Free Darkmouth by Shane Hegarty Page A

heard Mr. Glad say.
    â€œ. . . close it permanently . . .”
    â€œ. . . highly dangerous . . .”
    â€œ. . . donkey cabbages . . .”
    Finn wondered if he might have misheard that last one.
    He continued to explore the room. In the corner were a couple of long spears that he recognized from the more faded paintings in the Long Hall at home. At the foot of the wall, peeking out from behind the spears, Finnnoticed a framed wooden certificate on which he could only make out the words “of the Hidden Realm.”
    Finn ran his hands over a long countertop that was busy with objects he didn’t recognize. He picked up a green metallic one shaped like an egg and gave it a bit of a shake.
    â€œLook but don’t touch,” cautioned Mr. Glad, suddenly appearing beside him and grabbing the object from Finn’s hand. “You don’t want to leave here with fewer fingers than you arrived with, and I don’t want to have to clean up the mess after you. This is called a Fingerless Grenade.”
    He gave it a squeeze and rows of small, jagged blades popped out of either end, one of them pushing a pin out of the top. “It’s called that because you’re the one who ends up fingerless if you hold it wrong. Give that about ten seconds and it will explode too.” He pushed the pin back in before it did. “Maybe your parents will get you one for Christmas. How is your mother anyway?”
    â€œClara’s fine, thanks for asking,” interrupted Finn’s dad.
    â€œWe go way back too, young man,” Mr. Glad told Finn, then winked. “Further back than your father.”
    Finn wanted to go home now.
    They left, with Finn’s father holding a couple ofmachine parts. He threw them in the back of the car alongside the desiccated Legend.
    â€œShouldn’t we just ask the Hogboon what the diamond is for?” asked Finn.
    â€œIt’s not a diamond and he’s not to be trusted.”
    Finn felt jittery. The Hogboon’s apparent recognition of him still nagged, but he also felt a growing sense of obligation to tell his father that there was another crystal—presumably with the same curious properties as the Hogboon’s—currently sitting in his bedroom.
    â€œWhat do you think of Mr. Glad?” his father asked him as they drove home.
    Finn grimaced. “I think I’ll be feeling his thick fingers on the back of my head for another week.”
    â€œHe’s a good man, something of a legend in his own right. Did you see that plaque in his room? That’s the Honorary Sub-Knight of the Hidden Realm, the highest honor a civilian can be given by the Council of Twelve. He didn’t get that for a lifelong dedication to fixing Legend Hunters’ toasters. He earned it, just like he earned that scar.”
    They pulled onto their street as his father continued.
    â€œWhen you need something, he always has it or knows how to get it. And you’ll always need something, Finn.”
    The car approached their house and, as they got closer, they both saw the writing at the same time. There had been visitors while they were out. And they’d delivered a message.
    Finn’s dad slowed the car and slid down its window so they could examine it.
    On the wall directly across the road from their front door, under the orange illumination of the streetlight, was a line of six-foot-high graffiti. It was fresh enough that its letters still dripped slowly down the concrete. It read:

    They got out of the car and stood in front of the house, hands on hips. Finn saw that his father’s gaze wasn’t on the graffiti, but somewhere above the wall and beyond.
    â€œFinn, do you ever get the feeling . . . ?”
    He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he took the Desiccator canister and his newly acquired spare parts into the house, then returned with a can of white paint and two brushes. He handed one to Finn, and they got to work covering