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

I suspect that I never will, but I manage to say, “We’ll get Luca back. You can return together.” The words are hollow. At least four hunters know about this place. We can never return. Not for long, at least. Unless, that is, those four hunters are killed.

As we enter the cave system in the mountain above Clark Station One, I look at the array of knives covering Em’s belt and the crisscrossing harness strapped over her chest. She certainly brought enough knives to finish the job. And if all we were facing were the four hunters, maybe we’d have a chance. But when we reach the gates of Tartarus, there will be an army waiting for us. We won’t just have hunters to deal with. Nephilim of every shape and size will gather in expectation of Ull’s bonding with Nephil. Not to mention Behemoth.

We’re both dressed for the underworld, wearing a minimum of clothing so that we might squeeze through the tight cracks. Em’s body is more muscular than I expected. And she moves through the tunnels like fluid. She sets an impressive pace, like her father would have, and drives us deep, toward Asgard.

After a full day’s travel, we pause, just an hour’s hike from our goal. We decide to rest for a bit, just in case we meet resistance in Asgard.

“We will be noticed right away,” she says, leaning back against the stone wall of the small alcove in which we have hidden.

She’s right, of course. Even if our faces weren’t recognizable, our streaks of normal colored hair will brand us as innocents right away.

“They still believe I am Ull,” I say. “Bonded with the body of Nephil. They won’t dare attack me.”

“And me?”

“I’ll—I’ll say you’re my wife.”

Em laughs at this. Her smile is refreshing. “Your wife?”

“I was offered Kainda already. I turned her down.”

“And she let you live?”

“You, too,” I remind her.

“Fine.”

I can tell she’s not thrilled about the idea, but it will work. At least long enough for us to get in and out, assuming we don’t run into the Nephilim hierarchy. I suspect they are already en route to the gates of Tartarus.

“But we still need to do something about our hair,” she says. She draws a knife from her belt and moves closer to me.

“What are you doing?”

“Just sit still.” She looks over my hair. “Huh.”

“Huh, what?”

“You have more blond hair than you did the day we met.”

“You mean the day you almost killed me.”

She grins. “Hey, I saved you, remember?” And before I can stop her, she puts the knife up to her opposite palm and draws the blade across. Blood flows.

I take her arms. “What are you doing?”

She rubs her hands together, smearing the blood. “Trust me,” she says.

When I let go, she takes her bloody hands and runs them through my hair. The metallic smell of her blood, so close to me, makes me uncomfortable, but I understand what she’s doing. She repeats the process several times until my hair is once again stained fully red, the way Ull’s should be.

After finishing, she lets me wrap her hand. I’m no doctor, but I’ve read a few first aid manuals before. Apparently I do a good job, because when I finish tying the last knot, she flexes her fingers and says, “Perfect.”

“You have a two inch slice in your hand,” I say. “I don’t see how that can be perfect.”

“I can still throw and you look like ‘Ull, the vessel of Nephil.’” She says the last part with a scary voice that makes me smile.

“What about you?” I ask.

She flips the knife around and places its handle in my hand. I take the knife and place it against my palm. I know she could have done her own hair, too, but this feels right. Like we’re blood brothers, or blood siblings at least. But she yanks my hand away and says, “No, stupid, you need to cut my hair off. It’s a sign of subjugation to a new husband.”

“Oh,” I say.

“You didn’t know that when you suggested I pose as your wife?”

I shake my head, no. “But now that I do, I like the idea even better.”

She punches me hard in the shoulder, much harder than Justin ever could have, but I shrug it off with a laugh. She turns around and says, “Make it quick.”

Fifteen minutes later, Emilie is bald. She rubs her hand over her head. She turns around, facing me. “How do I look?”

But I don’t really notice how she looks. The missing hair has revealed an image just above her hairline.

She notes my attention. “What?” She quickly becomes insistent. “What is it!”

“A tattoo,” I think.

Her face twitches with confusion. “Of what?”

“It’s a shape. A pattern really.”

“Describe it,” she says.

“I doubt it’s anything—”

“Describe it.” She’s getting angry.

“It’s two circles, one within the other.”

“Which ring is thicker?” she asks.

“The outside ring.”

She stares at me, stunned. I have no idea why, but this news has shaken her. “What does it mean?”

She blinks, meeting my eyes. “It means…it means that Tobias was not my father.”

“What?” I say. The notion strikes me as ridiculous. “Why?”