The Last Hunter: Collected Edition (Antarktos Saga #1-5)

No, I think, it’s remaking me. This is a good pain. I can find strength here.

For the moment. If Ninnis knew I would return to the pit, he’ll eventually come looking here. Apparently my sentimentality is predictable, and a weakness. But what about Clark Station One? Does Ninnis know about that location? Has he ever visited the place of my birth? It was buried by snow fairly fast. It’s worth the risk, I think. From the moment I first set foot on Antarctica, I have felt drawn to Clark Station One. Perhaps I will find the strength I need to face the Nephilim there?

I wipe away my tears and try to pull the dark turtleneck over my head. It doesn’t fit. Not even close. I hold the shirt up in front of me and wonder if it somehow shrunk. But then I remember what I looked like in it. Skinny and frail. I look at my arm next to the sleeve. Muscles twitch beneath my pale skin. I’ve gotten bigger.

A lot bigger.

None of these clothes will fit me, which is probably a good thing because aside from the turtleneck, the bright 1980’s wardrobe will stand out like a beacon on the snow. I tear a chunk of fabric from the shirt and stuff it in the pouch with the photo.

“What I need,” I say, longing to hear a voice in this place, “is something white.”

I check the room next to mine. It’s empty, but I can tell it belonged to my parents. Their scent lingers. I close the door quickly, not wanting to repeat my emotional episode. The next two rooms I check are empty. The fourth smells like Old Spice. Dr. Clark’s room.

Which would make the room next door… I pause, hand on the knob. If this room is anything but empty, I’m going to have a hard time, and even without Ull present, I’m kind of getting sick of crying. But I can’t not go in. So I pretend I’m facing down a feeder and simply act. I twist the doorknob and step in.

Nothing on the cot. The freestanding closet is open, and empty. The floor is clear. And the desk…the desk holds an envelope.

With my name on it.

I wonder for a moment if I’ve been trapped. Did Ninnis know I would come here? Did he leave this for me? Is he outside right now? I step back from the envelope, but the idea of leaving it feels unbearable. I step forward and look at my name written on it. It’s just three letters—SOL—but the writing is familiar. I take out the Polaroid photo and look at the handwriting: Mira and Sol…

The handwriting is the same. Mira wrote this.

For me.

I take the envelope in a shaking hand and find the old glue easy to pull away. Inside is a single lined piece of paper, dated the day before Ninnis took me. I read the note:



Solomon,



I am new to this and I’m not good at writing so I’m going to get right to the point. I like you. A lot. I’m not big on romance. Or flowers. Or girly things in general. So if that is okay with you, I’ll overlook the fact that you are clumsy. And smart. And kind. We will always be good friends. I knew it from the moment I picked you up off of my driveway. But maybe, if you’re lucky, we can be something more? I’m debating about whether or not to give this to you, because the idea of you turning me down makes me sick to my stomach. Actually, I’m pretty sure that this will make you sick to your stomach, too. So to make this simple I’m going to do something I swore I would never do.

Do you like me? ? Yes. ? No.

Or maybe just sit next to me and put your foot against mine. Grin.



Mira.



I read the letter twice more before returning it to the envelope and placing it back on the desk. I cannot describe how it makes me feel, because I’m feeling too many emotions at the same time. Mira, who was the first and only girl to give me the time of day, never mind her heart, had planned to give this to me the day I disappeared.

I back out of the room and close the door. It’s a memento of my past too painful to take with me, because it doesn’t just remind me of my past—of what I once had—it represents the life I could have had. The happiness. The love. It’s more than I can bear.

The door behind me swings open when I bump into it. I turn and find a room full of gear and clothing. For a moment I worry that someone’s been living here, but then I smell oil and see the toolbox. This was Collette’s room. She was a loud, rude, joke-telling mechanic. She must have jumped ship and left everything behind.

Piles of clothes fall out of the closet when I tug on the handle. But a lone, white winter snowsuit remains hung.

“Thank you, Collette,” I say.