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

The slight dip is still subtle, but they’ll feel it in a moment.

“Schwartz,” my father says like he’s about to teach me something. But the whupwhupwhup of the now flattening tire and shimmying front end silences him.

We pull over to the side of the road. My father gets out and inspects the tire. As he does, I slide over and reach for the door.

“Sol,” my mom says in that tone that says, “Don’t.”

My reply is raised eyebrows and a stare leveled at my mother. I’ve always found it fascinating how much information can be communicated through body language and facial expressions. We have a silent argument in the course of three seconds, at the end of which she says, “Ugh, fine. Go.”

I open the door and slide out. I pause for a moment, enjoying the warm air—some of the first I’ve felt in five months. Red buds coat the trees lining the roads. The first strands of green grass are beginning to poke up through the brown. And in a week or so, the lilies in our front yard will push up through the earth and turn skyward. It’s my favorite time of year.

I close the door and find my father crouching down by the side of the olive green sedan, inspecting the tire like he’s an archeologist who’s just discovered the Rosetta Stone.

“You have no idea how to change a tire, do you?” I ask.

He looks over at me slowly. I can tell he’s trying to think of something to say. Maybe an excuse. Or a joke. But he gives up and says, “I’ve never had to before.”

“The spare is in the trunk. The jack is on the left side.”

He looks at me dubiously. “You’ve changed a tire before, have you?”

“I read the car manual,” I say.

He smiles wide, stands, puts his hand on my head and shakes my hair so blond strands are hanging in my eyes. “You’re my hero, Sol.”

“Whatever,” I say, moving for the trunk.

He takes my shoulders and turns me around. Leaning down so we’re face to face, he says, “Seriously, Schwartz, the way your mind works. It’s a gift. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if you saved the world someday.”




I wake again, this time lying on my back. I’m no longer moving, and I can breathe, though I’m quite sore. But my vision feels off, and it’s dark. I try to sit up, but can’t. And it’s not from weakness. I can feel the tightness around my arms and legs. I’ve been restrained.

A surge of fear races through my mind. Have I been captured? Are Mira and Kainda still hurt? Or dead?

A shiver rolls up through my body, leaving a sickening tension in its wake. When it reaches my head, an all consuming rage flares out, burning my thoughts away and turning my emotions into a howl that explodes from my mouth. But I’ve been gagged, and the sound is muffled.

My teeth grind at the fabric in my mouth, but before I can chew through it, a canteen of water is emptied onto my face, making me gag and sputter.

A woman looms over me. “Shut up!”

I clench my fingers, reaching for her, intending to tear her apart.

“Hey!” she says, sounding offended. She leans closer and slaps me across the face. The impact is dizzying. “Look at me.”

Something about the voice calms me, and I try to look at the woman, but all I see is a vague shape. The gag is pulled quickly pulled away from my mouth.

“Dark,” I say, then growl and struggle some more.

A flicker of orange light illuminates the space...which I still can’t see clearly. The woman returns, her body lit, but still blurry. My eyes roll back and she strikes me again, harder. “Solomon! Focus!”

Focus...

The word slowly sinks into my mind like a stone, before reaching the depths where a small part of my sanity still resides.

Focus.

“Kat?” I ask.

“I think he’s back,” Kat says, stepping away.

Another person slides into view, this one close and gentle. She slides a hand across my face, trusting me implicitly to not bite it off.

“That might not be a good idea,” warns someone else. Kainda, I think.

“Solomon,” the woman leaning on me says. “Look at me.”

I try to see her, but it’s like looking through a dirty window.

“He’s burning up,” she says.

I know she’s saying I have a fever, but I can’t feel anything beyond a craving for violence.

Kat returns. She grips my mouth roughly, yanks back the gag and drops three small, solid objects in, then pours in water and shoves my jaw closed. I try to resist, but I feel weak now. When she says, “It’s Ibuprofen,” I swallow.

For ten minutes, the woman beside me bravely strokes my hair. And with each gentle touch, I feel my mania subside just a little. I lose myself for a bit, staring at what I think is a stone ceiling.

“Are we in a cave?” I ask.

“Yes,” the woman replies. “We’re twenty miles from the coast. Just a day’s journey from the base.”

I turn toward her. Her face is still blurred, but I think I recognize the shape...and her voice. “Em?”

I hear a sniff, and I wonder if she’s crying. Her hand reaches for my cheek and rubs it gently, the way my mother used to. “It’s me.”