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

As we left Antarktos, roughly thirty miles from the coast I felt my connection to the continent fade. It’s not gone completely, so I have no fear that the connection won’t come back in full upon my return, but my abilities have all but vanished for now. I feel a bit naked. And vulnerable. Not that I’m alone.

Wright and Kat, dressed in black, carry assault rifles. I wasn’t sure we’d be allowed to carry weapons once we got to the U.S., but I’ve been granted diplomatic immunity, pretty much everywhere. One of the perks of saving the world. Em and Kainda, who are dressed as average American civilians in jeans and T-shirts, carry their hammer and knives, unwilling to part with the weapons. They did change their clothes, though, which was surprising. Back on Antarktos, we still dress as we did as hunters. We’re accustomed to it, but given the tropical climate, it’s also more comfortable. For them. I still don’t feel the temperature...though I’m feeling it here. The summer heat, which is far more humid than New Mexico would have been before the global shift, is like a warm blanket, comforting me in this time of great stress.

I have faced many things over the past few years...but I don’t think anything could prepare me for this.

Mira, dressed like Em and Kainda, heads for the ranch’s front door. Like me, she is unarmed. Her weapon of choice these days has been the camera. She’s back at work, taking photos, sharing the wonders of Antarktos with the world through her camera’s lens.

As for me, I feel uncomfortable in cargo shorts and a T-shirt, but I manage. At least I can remember what it feels like to wear normal clothes. Em and Kainda never had the experience. My hair is still long, but it has been trimmed, and washed. The hardest change was actually wearing shoes again. I opted for flip flops. Whipsnap is in the car; I didn’t think carrying the weapon to this meeting would be appropriate.

Mira stops in front of the door and looks back at me. “You ready?”

I nod. I’m too nervous to speak.

She knocks.

“Coming,” a voice shouts in reply. I nearly break down in tears right then. The last time I heard this voice, it was being impersonated by a Nephilim creation, birthed by a breeder, and I was forced to kill it. My own mother.

The door swings open and there she is. Her hair has grayed, but only partially, and it’s just as wavy as I remember it. “Oh,” she says in surprise when she sees the large number of people standing outside her door. Then she notices Mira and her face lights up. “Mira, dear! How are you? We’ve been following your journeys. Mark keeps a box full of your photos. Seems like we have to add to it nearly every day.”

Mira embraces my mother. “Thank you, Beth. May we come in?”

My mom looks at the group again, this time meeting my eyes and showing no recognition. Her memory of me has been blocked, just as Merrill’s and Aimee’s were. The Clarks are living in Antarctica now, in what Merrill has deemed Clark Station Three. They’re studying the ancient human cultures that lived on the continent before it was buried beneath the ice. Merrill nearly passed out when he saw the paintings inside the nunatak.

“Sure,” my mom says. “I’ll get you and your friends something to drink.”

“Did I hear Mira?” my father says, rounding the corner into the hallway. His hair is still black and curly, but it’s receded to the sides and back of his head. He’s healthy and hale. His face lights up when he sees Mira. After giving her a big bear hug, he stands back and looks at the group. Once again, I’m not recognized. Though he is excited to see us. “You must be her friends from Antarktos! Come in, you have to tell me everything.”

Kainda puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. She knows how hard this is for me.

My dad leads the way through the front hallway. This house looks nothing like the one I grew up in. The style is all Southwestern. In fact, I can’t find a single relic of my past life. That is, until we pass the living room.

I stop in the doorway, staring.

The painting looks out of place. The lighthouse, and seascape are in stark contrast to the New Mexico feel of the home.

My father notices my attention on the painting when everyone else enters the kitchen with my mother.

“What is it, son?” he asks.

My heart skips a beat, but then I realize he’s using “son” as a generic term. He stands next to me. “It’s an ugly thing, that painting. But Beth likes it. Reminds her of the old house.”

“Why did you move?” I ask.

“I—I really don’t know.” He shrugs. “One day...it just didn’t feel like home any more.”

I turn to my father and ask, “Do you know who I am?”

He shakes his head, no.

“My name is Solomon.”

After a moment, his eyes widen. “The Solomon? The...the king?”

“Yes,” I say, exasperated by this response. “My full name is Solomon Ull Vincent.”

“Vincent?” he says, confused. “My last name is—”