The Last Hunter - Collected Edition (90 page)

“Ookla,” I say, before pointing to the path. “No lion prints.”

I move to the path leading to the left.

“Do you think this could be Ookla?” she asks. “And other creatures from Edinnu?”

“No,” I say. I point to the path. “No lion prints.”

“How do you know?” she asks, sounding frustrated at being dismissed so quickly.

“Because,” I say, stepping closer to the rock wall and looking up. The cliff rises higher than I can see, stretching up into a bank of clouds. “I don’t remember Ookla being able to fly.”

2

“Fly?” Kainda says. She’s about to ask what I’m talking about, but then seems to understand. She glances at all three trails. “The lion tracks stop here.”

“And since there are no tracks through the jungle, no tracks heading back or into the trees, there is only one direction left to go.” I look up.

“I don’t see how this helps,” she says. “Now we have three choices instead of two.”

“We need to go up,” I say.

“Is that what your instincts tell you?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, hoping she doesn’t hear the lie. The truth is, lions have sharp claws and big teeth. If Mira is with the farm animal gang, I’m a little less afraid for her, but if she’s with the flying lions, well, that’s a bigger problem.

Kainda steps up to the wall and lifts herself up.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“The climb will take most of the day,” she says. “I don’t want the sun to go down while I’m a thousand feet above the ground, do you?”

“Who said anything about climbing?” I say. She flinches when I pluck her from the wall and put her back on the ground. If I’d been anyone else, I’d be dead right now. The look on her face says I still might be.

I put my hands on her hips.

“You’re testing my patience,” she says.

“You love it,” I say.

She tries to squelch a smile, but fails.

“Hold on,” I say.

She puts her hands on my shoulders. When a sudden wind kicks up around us, she’s pressed up against me. My hands slide around to her back and her arms wrap around the back of my neck. The embrace distracts us both and by the time I open my eyes, we’re a hundred feet off the ground and climbing.

I hear a gasp in my ear. Kainda’s arms squeeze a little tighter. That this hardened woman can feel fear pleases me. She’d once been numb to anything but hate, and now, she is so much more. It’s one of the things I like best about her. The softening of one’s heart is not an easy thing to do. I’m not sure I could have done it myself without Aimee’s help.

Aimee, Mira’s mother, held me in her arms just moments after I was born. It was her face that greeted me into the world and her face that returned me to it. And now, Merrill, her husband and my friend, has returned to save her, only now they’ve lost their daughter. And the majority of that is my fault. All the more reason to hurry.

The wind becomes an upward moving cyclone. My long blond hair whips around, stinging my skin. The air tugs at my clothing, which is not much more than Tarzan’s loin cloth, a belt full of pouches, and Whipsnap—my weapon—wrapped around my waist, but a quick adjustment dulls the effect of the wind on our bodies.

My control over Antarctica’s elements is more honed than ever. I can control the air, water, land and other natural elements of the continent as though they are part of my own body. Performing an unnatural feat, like flying, still wears me out, but summoning a storm or shifting the wind is almost second nature. I don’t understand how I’m able to do these things. All I know is that my connection to the continent is a supernatural ability given to me at my birth, which was not too far from our current location. I was the first and only child born on Antarctica to non-Nephilim corrupted humans. That somehow bonded me to the land. Cronus, the Titan who resides in Tartarus, would probably say it was a gift, bestowed on me by a higher power. Actually, Adoel the angel would probably agree. And it’s hard to argue with powerful beings that are not only ancient, but also genuine.

I’ve thought a lot about this during my time here. Certain events and the connections between people, and beings, times and places stretching back through time are hard to ignore. On one hand are the Nephilim, soulless half-demon, half-human monsters who want to eradicate the human race. On the other hand is a ragtag group of redeemed hunters, teachers, Titans, clones and even a traitor Nephilim willing to sacrifice himself to protect humanity. This war has been waged for thousands of years and is coming to a head...because of me.

A kid.

Sure, in surface years, I might be thirty-something years old, and yeah, I have a full beard, but I’m really just an eighteen year old who wouldn’t be allowed to drink a beer.

And
now
, Nephil, aka Ophion, the first Nephilim whose spirit now resides in Ninnis, wants to claim my body for himself, something he came very close to doing.
Now
, the human race is looking to me for leadership against a supernatural army. And
now
, I’m doubting. Not in my purpose here. Or in my abilities. Or even in my ability to lead, or fight, and maybe even win.

