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

The look of shock on his face tells me the news was covered up. “Dead—by my hand.”


I’ve just verbally slapped him for a second time. “What?”

“The Nephilim are not our masters. You can be free. All hunters can be free. You just need to—”

His war cry saves my life. I see the knife coming at the last moment and duck its spinning blade. The thrown dagger sails into the river beyond, but I’m not yet out of danger. Riodan charges.

I see ten different ways to counter his attack. He’s inexperienced and his dagger is no match for Whipsnap. But I’m gripped by fear and I resort to the same tactic I developed in high school. I run.

I reach the crevice and slide in. At first the rough stone grips my body, tugging my flesh as I slide through. But then it opens up and I’m running.

“Blasphemer!” Riodan shouts from behind as he squeezes into the crevice. He’s thinner than me and makes better time. I really don’t want to fight him, and it has nothing to do with my promise not to take human life, it’s because I’m pretty sure he’ll take mine.





12



I remember watching the Boston marathon on TV. Every year, my father, who runs every morning, would watch the event that takes twenty thousand runners through the suburbs of Boston, via twenty-six miles of hilly, curvy streets. The fastest runners finish in just over two hours. I would often think to myself, “Why would anyone need to run twenty-six miles at twelve miles-per-hour outside of being a foot messenger for the Roman army?”

I now have my answer—survival of the fittest in the Antarctic underworld. And while I don’t need to run twenty-six miles (I hope), I am sprinting at something closer to twenty miles-per-hour. And my worn down body is feeling the strain.

Riodan, however, seems no worse for wear. He’s still just thirty feet back, cursing at me in Sumerian and ready to slice my back open with that dagger of his.

I’ve twice resisted the urge to turn and stand my ground. It would be a major breakthrough for me, but I’m so unsure of myself without Ull’s personality that I keep running. After several miles, my goal is only three hundred feet ahead—the length of a football field, which some of the kids from my former high school could cover in just ten seconds. I think I can do it in less now.

Three seconds later, I can hear the roar of the waterfall ahead. It is one of two that empties out into the New Jericho lake. I once fell from the other waterfall and was rescued by Gloop. It was the first time we met. But this time I won’t be falling, I’ll be jumping, and I won’t need a seal to carry me to the shore. Not only can I survive the three hundred foot fall, but I’m a good swimmer now, too.

After two more seconds, I hear Riodan shout, “Coward!”

“Don’t try to follow me,” I shout back. “You won’t survive the fall!”

Nine seconds. My feet leave the river’s stone floor and I leap out over the waterfall. I turn as I fall and see Riodan stop at the top, shaking his blade at me. I turn myself around and dive face first toward the water below.

Using my perfected technique, I use the wind to slow my fall and plunge into the lake as though I’d only dropped twenty feet. I arch my back and curve through the water like a torpedo. I surface thirty feet from where I splashed down. I lie on my back and start kicking toward the shore, which is nearly a mile away. I see the waterfall above but not Riodan.

Where did he go? Any good hunter would have made a note of my direction and—

Splash!

Water plumes into the air. Something large has fallen. I want to believe Riodan rolled a boulder over the edge with the hopes of it landing on me, but I know better. The fool jumped. While I can look over the edge of a waterfall, estimate the distance to within ten feet and calculate the speed I’ll reach before impact—in this case, eighty miles per hour—Riodan has no such skill. Hunters rely on instinct, and Riodan’s are so immature that he believed he could survive the jump.

It occurs to me that seeing me make the jump might have fueled his decision. When he doesn’t surface, I reverse direction and swim toward him. There’s no sign of him at the impact site, so I duck beneath the water and search the murk for his form. I find it thirty feet down, slipping deeper.

I cut through the water, reach out and take hold of his forearm. The broken bones of his arm bend in my hand and I nearly let go. I manage to pull his body to the surface and tilt his head back. I’ve taken two CPR classes and remember the instructions perfectly. But after just one chest compression, I know my efforts will be useless.

Nearly all of his ribs are already broken. As are his limbs, and most likely his neck and back. Even if I were able to revive him, he would likely suffer a prolonged and agonizing death from infection.