The Last Hunter - Collected Edition (92 page)

While the creatures flee, I run to Mira and kneel down beside her limp form. She’s still breathing. I feel for a pulse. It’s strong. “Mira,” I say. “Wake up.” I tap her face with my hand. “Mira.”

“Harder,” Kainda says and then grins. “If you’re not up to it, let me wake her.”

There’s a high-pitched wail from inside the jungle. A moment later, three harpies charge back into view. I lift Mira into my arms while Kainda readies for a fight. But the harpies steer clear of us. They’re terrified. So terrified, in fact, that they bolt straight past us and run right off the cliff, plummeting to their deaths.

“I’m starting to see why they were cast out,” Kainda says.

A loud laugh wipes the smile from her face.

We both recognize the booming mockery carried by the laugh of a Nephilim warrior. It’s joined by several more.

A second shriek rips from the jungle, and the top half of a minotaur sails into the clearing.

More laughter follows. Trees crack. Footsteps rumble. A Nephilim war party steps into the clearing and looks straight at us.

5

The three warriors are short by Nephilim standards. Twenty feet tall, tops. But they’re decked out for battle. One carries an oversized scimitar, one an axe and the last a double-sided spear. Each is dressed in similar black leathers, the stylization of which reveals that they are from the Egyptian clan. Blood red hair, matted like a dirty dog’s, hangs to their shoulders. Unlike many of the larger Nephilim I’ve seen recently, none of them have gigantes wings or Titan tails.

“Lesser Egyptians,” Kainda whispers, locked in place like me.

We should probably be running, but the moment we move, I have no doubt these warriors will spring into action. I’d like to learn everything I can about them before that moment arrives.

“Scouts,” Kainda says. “Too short to be anything else.”

“Do you know them?” I ask.

“They would have been below even my station,” she says.

Kainda’s master had been Thor, son of Odin, leader of the Norse warrior clan. In terms of Nephilim hierarchy, her word once carried a lot of weight, even more than these three. And as a hunter in the service to Nephilim royalty, she wouldn’t have had many opportunities to fraternize with lesser warriors. That this is my first time seeing them means they were probably shunned, possibly living outside the major citadels—Asgard, Olympus, or in the case of Egyptians, Tuat.

“Will they recognize you?” I ask.

“If I got close enough for them to see my hammer, maybe,” she says, “but their eyes are not on me.”

She’s right. They’re looking at me. And my blond hair makes me easy to recognize.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They won’t be a problem for us.”

As though in agreement, the three warriors take a step back.

Then another.

And as quickly as they arrived, they leave, slipping back into the thick jungle.

Kainda and I look at each other, sharing our bewilderment.

“That,” Kainda says, “was unexpected.”

“If they’re scouts, we’re going to have company, soon.” I bend down to Mira, give her face another pat. “Mira!” Still nothing. I take her beneath her arms and lift. She’s tall, but not heavy. Of course, even if she was, the part of me that is still a hunter would never complain about it. I put her over my shoulder. “We should—”

The ground shifts beneath my feet.

The vibration grows in intensity and is quickly joined by a rumble. A horn blast, deep and powerful, rolls from the jungle. The cracking of tree limbs and trunks that follows sounds like the manic popping of a burning fireplace log amplified through a loudspeaker.

We back away from the jungle, our pace quickening with each step.

“That’s a lot more than three,” I say.

The jungle explodes. Leaves and branches burst into the air. At least thirty heavily armed warriors charge—all Egyptian, and all larger than the three scouts. None of them have wings or stingers, but really, thirty warriors in a berserker rage don’t really need either.

With Mira over my shoulder, this is more than we can overcome.

I turn to run and start to shout for Kainda to do the same, but she’s beat me to the punch and she’s at least five steps ahead of me. The ground shakes so violently that I fear I will trip. And a delay of a few seconds is all the giants will need to close the distance.

But I forget all about my balance issues when I remember where we’re headed. Going left or right is no good—Nephilim could lurk in either direction along with who knows what else. So we’re headed back the way we came, which is about a hundred more feet of grassy clearing and then about one thousand feet of vertical space.

