come out again for a while—say until the world ended.

“Okay, I'll try,” continued his dad. “Steve the Sixty-Words-a-Minute Typist. You know, something really epic like that.”

“You accuse me of being soft,” said Steve, squaring up to Hugo. “But look at you. You wouldn't get far without that weapon in your hand. It's just point and click. No art to it at all.”

Hugo raised an eyebrow. “No
art
to it?”

“No craft. No real skill.”

“No
skill
?” Hugo stepped back, opening out his arms in invitation. “I tell you what, Steve, why don't I give you a head start, then I'll put a blindfold on and we'll see if there's any skill to what I still manage to do to you.”

“Where's the purity?” asked Steve.

“Purity?”

“Hand-to-hand fighting. Up-close weapons. Subduing a Legend using cunning, not technology. If I was the Legend Hunter in this town—”

“If you weren't busy sharpening your pencils, you mean.” A satisfied smile hovered on Finn's father's lips. “But do go on.”

“If I was the Legend Hunter in this town, I would do things differently.” Steve paused for a moment. “And I wouldn't have raised such a soft boy either.”

“Hey!” protested Finn.

“Hey!” protested Emmie.

Finally forced to meet her stare, Finn gritted his teeth,
silently willing her to realize he did not want her help.

“Be careful now, Steve,” warned Finn's father.

“How long until he's supposed to be Complete? A year? Less now? Has he even managed the three basic hunts yet?” Emmie's father looked at Finn. “No offense, son.”

That kicked Finn into a response. “Don't call me that. I'm not your son.”

“He's supposed to be the first true Legend Hunter in a long time, Hugo,” continued Emmie's father, still looking at Finn. “There are big plans for the ceremony. Dignitaries. A choir. Live Legends for some mysterious reason, but it's bound to be a good one. But he knows all that, right?”

Live Legends?
thought Finn, alarmed.
What?

“Last chance,” said his dad, stepping forward.

“Then again,” Steve continued, “when you marry a civilian, your children are half civilian. You know he wants to be a vet, don't you?”

In the moment it took him to say those last three words, Finn's dad had closed the gap between the two and had pulled the barrel of the Desiccator against Steve's neck. Steve grabbed at it, choking. “Let's see how softly your neck snaps,” snarled Hugo. “Let's see if I can put some art into
that
.”

He twisted the barrel. Steve gurgled in protest. “How does that feel, Steve?” Hugo whispered into his ear. “Does it feel like it needs a little craft? Just tell me if I'm going wrong at any point.”

Steve was turning purple, gurgling for breath, fighting to dislodge Hugo's grip.

Finn danced a little on the spot, feeling trapped, growing less sure by the second that his father wouldn't actually go through with it.

“Leave him alone!” Emmie ran at Hugo, jumping on his back, pulling at his hair until he released the hold and brushed her off. Steve coughed for air.

“Here's the thing, Steve,” Finn's dad said, leaning down toward his ear. “I actually believe you. I can believe you were sent here by the Twelve to keep an eye on me, because no Legend I have ever fought has been so meek. Your little girl here has more fight in her.”

Steve spluttered. “That's rich coming from someone who's still chasing Legends while the rest of the world has defeated theirs.”

“Here's what really bothers me, though, Steve. If you're a Legend Hunter, what were you taking from that gateway?”

“What are you talking about?”

Finn's father stepped forward aggressively. “Someone used the harbor gateway as a mailbox and then attacked my son. I'd say the prime candidate is the man who's been secretly filming my family and who used his daughter to infiltrate my house.”

He trained the Desiccator between Emmie's father's eyes. “You have until the count of three to tell me what you were doing there or from now on your daughter will know you only as a paperweight on my desk.”

“It wasn't me.”

“One.”

“You really sure I'm a traitor?” Steve shouted with growing fretfulness.

“Two!” shouted Finn's father.

“You think the Twelve would send someone they couldn't trust?”

“Three! Enjoy the snooze,
Steve
.”

A small black box on Hugo's belt buzzed. Then bleeped. A red light winked. In the house, an alarm began to wail. From darkened skies, rain began to fall.