But in the rightness of it all.

I’ve come to believe in God. I’ve even prayed. Twice. I’ve seen things, and spoken to creatures, and experienced other worlds that leaves no doubt that some kind of architect or mastermind is sitting behind the curtain, pulling our strings, directing us all to some sort of destiny. But there had to have been another way.

Billions died when Nephil used my body, and my connection to the land, to rotate the Earth’s crust around its molten core, bringing Antarctica to the equator and destroying entire countries in the process. And then there are the more personal losses: Elias, Xin, Hades, Cerberus, Wright—even Ninnis, whose memories of his true self were returned for just a moment before Nephil took over once again. And what about the hunters—Kainda, Em, Elias, Zuh, and thousands more who have been tortured, corrupted and turned into monsters? How can all of this darkness, and hate, and death be allowed?

And why do I have to be at the center of it all?

“Solomon!” The voice is faint, barely reaching my consciousness. Then it repeats, louder, “Solomon!” I recognize the voice. Kainda. I open my eyes, not realizing they’d been closed, and I see the cliff face, streaking past, just a few feet away. We’re traveling as fast as a missile and I’ve nearly crashed us into a rock wall.

I slow until we’re hovering. My breath is ragged. The first pangs of exhaustion clutch my muscles. Lost in my anger and confusion, my powers took on a life of their own, reflecting my mood.

“Are you alright?” Kainda asks.

I nod. It’s my second lie and I feel a pang of guilt. I don’t want to lie to Kainda, about anything. “Actually, I’m not sure.”

Before she can reply, I see the top of the cliff and forget all about my doubts and waning energy. “Look.”

I spin us around so we can both look at the cliff. We’re just thirty feet from the top, but the most remarkable aspect of the wall isn’t the rock, but what’s been built upon it.

“Those are nests,” Kainda says.

“Really big nests,” I add. I count twenty of them. Each is made from a combination of branches, leaves and random pliable objects. I see tents, ropes, blankets and large feathers in the mix. The oval shaped nests are at least fifteen feet long, half as wide and deep. They cling to the cliff face, resting on ledges and glued in place by something white and goopy. At the top of each nest, the cliff is carved away, forming paths to the top as though formed naturally by some ancient waterfall or glacier.

I bring us close to the wall and land just above one of the nests. Once Kainda is out of my arms, she scrambles up the stone path, headed for the precipice. I linger behind for a moment, looking into the nest. I’m expecting to see more feathers. Eggs perhaps. What I find instead surprises me. Really, nothing should surprise me anymore. I’ve seen a two headed, flying gigantes. But when I see golden lion hair coating the bottom of the nest, I’m taken aback. True, I’d already surmised that the lions could somehow fly, but roosting like birds? Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Then again, I just flew up the side of a thousand foot cliff and I don’t have an S on my chest.

A chirp from above catches my attention. It sounds like one of the many species now populating the jungles of Antarctica, but the subtle urgent tone is all Kainda. I turn up and see her up above me on the slope, lying flat on her stomach. Without looking back she waves her hand, motioning me to join her.

I climb the stone in silence, still preferring bare feet to boots. Half way to the top, I see that Kainda is holding her battle hammer, which is a human-sized version of Mjölnir, the Nephilim Thor’s hammer. He’d once been Kainda’s master, just as Thor’s father, Odin, was Ninnis’s, and Thor’s son, Ull, was mine. The Norse clan of Nephilim warrior, while not the most powerful, had produced three of the most feared and capable hunters, two of which might be their undoing.

Knowing that the hammer is out because Kainda is preparing for battle, I reach down for Whipsnap, but stop short of freeing the weapon. There were two Whipsnaps. The one I built from bone, wood and stone, and the second, forged by the Nephilim with an amalgam of solid, but light metals. I took both with me from Edinnu, and although I felt nostalgic about the weapon I constructed, I had to admit it was the inferior of the two. Of course, the second Whipsnap has been my constant companion for years, in the underground, on the surface and in Tartarus. I’m pretty attached to it. So I’ve kept the Nephilim variant, which has a more rigid staff that springs open more quickly. The crack it makes when loosed from my belt would give us away. I crouch down as I near the top, peeking through the tall grass at the edge.