As we approach the cliff’s edge, a slight grin works its way onto my face. Kainda has not slowed, looked back or shouted her desire for a plan. She knows the plan without asking, and she has complete faith in my abilities to execute it. That kind of trust is rare in the world beyond Antarktos and it’s unheard of among hunters. It’s a compliment of the highest order.

I wish I had more time to enjoy it, but Kainda suddenly drops from view. For a moment I think she’s gone over the cliff, and I prepare myself for the jump, but when I reach the edge of the clearing, I find the stone slope carved by water and peppered with griffin nests. When my bare foot hits the hard, unexpected grade, I stumble and am carried forward by Mira’s weight on my shoulder. Before my foot leaves the ground and my stumble becomes an all out fall, I push off. Something in my foot twangs with pain, but then we’re off the ground and descending hard. That is, until a gust of wind pushes us up and out, away from the incline.

I soar out and over Kainda, reaching the cliff’s true edge a moment before she makes her literal leap of faith. The wind cuts out and I plummet, shifting Mira so that she’s in front of me, my arms wrapped tightly around her back. Air rushes past my body, tugging my hair, drawing moisture from my eyes. I turn toward Kainda. Her eyes are on the rapidly approaching ground, still fearless and certain in her belief that we will survive this fall.

Then, a shadow.

I see it for just a moment, shifting over Kainda’s back. Then its source comes into view, and passes us. Then again, and again.

Warriors.

Thirty-foot giants with double rows of teeth, six fingers and toes, and a penchant for pain—a display of which we’re about to witness. The five giants, who weigh far more than Kainda and me, reach a faster terminal velocity, and reach it faster. They rocket past us, not one of them reaching out to attack or capture. They’ve streamlined their bodies with the intent of reaching the ground first. But unlike Kainda and me, they won’t slow before impact.

Then it happens. The first of the warriors strikes the ground below us in a startling display of gore. Purple blood sprays, bones crack in half, pop from joints and stab out through the tattooed skin. All the while, the monster howls in ecstasy.

It happens again. And then three more times. By the time the fifth and final Nephilim strikes the ground beneath us, the first is standing, his body nearly fully knit back together. Purple blood coats every blade of grass, tree branch and pebble in a fifty foot radius. The very ground beneath our feet will kill us if we land.

When we land.

Hunters should really start wearing shoes
, I think, but then I’m on task, looking for a solution in the few seconds before we reach the ground and die on impact, or from overexposure to Nephilim blood, or if that can be avoided, at the hands of the five warriors now drawing their weapons.

We’re falling too fast to change our trajectory fully, not without being picked off by the warriors armed with bows and arrows. But maybe we can fly past without changing trajectories.

“Kainda!” I shout, reaching a hand out to her. She takes hold of my wrist and I pull her close. “Hold on!”

She wraps her arms around Mira from the other side. We’re face-to-face now, looking over Mira’s shoulder. Kainda’s eyes burrow into me, searching for a hint of my plan. But there’s no time to explain. Instead, I tip forward and we fall the remaining distance head first.

The confused expressions on the warrior’s faces is priceless. But there is no way for them to know what is about to happen, and when it does, they just stumble back in bewilderment.

Twenty feet and a fraction of a second before impact, the ground opens up. The hole is just eight feet across, but it stretches down for several hundred feet and is still deepening even as we fall inside, passing the Nephilim as a blur. Darkness consumes us as the land above comes back together again, sealing us off from pursuit.

We fall in silence for another ten seconds when a strong wind from below slows our descent before depositing us gently on the stone floor of a wide cavern lit by an array of glowing blue crystals. Once we’re settled and Mira is in my arms, Kainda steps away, hammer at the ready, scouring our surroundings for any hint of danger.

While Kainda slides away into the dark, I lay Mira on the floor and sit beside her. Slowing a fall from 1000 feet is one thing; doing it for three people after opening a several-hundred-foot deep passage through solid stone is something else. Even a few months ago, an effort like that would have knocked me out. I’m stronger now, but I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.

I lean back on my hands, regaining my strength, and look at Mira. With her eyes closed and her nappy white-blond hair puffed out around her head, she looks so much like the little girl I knew so long ago. The girl that made my stomach twist with nervousness. The girl who made me feel like a normal kid. The girl who gave me hope.

