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

I think about going to the kitchen for a knife, but I don’t like them. Every time I pick one up, if my mind isn’t on something else, I see myself stabbing whoever else is in the room. I’m an unwilling, mental serial killer.

That’s just one of my unmentionable dark thoughts.

Of course, if I get jumped by a thief, then jamming a knife into him would be completely justified.

With my thoughts full of spraying blood, I feel sick to my stomach. No knife. Not now. Not ever.

I’m at the door anyway and have yet to be jumped. I peek through the glass and scan the small, square room. There’s a couch that pulls out into a bed. It fills up most of the room when opened. And there’s a small desk that gets used once a year when dad does the taxes. Nothing else. No thief.

That’s when I see the living room windows behind me, reflected in the glass of the door. What if I had seen a reflection? My heart begins to pound as I realize I’ve made myself an easy target. I feel a tingling on my neck. Hot breath. The presence behind me feels sinister.

Evil.

I spin around with a roar that scares me. My lips are curled up. My teeth grit. My hands, both of them, are open, but tight, like I’ve got claws to slash someone with.

But there is no one to slash. The room is empty.

I’m still scared. Terrified actually. Despite having the dark thoughts for years, this is the first time I’ve seen them manifest into action. The sound that came from my mouth. The roar. It didn’t sound like me. I can’t sustain a cord that deep without my voice cracking like a panicked goose. Worse, I was ready to kill, to tear someone apart. Had there been someone behind me, I would have attacked. It could have been a thief, or my mom, or my dad. It wouldn’t have mattered.

I would have hurt them.

If I’d gone to get the knife I might have killed them.

I look at my hands, still rigid and ready to gouge.

What kind of person am I?

A sharp clap, like two boards of wood slapping together, spins me around with a shout. The noise came from the sun room. I stand there, frozen. The rapid fire beat of my heart surges oxygen to my muscles, readying them for fight or flight. But I can see most of the sun room still. There is no one there.

The sound repeats, this time to the right, and I finally see the source. A shade is drawn over a window that was left open. The breeze outside is pushing the shade away and then snapping it back. I open the door and enter the room. My pulse slows. I pull the shade and send it flying up. Sun blazes through the east-facing window, and a cool breeze bursts into the room. A painting of a lighthouse on the wall behind me shifts and nearly falls. I close the window before righting the painting. As I shift the canvas, something scrapes along the back of it. I think maybe the nail holding it up got yanked out a little by the breeze, so I lift the painting up for a look.

What I find stuns me. A safe. Behind a painting. It’s so cliché that I’m shocked I hadn’t thought to check for it before. After a quick peek into the living room, I put the painting on the floor and turn my attention to the safe. It’s a combination lock. Probably three digits.

I decide to stick with cliché and try my father’s birthday. No good. My mother’s doesn’t work either. Mine comes next and I’m slightly disappointed that it doesn’t work. But I’m probably the one, aside from thieves, he wants to keep out of the safe, so that wouldn’t make sense. I remember that my father is no good with remembering numbers. Despite being brilliant, he has trouble with phone numbers, street addresses and counting. So he’s always writing things down. I look around the room. Where would he keep the number? It wouldn’t be labeled, combination, but it also would be in a place where he couldn’t confuse the number for something else.

The painting. The artist’s signature was accompanied by a date. I kneel, looking at the bottom right corner. The signature is in a dull red, but the date—7-21-38—is a slightly brighter shade. They were put on at two different times! More than that, there is no way this painting was done in 1938. It’s far too Bob Ross.

I spin the dial, entering the numbers and then turn the handle. The lock clunks and I let go. The safe swings open on its own. Inside are several notebooks, folders, a small stack of money and a small felt pouch. I flip through the notebooks. They’re field notes for his photo books. A few pages have love notes from my mom on them and I suspect this is the real reason he’s kept them. There are three folders, each labeled for a member of the family. They contain birth certificates, social security cards and other legal documents. I notice I have no United States birth certificate, though there are other documents proving my citizenship. There goes my chances of being president, I think.