My eyes widen and I whisper. “You have
got
to be kidding me.”

3

“Have you seen them before?” Kainda whispers.

“You haven’t?”

She shakes her head, no. “But...I think I know what they are.”

“Me too,” I say, looking at the figures. I can’t make out details from this distance—they’re at least a quarter mile from the cliff’s edge—but their bolder features make them easily identifiable to me. I point to a creature with the body of a lion, and the head and wings of an eagle. “That’s a griffin.”

She points to one of the myths made real, this one with the body of a horse and a humanoid torso. “That’s a centaur, right?”

“Yup,” I say, pointing out several more. “And there’s a manticore, a gorgon, a minotaur.” My finger lands on a strange chicken-like thing with the upper body of a woman. She pokes her head forward with each step, eyes to the ground. “And that must be a harpie.” Several more scurry up behind the largest of the bunch. “Harp
ies
.”

It’s a Greek mythological Who’s Who, though it’s clear none of the would-be gods are present. These are the lesser creatures of the Greek myths. The pawns. The castaways.

“We call them the Forsaken,” Kainda says. “But I thought they were just a story told to scare us before we were broken.”

Despite my inner Ray Harryhausen fan being thrilled by what we’re seeing, the fact that these creatures are the living embodiment of what
hunters
consider scary children’s stories is not very comforting. I don’t really want to ask, but I need to know what we’re dealing with. “Tell me about them.”

“They’re Nephilim,” she says.

Of
course
they are,
I think.

“But they didn’t fit into any of the more powerful classes. They might have the features of a warrior, a gatherer or one of the others, but they’re mixed, usually in disfiguring ways with lesser animals.”

“How is that possible?” I ask. “The Nephilim are half-human, half-demon. How could they have the body of a—” Kainda’s raised eyebrow stops me in my tracks. The mix of sarcasm and humor on her face seems to say something to the effect of, “My sweet, little, naïve, Solomon.”

That’s when the reality of these creatures hits me. “Ugh.” Demons are not human. Not even close. So a demon having a Nephilim child with a human isn’t any more unnatural than a demon impregnating a horse. They’re equally outlandish. Gross, sure, but plausible—at least where the Nephilim are concerned. As for the creatures with more than one species... I don’t want to speculate—lest I throw up and give us away—but I’d guess it has something to do with the thinker Nephilim class’s penchant for genetic tinkering.

Kainda spares me from the horrors of my own imagination, saying, “Because they didn’t fit into any of the true Nephilim classes and served no purpose in the eyes of the warriors, they were cast out.”

“But not all of them,” I say.

She looks at me, confused.

“Pan,” I say. “He must have somehow proven himself.”

She nods. “His thirst for human blood was unrivaled. But other than that, I’m not sure what could have set him apart. As for the rest of his ilk, they have lurked in the shadows and on the fringes of the underworld ever since, watching young hunters for signs of weakness and snatching them into the dark.”

“What happened then?” I ask.

“What do you think?”

I shrug and guess. “Sacrificed and eaten?”

“How would you put it...” she says. “Yup.”

I don’t miss the fact that Kainda’s mood has become strangely lighthearted. Then I realize why. We’re about to do battle. The down, dirty and bloody kind. There are about fifty of the things out there, some look to be twenty feet tall. We are severely outsized and outnumbered. But Kainda wouldn’t have it any other way and it has her charged up.

But now is not the time to leap out with a battle cry. We haven’t even found Mira yet. “We need to get closer.”

Kainda frowns, but agrees. Her thirst for battle isn’t strong enough that she’ll make poor tactical choices. We slide up over the crest, moving slowly through the tall grass, and work our way toward the jungle that wraps around the clearing where the mythological creatures have set up camp. Concealed by the dense foliage that frames the clearing, we’re able to stand, but our movement is slowed by twisting branches, thorny shrubs and the need for stealth.

It’s fifteen minutes before we close the distance to just over a hundred feet. As we close to within fifty feet, right at the edge of the jungle, I hear what seems to be an argument. There aren’t any words to speak of, in English, Greek, Sumerian or any other dialect. They’re just kind of grunting, but the tone sounds disagreeable. I can’t see them yet, but the variety of noises insinuates that the quarrel involves more than one species.

