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

He could feel the power eating at him from the inside out. Eventually, the spirit of Nephil would be released, most likely upon Ninnis’s deathbed. Without the boy, Solomon, willingly offering himself to Nephil, the spirit would die. And there is nothing Nephilim feared more than death. Within the realm of Tartarus, the spirit of Nephil had existed in a state of eternal torture beyond comprehension. It was a place designed to contain and punish the Nephilim, who had so long ago corrupted mankind before being chased underground and buried beneath Antarctica’s ice cap. Outside of Tartarus, if a Nephilim died, they simply ceased to exist. Their spirits were different from human souls. They lacked something, some kind of substance, and would simply fade away.

Ull, the Nephilim who had shared Solomon’s middle name and become his master, had suffered such a fate after the boy killed him. No hunters other than Ninnis and Kainda knew about his fate, but…

Kainda.

Remembering his daughter brought a glimmer of discomfort to his chest. It was a kind of pain in which he did not delight. Because he didn’t understand it. She betrayed him. Left with the boy, Luca, and his sister, Emilie—traitors all three. They were why he now stalked the freshly grown wilderness. Preparations to invade the outside world would continue in his absence. He didn’t foresee humanity putting up much of a struggle. They had been devastated by the massive shift in the Earth’s crust that had repositioned Antarctica at the equator and returned the land to the lush paradise it had been so long ago.

But paradise would be stained with blood. First, the man at his feet. Then any other outsiders foolish enough to try to claim Antarctica. And finally, Kainda and the thirty-six other hunters who deserted the underground and their masters. Only after he’d seen the life drain from their bodies would he give the signal to attack the rest of the world.

A sudden scratch of shifting leaves snapped Ninnis out of his thoughts. The soldier showed resolve. The man drew a blade from a sheath on his chest and sent it flying toward Ninnis, who did nothing to avoid it.

Four inches of steel pierced Ninnis’s chest and slipped between his ribs, puncturing a lung. The intense pain would have knocked any other man to his knees.

Ninnis smiled.

Holding his gut with one hand, the man pushed himself away from Ninnis.

Ninnis twitched his wrist and Strike’s blade rolled up. He attached the weapon to his belt, and looked down at the hilt of the knife sticking out of his chest. An expert shot. The man might have made a good hunter after all. But Ninnis no longer had any interest in breaking and making hunters. Solomon had been the last hunter, destined to contain the spirit of Nephil, and that hadn’t turned out as planned. Once the Nephilim reclaimed the surface, there would be no need for hunters, whose small bodies made them important assets in the underworld.

Ninnis clutched the knife in his chest and drew it out slowly. An explosion of pain radiated through his body. The blade came free with a slurp. Blood followed.

Purple blood.

Ninnis watched the violet plasma drip down his chest, fascinated by its color. Human blood—his blood—ran red. He’d been carrying a feeder skin of Nephilim blood, consuming it regularly so that its healing properties could help his human body endure the rigors of containing Nephil. It would also have no trouble healing this wound. But would it have to? Ninnis watched as the flow of blood slowed, and then stopped.

An intense itch surrounded the wound and then pulsed with pain. It felt like being stabbed all over again, but in reverse. And then, the wound was healed.

Ninnis knew he was changing. He felt hungrier. More ruthless. More powerful. More hard-hearted. But he hadn’t realized the changes were also physical.

“I am becoming Nephilim,” he said.

The soldier at his feet continued to struggle, a pitiful whimper escaping his mouth. Ninnis looked the man in the eyes. “I’m changing,” he said. “And hungry.”

Ninnis brought the soldier’s razor sharp knife up to his eyes and looked at his reflection through the smear of his own purple blood. He licked the blade clean, and smiled at the man. “My appetite seems to have changed.” He cocked his head to the side. “I hope you don’t find it rude if I make you watch while I eat.”

The man filled his lungs to scream as Ninnis lunged toward him.

And ate.





1



I’m cold.

The thought has repeated itself in my mind a thousand times before I think to do something about it. It’s been so long since I had to worry about hot and cold, that I’m confused by the sensation. While I remember a variety of ways to remedy the situation, my body has lost the instinct. My teeth aren’t chattering. I don’t rub my arms, or hop up and down. I just…stand. And wait. For something. I don’t know what.

For it to end, I think. This nightmare.

I stand before the black gates of Tartarus, staring into the light absorbing darkness, hoping they’ll open again. I haven’t moved since I stepped inside, though I have replayed that fateful decision in between each and every, ‘I’m cold’.

The Nephilim had me surrounded. Ninnis, possessed by the body and spirit of Nephil, stood before me. Powerful. Strong enough to take me. Maybe even break me. And that is a fate that neither I, nor the world, would like to see realized.