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

“I do not know,” he says. “I wish I did. Your destiny might be known only to others, but it has always been in your hands.” He shoos me away, nudging me with his big hand and then waving me forward. “Go.”


I move toward the gates, but walk backward so I can see him. There’s a lot I want to ask, and say. I have never been friends with a creature like Cronus. There’s so much I could learn from him. And this place, this paradise…how could anyone want to leave here? How could Hades stay away?

As this thought absorbs my attention, I trip and spill backwards. I manage to turn the fall into a graceful roll, but it’s still embarrassing. I’m supposed to defeat Nephil, aka Ophion, and an army of Nephilim and hunters, and I can’t even walk backwards. When I look up, Cronus is smiling and shaking his head.

I grin back at him, wave, turn to the gates and run. The grass is soft beneath my feet. The speed and the warm breeze washing over my face invigorate me. I cover the distance in a flash and find myself standing before a wall of black.

The gates of Tartarus.

All you need do, is push.

I place my hand against the cold black metal. It doesn’t seem possible that anything could open this massive door, human, Nephilim or Gigantes.

It opens for the worthy, and you were deemed worthy at birth.

I’m not sure I agree, but I decide to believe the Titan.

So, I push.





10



The massive door slips open silently, as though oiled by whatever WD-40 equivalent is available in Tartarus. The blackness of the door is replaced by a veil of more blackness. Even open, one cannot see the real world from Tartarus, or vice versa. But, according to Cronus, I can step through.

I take a look back, hoping for an encouraging nod, but Cronus is gone. I’m tempted to stay for a moment, as I look out at the paradise that revealed itself after my burden was lifted. How could the Nephilim not want to be here? I wonder. Then again, they’re all about hate, killing and pain. Of course, it’s far more baffling that even the Nephilim could find forgiveness here, if they wanted to. It doesn’t seem right, that such a deep-rooted evil could ever have the opportunity for redemption.

Then I remember Ninnis, whose heart is as dark as any Nephilim. Worse, if you consider that he is fully human. The Nephilim are half demon. They were born at a moral disadvantage. But then there is Cronus and the other Titans.

Evil is a choice, I decide. Human or demon, there is a choice.

There is always a choice. Cronus’s words.

But what about the hunters? Broken so that their former self is gone. They’re turned into killers. Like I was.

But there is still a choice. Tobias, Em, Xin and maybe even Kainda chose to fight the will of their masters. There is always a choice.

There is always hope.

Step through, I tell myself. Stop delaying.

I raise my hand and place it through the veil. It tingles, but I feel nothing else. There could be an army waiting for me. Or Behemoth. Or Ninnis.

No, I think. No one is waiting. As far as they know, Tartarus is a one-way trip. Not to mention it’s been three months since I left. At most, there will be a hunter on watch. And that, I can handle.

I step through, eyes open.

The world turns black and then resolves again, like walking through a shadow. My eyes quickly adjust to the low light of the massive cavern on the other side, and I flinch back, nearly falling back into Tartarus.

Behemoth is waiting for me.

But there’s something wrong with the creature.

The massive body is shorter. Is it squatting? It’s leaned against the cavern wall, just to the right of the gates. Its mouth hangs open, revealing rows of giant triangular teeth. The body is limp. The long, red, tentacle-like hair hangs in loose bundles.

Is it sleeping? I wonder.

Then my senses pick up more details. The body lacks mass, as though deflated. The skin hangs loose in places. The normally black eyes are milky white and shriveled. And then there is the stench of decay.

Behemoth is dead.

I don’t even think Nephil could kill the giant beast on his own.

With my eyes turned toward the towering corpse, I step forward and I’m once again given cause to jump back. I’ve stepped in a puddle of water.

Cold water.

My powers have not yet returned.

As the chill of the underworld wraps itself around me, I realize how easy I’ve had it all this time. The other hunters live in the underworld, never complaining about the constant fifty-five degree temperature, while I’ve been living in temperature-free bliss. If my powers don’t return soon, I’m going to have to adapt to the cold.

But there is something else confusing about this puddle—the fact that it exists at all. When I last stood in this spot, moments before stepping back into Tartarus, no water flowed through this portion of Behemoth’s cavern. I look up and find the cavern floor littered with puddles. Even the air is moist.

My eyes return to Behemoth’s dead body, the mouth upturned and agape, as though gasping for air.