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

This creature did not die peacefully.

I have killed small creatures in the past. If I had come across it living, I would have killed it now. But for food. And swiftly. Not like this. This was…

Torture.

But why? This small thing couldn’t be a Nephilim.

A realization strikes. This is real. This creature, the likes of which I have never seen before, once lived. And was killed by something else living. Something other than me.

This is not a dream, I think as I stand up. I wring my hands together and begin to shiver, as much from fear as from the cold.

I’m not alone.

And whatever else lurks in this gorge with me, likes to torture things.

But I’m not defenseless. I place a hand on Whipsnap. Its presence reassures me. But my withered body betrays me. Could I even lift Whipsnap? I don’t think so. Be prepared, I think, quoting the Boy Scouts jingle I grew up with. The tune plays in my thoughts.

Are you ready to get involved?

Be prepared! Are you ready to take the lead?

“No, and no,” I say.

But what choice do I have? I’m here. I’m stuck here. Forever. So what’s the point in going the other way? I might be physically weaker, but I’m not a coward. Not any more. I’ve faced my fears before. I can do it now.

I reach into my hip pack and take out my climbing claws. I created them myself, fashioning them from feeder leather and teeth. The big triangular teeth are serrated, like sharks’ teeth, and they can cut through most any flesh with ease. They’re based on the ninja climbing claws in Justin’s old ninja magazines, but these are more functional as weapons. When I slide them on my hands and cinch them tight, I’ve got three triangular blades on the palm side, but I also have three more spiky blades over my knuckles. My hands are now lethal. And they don’t weigh much, so even in my weakened state I should be able to use them.

When I step out into the gorge and look down the winding tunnel, I’m not so sure.

Ten feet further is a second body. Like the first, it has been mutilated beyond recognition.

Beyond that is another.

And another.

The trail of blood and guts covers nearly a hundred feet before disappearing around a bend. I step forward, careful to avoid the blood and organs littering the floor. It’s slow going, but at least the sight of carnage and the smells of new decay distract me from the chill. A surge of guilt strikes me. What an awful thing to think. I look down at the small body. Still… “At least you found a way out,” I say to the creature.

I round the bend and find another passage littered with death. Growing accustomed to the sight, I quicken my pace. The wind has picked up, and I think I must be nearing the end of the chasm. Bright light stretches into the natural hall around a bend fifty feet ahead. I hurry forward, now eager to escape this place.

A wet cracking and slurping sound whips my head up. Not watching where I’m going, I step on a small set of lungs that turn to paste beneath my weight. I slip back and fall again.

The pain is intense, but I don’t cry out.

A wet splat, followed by an agonized howl, rolls down the gorge.

I’ve found him.

The torturer.

He’s just ahead.

I pick myself up without making a sound and slip toward the bend. All I need is a peek. If it’s a thirty-foot monster, I’ll head in the opposite direction. I’m downwind. If I’m careful not to be seen or heard, I can escape without being discovered. I’m pleased to find that I haven’t lost all of my skills. I might be weak and burdened, but my skills as a hunter haven’t abandoned me yet. I creep up to the bend in silence.

Two sharp cracks tell me the thing has just opened yet another small ribcage. The lungs will be removed. And then the heart crushed. For a moment, I wonder if the small creature might actually have survived up to this point.

Would I?

The horrible image nearly turns me around, but I’m too close to turn back. I slowly poke my head out around the bend—

—and instantly wish I hadn’t.





5



The thing has its back to me, so I can’t see its face, but the full head of red hair tells me this is a Nephilim. I expected as much—this place was designed to hold Nephilim—but the sight makes my insides twist with fear. It’s crouched at the flat stone shore of a large lake. Or an ocean. I can’t really tell because the orange liquid stretches to the horizon.

I duck away, breathing hard. There is nothing I fear more than the Nephilim. I have fought them. Killed them. But they broke me. Made me serve them. Respect them. Maybe even love them. And the remote possibility that I could be bent in that direction again horrifies me.

But could it happen here? In Tartarus?