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

As the creature stirs, I remember the color of its blood. Purple. Nephilim. Unlike Xin, whose blood is red, and very human, this half-me is Nephilim through and through. Which not only means I have no problem killing it, despite it having my eyes, but also means completing the task will be quite difficult.

Before it’s even fully healed, the thing lunges. Both bladed hands are outstretched and reaching for my legs. I have no doubt the razor fingers can sever flesh and bone, so I act quickly and defensively, leaping away. Before I land, I remember the broken glass on the floor. Using Whipsnap like a miniature pole-vaulting pole, I push the mace into the floor and shove myself atop a human-sized operating table.

As I roll over and push myself up, I hear skittering glass. The creature is giving chase. And fast. I get my feet under me and jump away just as the thing lands on the table, gouging its claws across the stone surface.

I land on my feet this time and turn to strike the creature as it leaps toward me. But the thing is frozen atop the first table, looking down at the twelve lines scraped into the otherwise perfectly smooth surface. Its body quakes. And then it screams. Its small chest heaves as its blue eyes lock onto mine.

The continued destruction of this perfect lab enrages the thinker creation. It must have been trained as a thinker, or at least to value order like a thinker. But it was left behind as a caretaker. Or guardian. And right now, it is failing.

With a shriek, the creature dives at me, but falls short and smashes into the side of the table I’m standing on. Its anger makes it clumsy, I realize.

I jump to another, slightly larger, stone operating table where a row of hammers—each designed for a specific task—is lined up along the edge. As the thing leaps back up to a table top, I snatch up a hammer, take aim and whip it toward the ceiling. A sharp crash resounds as the hammer finds its mark on the side of one of the large light bulbs. Thick glass rains down from above and the light winks out. Though the effect on the overall luminosity of the room is negligible, the mess is horrendous.

When the small mething cries out, I think that one of the glass shards has landed in its eye or something, but when I look, the creature is unharmed. Just really, really angry. A purple tinged foam oozes from its mouth. Then it speaks, shouting Sumerian obscenities that spray the purple like one of those automatic lawn sprinklers that move from one side to the other tick, tick, tick, tick, pfffft, tick, tick tick.

While it wails on, I look at its forehead, looking for the telltale pulse that reveals the Nephilim weak spot. When I don’t see it, I have a kind of revelation. Only the warriors wear the metal bands that protect their foreheads. Which means the other races either don’t have weak spots, or they’re not nearly as invulnerable—perhaps they’re far easier to kill. Which might also explain why the warriors are the ruling class.

Before the creature finishes fuming, I decide to press the attack. I leap forward and strike out with the blade end of Whipsnap. To say the little Nephilim is surprised, is an understatement. It bounds straight up into the air like it’s got coiled springs for legs. But the leap is uncontrolled and off balance. The thing’s body twists as it rises. When Whipsnap’s blade slips through the air beneath the creature’s body, it bites into the flesh of its arm and severs one of its six fingered hands.

An arc of purple blood sprays from the wrist as the thing spins and lands on the floor.

Moment of truth, I think, watching the thing spin, growl and gnash at everything around it like it’s the Tasmanian Devil. When it finally stops and gets back to its feet, I see the hand. Or, rather, where the hand used to be. Instead of growing a new hand, like a warrior might, the wound has simply sealed over. My next thought is a little dark, but accurate: dismemberment is the key.

Once again, the small Nephilim isn’t prepared for my attack. I suspect that while it was trained to obsess over details, cleanliness and organization, it wasn’t taught how to fight. So far, it’s been reacting from anger and instinct. Armed with the knowledge of how to kill this Nephilim, I now have the upper hand.

I almost feel bad for the thing as I leap to the floor next to it, careful to place my feet where there’s no broken glass. It leaps at me, swiping desperately with its one remaining clawed hand. I lean back, easily dodging the strike. The creature spins in the air, pulled around by the momentum of its failed attack. As the thing rotates in the air, I consider sparing its life. It is, after all, partly me.