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

Fingers poke through the womb’s skin. Human fingers. A second set of fingers pokes through and pulls. The two hands pull apart, sheering the womb away. Thick fluid oozes out onto the floor. The crouched creature stands up, cloaked in shadow, silhouetted by the wall of glowing crystals behind it. I can’t yet make out the details, but the shape is decidedly human. A woman, I think. But her movements are stiff and awkward.

A thousand questions rush through my mind, but before I can attempt to answer even one of them, she catches my scent. So she has something in common with the feeders. They’re ravenously hungry when born. Her head snaps in my direction. Though I can’t yet see her eyes, I can feel them on me, sizing me up. She’s more intelligent than the other feeders, who spent little time thinking before pouncing.

Perhaps I can reason with her? I think.

She hisses.

Probably not.

I raise Whipsnap in my hands, letting her see the spiked mace and sharp blade, hoping it will make her think twice. I have no intention of using the weapon—if she attacks I’ll scale the wall and see if she follows—but she doesn’t know that.

I’m startled when she leaps through the air, cutting the distance between us in half. She’s fast, strong and will have no trouble following me out of the pit. Ninnis has thought of everything it seems. I’ll have no choice but to fight, and kill, this person.

But it’s not a person, I remind myself. As much as this thing looks human, it is Nephilim. And I still have no problem killing them. This isn’t enough to break me, I think. I can do this.

She’s only twenty feet from me now. Her body is covered in goopy red birth fluid, which is different from normal feeders. Her face is hidden behind a curtain of shoulder length black hair. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone without a full head of blood red hair that my eyes linger on the hair. Something about it is familiar. The way it parts and descends in wet waves that will curl as they dry.

Oh God. Please, no.

My fear is confirmed when it speaks. “Solomon.”

“No!” I scream. “Not her!”

“Solomon, come here.”

I’ve heard her say that before. The voice is perfect. How is that possible?

It’s not, I think. The only way she could be here, is if she was really here.

“Solomon,” she says, bending to one knee and stretching her arms out toward me. “It’s so good to see you, son.”

Tears blur my eyes. “Mom?”

“Yes, Solomon. Come hug me.”

I’m stuck in place, rooted like some ancient tree. Part of me wants to rush forward and wrap my arms around her. But I also remember how she moved a moment ago. My mother wasn’t—isn’t—that athletic. And the hiss. But her voice. It’s her. It has to be.

I take a step forward, but stop again.

She called me “son.” My mother never called me, “son.” I have imagined reuniting with my parents several times. If my mother—my real mother—were to see me, she would rush up and hug me whether I was holding Whipsnap or not. She would trust me. She would weep loudly. I look up at the woman, arms still outstretched, waiting calmly for me to approach.

This is not my mother.

I flash back to a memory. I’m four. My mother is reading Are You My Mother? to me despite me being fully capable of reading it to her. Even before I could read, I had the story memorized and could recite it. But I liked the scary snort and the sound of my mother’s voice when she read, “I know who you are. You are a bird, and you are my mother.”

“You,” I say, “Are not my mother.”

She stands and brushes the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ears.

I step back with a gasp.

It is my mother. Her face. Her eyes. Her hair.

My mind reels for a moment, but I still know, without a doubt, that this thing birthed from the belly of Gaia is not who she claims to be. “You are not my mother!” I scream.

My faux-mother grins, revealing several rows of shark-like teeth.

Like I said, not my mother.

She leaps forward, hands reaching out for me, mouth stretched open. If it reaches me, this thing will tear me to shreds and eat every bit of flesh off my bones.

But it won’t get close.

Its bold attack poses little threat.

And because it’s a Nephilim, I feel no guilt turning Whipsnap’s blade tip toward its chest.

She sees the blade coming and shouts, “No!” Her eyebrows turn up in fear.

And for a moment, I’m unsure.

But then the blade has struck, piercing ribcage and lung all at once. The perfect kill shot. Ull would be proud.

She staggers back, pulling the blade from her chest. Blood flows in chugs as her heart pumps it from her body. “Solomon,” she says, “How could you?”

I want to tell her to shut up, that she’s not my mother, but I can’t speak. Because her face and voice are my mother’s.

I step closer.

She backs away.

Her fear wounds me.

She falls to her knees. “I love you, Sol.”

The words strangle me. I weep openly, watching her life ebb.

“My baby,” she says. “At least I got to see you one…more…time.”

She dies at my feet.

Now that she’s no longer trying to kill me, she looks exactly like my mother. My dead mother. That I killed.