I reach a hand forward and slowly lift a large green leaf. Water pours from the cup-shaped vegetation and trickles to the ground. I freeze. The sound would have been enough to alert a hunter to my presence. But I hear no alarm or even a shift in the conversation. These creatures aren’t hunters. In fact, given the easy-to-follow trail they left behind, it’s kind of a miracle they’re alive at all.

I peer into the clearing as the now waterless leaf rises without any more sound. At first, it’s hard to make out individual bodies, but when I do, it’s hard not to gasp, or flinch in disgust.

These are not the noble creatures of Greek lore. There are no smooth coats, shiny horns or seductive female forms. These...things…are hideous. Those with hair resemble a cat after a few rounds in a washing machine spin cycle—matted, clumpy or with hair missing. Scars ravage most of the bodies, ranging from long slices to gnarled skin, swollen burns and bites of all shapes and sizes. Eyes are missing. Feathers are plucked. Horns shattered or removed. Hooves with seeping, pus-oozing wounds. Not one of them resembles the regal images I have in my mind. They’re a ragged band of monsters. True monsters who seem to lack as much intelligence as they do hygiene.

But I see bits and pieces of the other Nephilim races in this lot. The harpies, feathered up to their armpits with the arms, upper torso and heads of women, have the black almond eyes of gatherers. The three horse-bodied centaurs I can see resemble warriors from the waist up, as do the seven minotaurs from the neck down to their waists—the rest resembling massive, muscle-bound bulls. The griffins, fifteen of them, are the only creatures who lack any kind of resemblance to a Nephilim species. That’s not to say they’re an improvement. Their eagle eyes glow with hatred and of all the species present, they are in the best condition. They also seem to be above the argument, circling the group, at the core of which is a gorgon, whose head snakes are either dead, sleeping or cut away, and a pair of worked-up harpies who are squawking angrily.

I lower the leaf and look to Kainda, who has just backed away from her own lookout position. She traces her finger across her arm and mouths the word, “Scars.”

Scars?
I’m not sure what the significance is. They have a
lot
of scars, but I’m not sure what that—I nearly jump up and shout “eureka,” when I figure it out. Nephilim warriors don’t have scars because they heal so quickly. The other species of Nephilim heal as well, though much slower, but their purple blood still gets the job done well enough that I’ve never seen a scar on a Nephilim.

That’s what sets these Nephilim apart from the others. They can’t heal. They might be just as old, but they can be killed. Easily. And that’s reason enough to cast them out. While hunters are also susceptible to quick deaths, we’re also small enough to be useful in the underground. These things, even the chicken-lady harpies, are too large to do much more than use up resources.

This is good news. Fifty to two becomes a lot more manageable when the dead stay dead. Of course, the same applies to Kainda and me. I shift forward, lift the leaf and take another look at this band of misfit Nephilim.

They’re armed, but the weapons are crude. The most basic are sharpened tree branches. The most advanced are maces fashioned from large stones...tied to tree branches. But the weapons are wielded by strong arms, and I have no way to know how skilled they are at fighting. Most are equipped with weapons bestowed at birth—horns, talons, sharp teeth and hammer-like fists. We can’t underestimate them and we can’t act rash—

One of the harpies involved in the scuffle clucks its way to the side, pecking its human-like mouth at the gorgon’s tail. The movement gives me a clear line of sight to the center of the gathering, but just for a moment.

Still, it’s long enough to see what’s got them all riled up.

Mira.

She’s prone and motionless. Her head is turned to the side, her eyes closed. I look to see if her torso is rising and falling, but my glimpse is cut short by a circling griffin. Alive or not, I don’t know, but it’s clear that this argument will end with Mira being claimed by one side or the other, and I cannot wait for that to happen.

I start to rise.

“Sol,” Kainda whispers.

My boiling blood blocks out her voice.

“Sol!” she says a little more loudly. “Wait!”

But her plea for patience fades behind me as I surge up and out of the jungle, yanking Whipsnap from my belt and alerting the mythological mob to my presence. As my wind-propelled leap crests at thirty feet and I drop toward a surprised looking harpie, I see what must have kept Kainda from leaping out of the jungle alongside me.

A thirty-foot tall centaur with an upper torso that has the bulk of a warrior and the pale gray skin of a gatherer, focuses its massive, black eyes on me—

—and enters my thoughts.