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

He sees me coming and raises an arm in defense. His intent is clear, to take the blow on his forearm and then attack with his uninjured arm. But I have no intention of striking him with Whipsnap. The weapon serves only as a catalyst for my attack. I raise Whipsnap over my head and swing the blade edge down.

I’ve read about windstorms so strong and intense that people had limbs torn away, or skin scoured off, but for some reason, I’ve never thought to use the air as anything but a blunt object. Condensing it to the point where it becomes sharp...I’m not sure I would have come up with that without this berserker blood boiling my insides.

An invisible blade of wind cuts through the air with a sound that reminds me of those 1970s Kung Fu movies and ends with a wet slurp. I have struck Ares’s arm right where he intended me to, but the blow is far more powerful than either of us thought possible. Part of the giant’s arm and his hand fall to the ground.

I land and watch Ares react. The limb rolls twice, stopping between us. He looks at it with a level of confusion that I find funny. The laugh that escapes my lips sounds a lot like Ares’s laugh, only not as deep or resonating. The part of the arm still attached to his body begins to regenerate, but so much is missing, it’s going to take some time.

“My legend,” I say, but the words sound jumbled, like I actually said, “Muaye leoganada.” That I can’t seem to speak right sends a wave of frustration through my body. It’s all the catalyst I need. With a hate-fueled shriek I slash Whipsnap at an angle, left to right and then right to left, carving a deep X in Ares’s chest. It’s unnecessary. Some part of my mind recognizes this. But I don’t care.

I want him to know pain.

To feel fear.

To beg for his life.

I want to delight in his anguish.

A strand of hair blows across my eyes. It’s just for a second, but I see it clearly. It’s hard to miss.

Because it’s red.

Blood red.

I let out a scream so horrible and loud that my throat stings and becomes hoarse before the air in my lungs is extinguished. When Ares proves that we now share the same dark heart by laughing at my pain, I spin around, strike through the air with Whipsnap and send a razor thin streak of air through his neck.

His head comes off his body with a fountain of purple blood and rolls to the ground. The monster is dead. For good.

But I am lost.

I stagger back as the weakness claiming my body resurfaces. I mumble incoherently, only vaguely aware of Mira’s and Kainda’s voices. My foot catches on something and I fall back. But I never feel the landing. I simply slip away into the darkness promised by Ares.





17



I awake as something hard pounds into my gut, pushing the air out of my lungs. I wheeze, trying to catch a breath, but the impacts keep coming. It’s less severe, but it prevents me from catching a real breath.

I hear shouting. The voices are indistinct. The words warped as though shouted through a tin can. But the tone—hurried and desperate—reaches my ears. I try to move in response to the sound, but I’m unable. Am I too weak or am I restrained?

I open my eyes for a look, but my vision is blurry. Everything is distorted and moving, racing past like trees outside a car window.

Another jarring impact rattles my body. When I clench my eyes shut, spots of light explode onto the backs of my eyelids.

Then darkness again.




The car ride is bumpy. Dad tells mom that it’s normal, but I know it’s the suspension. I think mom does too, but she’s just humoring him. I warned him about the problem a few weeks ago, but he didn’t believe me. I’m only eight, after all. I’m not even sure if he remembers dismissing me with a chuckle, but I do.

I don’t mind feeling every bump in the road. I don’t get car sick or anything. But it frustrates me sometimes, when I’m imagining Superman is running beside the car, jumping over signs and trees, or cutting through them with his heat vision. A solid bump can throw me off and my imagination, which is happy to follow its own course, will envision Superman tripping or falling in a heap. It’s embarrassing.

To make matters worse, it’s early Spring. In Maine. This means the roads have not yet been repaired after being scoured by snowplows all winter. Potholes abound, and if steering a car into every single hole in the road were a sport, my father would be the champion.

To prove the point, we strike a pothole so deep that the impact sends a vibration through the car strong enough to yank me completely out of my imagination.

“Dad,” I say, annoyed.

“What?” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t see it.”

“Mark, it must have been the size of Lake Ontario,” my mother says. She sounds annoyed, too, but the way she slaps his shoulder says she’s not. I think she finds his inability to spot giant holes in the ground amusing. Or cute. Which is just...yuck.

A moment later, I say. “Better pull over.”

“Why?” my father asks. “You have to pee? We’re almost there.”

My mother turns back to me. “You can hold it for ten more minutes.”

I sigh. “I don’t have to pee.” I nod my head toward the front left tire. “We’re losing air pressure.”