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

“Luca. The boy was not corrupted, like us. And to him, even with all my flaws, I was still his father. Like you, Luca understands mercy. It was the first of many chinks in the armor of this hunter.”


He sees me watching him and stiffens his posture, embarrassed by his openness. “We fled, hiding in the underworld at first, and then headed toward the surface. Only I knew of this place, so we came here. Have been here since. The day you returned and dug through the ice, Luca was here, right beneath you.”

The glut of information is overwhelming me, but there is one more question I need answered. “Are there others? Like Luca? Like me?”

“They tried several times,” he says with a sad nod. “They used many different mothers, both human and breeder. They combined you with animals. And Nephilim. Abominable creations.”

“Are any of them—”

He winces, knowing the question I’m about to ask, and in that action, I know the answer before he speaks it.

“—still alive?”

“Some,” he says. “Those with promise were spared.”

I’m about to ask who and what they are, but Tobias cuts me off. “Thinking of such things is of no use to you or anyone else.”

“But—”

“Such dark thoughts will only set you back. If the future is to be brighter, you must not focus on the darkness.”

“Okay, Yoda,” I say

His confused look makes me smile. “It’s from a movie.”

“A movie?”

I remember how old he is, not to mention where he’s been most of his life. “Forget it. I understand what you’re saying, but it’s going to be hard to ignore while living with Luca.”

He stands. “That’s why we’re going to give you something else to think about.”

I raise an eyebrow and think about making a Spock joke, but keep it to myself.

“This power you have—your connection to this continent. With it, you could stand against an army.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

He places a hand on my shoulder like my father used to. “You will not stand alone.” He opens the door. “Get some rest today. Tomorrow, we start your training.”





22



Three weeks later, I wake to the sound of laughter. It is a noise that has become familiar again—so much so that I can identify the source and cause. The high pitched laugh belongs to Luca. But it’s mixed with the occasional playful growl from Em.

A tickle fight.

Em will eventually allow Luca to get the upper hand. Being scrawny and highly ticklish, the boy doesn’t stand a chance. I should know. But Em is a good sister. The kind I always wanted. I suppose, the kind I have now.

Though she’s not really an older sister. Neither of us really knows our exact age anymore. The underworld can do that. Physically, I’d place both of us around fifteen. Maybe sixteen. But because she lived underground for so much of her youth, she’s probably closer to twenty surface years old. Time is a screwy thing.

A high pitched squeal reveals the battle has grown more intense. Realizing a return to sleep will be impossible, I sit up on my bed with a groan. My body aches. Every inch of it. Tobias has been training me, physically, mentally and emotionally every day since my arrival. At first it reminded me of soccer practice. Mindless exercises. Running. Lots of running. But then he combined the physical activity with mental. While I ran I had to will a snow flake to follow me. That simple task made the running nearly impossible. After a week I could complete the run while moving a trail of snowflakes behind me.

At first, I thought he was insane, but as the days passed I understood that he was conditioning my body and mind so that I could use my abilities without getting physically exhausted. Creating a chain of snowflakes doesn’t sound like much, but the effort over time takes a brutal toll. When I had mastered the snowflake-chain run, Tobias ran with me. He would talk about my family, my past. He brought up a number of sensitive topics that tore emotional wounds like rusty nails—dirty and jagged.

Here was my weakness. My emotions. I cling to the past, to my parents and my childhood. Instead of facing what is in front of me, I’m always looking back. Always unprepared. Always hurt. Wounded. Sensitive.