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

Nephilim blood can heal a human being, if its severely watered down. Fresh from the body, even a small amount is enough to kill. Most Nephilim heal before they can lose too much of it, but this is not a normal demon-child. The lower beak is filling with the purple fluid.

The dangling drop stretches out slowly and then breaks loose. My eyes cross as I follow the bead of blood’s descent, but I lose sight of it a moment before it smacks my forehead.

And that’s when I feel it.

Nothing.

The fact that these creatures are unable to heal has removed the deadly side-effects of their inhuman blood. Of course, that also means the griffin standing above me, with the bladed end of Whipsnap punching all the way through its neck, is about to collapse.

Pushing hard with my feet, I slide out from under the griffin just in time. The ground shakes as the heavy beast lolls to the side and topples over. Purple blood oozes into the grass around its head.

When the ground shakes again, I spin around and find a stone-tipped club coming toward my face. I lean back, dodging the weapon with just inches to spare. It’s a minotaur, all mottled hair and musky stench. The club looks small in its massive arms, but the swing overextends the creature, leaving it open to attack...if I had a weapon. I glance back to Whipsnap, still buried in the bird-lion’s throat, and I find two more griffins charging in from behind.

For a moment, I think, where is Kainda, but then I’m forced to act. Before the minotaur can recover from its missed blow, I leap toward it. While in motion, I reach into a pouch on my right hip, pull out my homemade climbing claws and slip them onto my hands. The claws, fashioned from feeder leather and feeder teeth, line my palms for climbing and my knuckles for punching. They aren’t great for killing Nephilim, but they don’t feel good, either.

I leap up to the minotaur’s left shoulder, grip handfuls of its course, clumpy hair and swing myself around to its back. The creature huffs in aggravation, but doesn’t react like I pose much of a threat. But hunters do not need weapons to kill, nor control over the elements. And since these monsters are Nephilim, I have no reason to hold back. It’s like fighting robots. Or zombies. There is no moral roadblock stopping me from inflicting maximum damage.

I wrap my legs around the creature’s waist, locking myself in place, and punch the two-inch long, pointed teeth of my climbing claws into its back. The minotaur howls in pain and pitches forward. I twist my hands, carving trenches into its flesh. The giant drops forward, lowering its head like a true bull, just in time to collide with one of the two charging griffins.

Several things happen at once. The minotaur’s horn—it only has one—pierces the griffin’s chest and snaps free. The griffin’s wail is cut short when the horn slips through its lung. Meanwhile, the minotaur’s scream of pain is silenced when I wrap my hands around its neck and leap away, drawing six blades across its throat. The second griffin collides with the first and the minotaur, and tumbles wildly through the grass, crushing a pair of harpies before coming to a stop.

I land beside the minotaur. Without missing a beat, I snatch his crude club from the ground and rush the second griffin. One of its eagle eyes snaps open just in time to see me bring the heavy stone down on its head. As I turn to face the others, I’m thinking about Whipsnap. If I can get my weapon back, this will be a whole lot easier. But when I face down my enemies again, the chaos of battle I’m expecting is nowhere to be found.

The mythological creatures have gathered in a sort of formation. Two lines of harpies, feathers puffed up and bristling, followed by gorgons and basilisks and then finally a row of minotaurs. The griffins have all taken to the skies and are circling like buzzards.

The giant centaur, its gray-bald head gleaming in the sunlight, stands at the front of the rough-looking formation. It lowers its head toward me, not in reverence, but in emphasis for its mentally spoken word.

Ours.

He motions to his hooved feet. Mira lays, still motionless, in the grass. Her face is coated in dirt and dried blood. Her clothing, an olive-drab green, camouflage, combat uniform, is tattered and torn. Her jacket—if she had one—is missing, revealing a black tank top that’s equally torn, showing her brown skin. The tightness of the shirt also lets me get a good look at her back, which rises and falls with each shallow breath.

Still alive.

Thank God.

I am simultaneously filled with relief and fierce determination. I didn’t come this far to find Mira, only to let her be killed and consumed by this freakish lot. I grip the club tighter and step toward the centaur.

Its mind hums inside my head, pushing for a weakness.

I take another step forward, working on a battle plan. Centaur first. Take out the knees. Then put this club in its forehead. I’m not certain, but I think that if I can drop the big guy, the rest of the myth-squad will head for the hills.

The centaur rears up for a moment and then stomps its hooves on the ground. The display is very horse-like, but it’s coupled with a mental shout.

Mine!