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

“How is that possible?” I ask. “The Nephilim are half-human, half-demon. How could they have the body of a—” Kainda’s raised eyebrow stops me in my tracks. The mix of sarcasm and humor on her face seems to say something to the effect of, “My sweet, little, na?ve, Solomon.”


That’s when the reality of these creatures hits me. “Ugh.” Demons are not human. Not even close. So a demon having a Nephilim child with a human isn’t any more unnatural than a demon impregnating a horse. They’re equally outlandish. Gross, sure, but plausible—at least where the Nephilim are concerned. As for the creatures with more than one species... I don’t want to speculate—lest I throw up and give us away—but I’d guess it has something to do with the thinker Nephilim class’s penchant for genetic tinkering.

Kainda spares me from the horrors of my own imagination, saying, “Because they didn’t fit into any of the true Nephilim classes and served no purpose in the eyes of the warriors, they were cast out.”

“But not all of them,” I say.

She looks at me, confused.

“Pan,” I say. “He must have somehow proven himself.”

She nods. “His thirst for human blood was unrivaled. But other than that, I’m not sure what could have set him apart. As for the rest of his ilk, they have lurked in the shadows and on the fringes of the underworld ever since, watching young hunters for signs of weakness and snatching them into the dark.”

“What happened then?” I ask.

“What do you think?”

I shrug and guess. “Sacrificed and eaten?”

“How would you put it...” she says. “Yup.”

I don’t miss the fact that Kainda’s mood has become strangely lighthearted. Then I realize why. We’re about to do battle. The down, dirty and bloody kind. There are about fifty of the things out there, some look to be twenty feet tall. We are severely outsized and outnumbered. But Kainda wouldn’t have it any other way and it has her charged up.

But now is not the time to leap out with a battle cry. We haven’t even found Mira yet. “We need to get closer.”

Kainda frowns, but agrees. Her thirst for battle isn’t strong enough that she’ll make poor tactical choices. We slide up over the crest, moving slowly through the tall grass, and work our way toward the jungle that wraps around the clearing where the mythological creatures have set up camp. Concealed by the dense foliage that frames the clearing, we’re able to stand, but our movement is slowed by twisting branches, thorny shrubs and the need for stealth.

It’s fifteen minutes before we close the distance to just over a hundred feet. As we close to within fifty feet, right at the edge of the jungle, I hear what seems to be an argument. There aren’t any words to speak of, in English, Greek, Sumerian or any other dialect. They’re just kind of grunting, but the tone sounds disagreeable. I can’t see them yet, but the variety of noises insinuates that the quarrel involves more than one species.

I reach a hand forward and slowly lift a large green leaf. Water pours from the cup-shaped vegetation and trickles to the ground. I freeze. The sound would have been enough to alert a hunter to my presence. But I hear no alarm or even a shift in the conversation. These creatures aren’t hunters. In fact, given the easy-to-follow trail they left behind, it’s kind of a miracle they’re alive at all.

I peer into the clearing as the now waterless leaf rises without any more sound. At first, it’s hard to make out individual bodies, but when I do, it’s hard not to gasp, or flinch in disgust.

These are not the noble creatures of Greek lore. There are no smooth coats, shiny horns or seductive female forms. These...things…are hideous. Those with hair resemble a cat after a few rounds in a washing machine spin cycle—matted, clumpy or with hair missing. Scars ravage most of the bodies, ranging from long slices to gnarled skin, swollen burns and bites of all shapes and sizes. Eyes are missing. Feathers are plucked. Horns shattered or removed. Hooves with seeping, pus-oozing wounds. Not one of them resembles the regal images I have in my mind. They’re a ragged band of monsters. True monsters who seem to lack as much intelligence as they do hygiene.

But I see bits and pieces of the other Nephilim races in this lot. The harpies, feathered up to their armpits with the arms, upper torso and heads of women, have the black almond eyes of gatherers. The three horse-bodied centaurs I can see resemble warriors from the waist up, as do the seven minotaurs from the neck down to their waists—the rest resembling massive, muscle-bound bulls. The griffins, fifteen of them, are the only creatures who lack any kind of resemblance to a Nephilim species. That’s not to say they’re an improvement. Their eagle eyes glow with hatred and of all the species present, they are in the best condition. They also seem to be above the argument, circling the group, at the core of which is a gorgon, whose head snakes are either dead, sleeping or cut away, and a pair of worked-up harpies who are squawking angrily.