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

I scoop some of the flesh paste onto my fingers and rub it over the wounds inflicted by the centipede. It’s disgusting, but the flesh expedites healing and fights infection. With the wounds covered, I flick the paste off my hand and wrap my arm with cloth bandages I’ve used in the past.

My wounds have been tended to. My thirst has been quenched. All that’s left is my hunger. I scoop out a larger wad of centi-flesh and slop it into my mouth. I wince at the flavor. The normally offensive food is bad enough when eaten regularly, but after three months without food, it’s downright vile. After swallowing the mouthful, I nearly throw up, but manage to keep it, and three more bites down. As I eat, I remember the last time I had this meal, with Em, just before facing Ninnis and Nephil at the gates of Tartarus. Centipede is far more bearable when shared with a friend. At least then, you can laugh at each other’s disgusted expressions.

Thinking of Em gets me to my feet. I stretch and twist my body in preparation for traveling in the underground. I’m still cold, but it pales in comparison to the chill experienced in Tartarus. I can manage it, I tell myself, and I can always build a fire. Dung is the fire fuel of the underworld, and it’s usually not hard to find. Feeling slightly more prepared for the journey ahead, I look to the stone wall, find a fissure and slip inside.

Moving through the underworld puts me at ease. It’s like returning home after a long vacation. Its familiarity is welcome. Now if only I had a destination.

I need to go up. To the surface. It’s where Em and Luca will be hiding. But Antarktos is the size of the United States. Finding someone on the surface could take a lifetime. Maybe longer. Especially if they’re hiding and skilled at it. Even if I did know where they were, I don’t know where I am. I’ve never been in this part of the subterranean world. But I’ve got a good sense of direction, even without the sun to guide me. And sooner or later, I’m bound to come across a tunnel I recognize.

But everything seems different. Not only are these tunnels unfamiliar, but the scents of the underworld are off. Actually, they’re gone. I should be able to smell traces of animal feces, urine, fungi and blood almost everywhere. Fresh blood stands out from the rest, but there is always an underlying stench of life in the underworld. But there is none of that now. It’s like the whole place has been scrubbed clean.

Could the flood that killed Behemoth have affected the entire underworld? Could everything be dead?

No. I’d smell the decay.

Unless everything was swept away.

But to where? There would be pockets of trapped flesh everywhere. The underworld would reek of death, even three months later. No, this is different. I think everything, and everyone, has left. All the flood did was clean away the filth.

But not all of it. A strange odor reaches my nose. It’s like a mix between Nephilim blood and something antiseptic. Or chemical. It’s a smell that makes no sense in the underworld. Curious, I follow the scent path and exit into a large, unnatural tunnel leading up at a steep angle. The walls are smooth and barren of decoration except for two lines of glowing yellow stones spaced four feet apart. A large staircase twisting up through the tunnel sports four-foot tall steps—sized for a Nephilim warrior. A second staircase, with steps sized for human beings, runs parallel.

The tunnel is curved, so I can’t see what lies in either direction, but I sense up is the way to go, and I begin my ascent. Despite the odd smell, I haven’t detected any trace of something living. The Nephilim blood is disconcerting, but it smells old. Dry and powerless. Still, I keep a hand on Whipsnap, just in case.

The smooth stairs, so unlike the rest of the world, feel strange beneath my feet. In fact, everything about this tunnel is odd. I run my hand along the wall as I follow the steps up. The surface feels polished. Like velvet. It speaks of a precision I didn’t believe the Nephilim capable of. They’re more brutish. And violent. More likely to create a tunnel by smashing the stone with their bare hands than something so…clean.

The feeling of cleanliness increases. The tunnel feels more than clean.

It feels sterile.

I reach the top of the stairs and quickly understand why. Though to say I understand what I’m looking at isn’t accurate, because it makes no sense.





12



The space is more like a modern room than a cavern, in that it, like the tunnel, was carved from the stone with precision. It’s a giant rectangle, fifty feet tall, maybe two hundred wide and three times as long. The ninety degree angles where the walls meet each other, the floor, and the ceiling are all perfect, and seamless, hewn right out of the solid stone as though with lasers. Rows of oversized light bulbs, like those found in the library of Asgard, line the ceiling and cast the room in light so bright that it stings my eyes.