The girl who
is
Hope.

While I’d like to wait patiently by her side and let her heal naturally, that could take time. Days maybe. But what can I—the answer is found on the side of a pouch on my belt. A dark spot. A
purple
spot. At some point during our battle with the Forsaken, a drop of blood must have found its way to my belt. I’m lucky it didn’t strike my skin. I draw my blade and scrape it against the purple spot. As suspected, the blood is dried and flakes off into my waiting palm. In this form, it has no effect, but rehydrated... I put my hand beneath Mira’s neck and lift. Her mouth slips open and I shake the dehydrated Nephilim blood into her mouth. Most of it misses or sticks to my hand, but a few flakes make it inside. It’s not much, but it should be enough. I
hope
it’s enough.

Nothing happens. The reaction to Nephilim blood is usually quite sudden and violent. But Mira hasn’t flinched. Maybe it wasn’t enough? Maybe it loses its healing properties when it dries?

I reach out and place my hand on her cheek. “Mira,” I whisper, but I still get no reply. Her skin feels cold. The cavern’s ambient blue light is dim, but my eyes have long since adjusted to low and no-light scenarios. I watch her chest for signs of life, and find nothing.

Panicked, I lean forward and place my ear against her chest. I don’t hear any breathing, but her heart beat is loud and strong.

That’s when I feel a sharp sting on my throat, followed by the words, “Try anything funny and I won’t hesitate.”

Mirabelle Clark...or Whitney rather, is awake. And I’m pretty sure she wants to kill me.

6

I move back slowly, lifting my hands out to the sides in a posture that reveals I am unarmed and am not a threat. “I wasn’t going hurt you.”

She sits up, while keeping the knife at my throat. A trickle of warm liquid reveals that she has already cut me, though not very deeply. Her dark brown eyes lock on to mine with fierce determination. I’ve seen the look in the eyes of many hunters before. She means business. And after the things she’s been through—her mother’s kidnapping and rescue, the global cataclysm, battling with the Nephilim—she has a right to be paranoid.

“Enki is dead,” I tell her, hoping the news will reduce her anxiety. It does, but only a fraction.

“How do you know about that?” she asks.

“I saw it happen,” I say. “You blew him into little bits.”

Her eyes flit back and forth as she remembers. “He dropped me.”

I start to nod, but don’t get very far as the blade cuts a little deeper. She sees me wince and pulls the knife back a little. I could disarm her. It would be simple for me. But that’s not how I want this reunion to go. Of course, nothing about this meeting has gone like I envisioned. She clearly doesn’t recognize me, which is understandable given the beard and one hundred and thirty pounds I’ve put on since we last met. But I suspect her memory has been tampered with. Like with Merrill, it might have been a long time since she had any memory of me.

“You landed in the lake,” I say. “I saved you.”

Her eyes flit again. “It wasn’t you,” she says, sounding accusatory, “It was...”

“Weddell seals.” I step back so that the knife is no longer in striking distance. She keeps the blade pointed at me, but some of the fury has left her eyes. “They’re friends of mine.”

“Man, I hate this place,” she mumbles to herself.

“Your father believes me,” I say.

This catches her attention. Her body goes rigid, like a snake’s before it strikes.

“Your mother, too,” I say. “They’re both safe. At a U.S. forward operating base on the coast. They’re with Kat.”

“Kat?” She’s shaking a little bit now, caught between relief and distrust. “But she and Wright...”

“Survived,” I say. “With me and my friends. Wright...didn’t make it. He saved us. But Kat is alive, as are the other people from your group.”

She flinches and her face becomes angry. “You’re lying. You’re not who you say you are.”

“I haven’t said I’m anyone yet.”

“I saw you change.”

She’s talking about the shifter who captured her, stole her identity and left her for dead.

“That was a shifter,” I tell her. “A Nephilim capable of changing appearances, not to mention stealing and erasing memories. That’s why you can’t remember me.”

“I
don’t
know you,” she says.

“Your parents said the same thing,” I say. “But they remember now. I was part of the Clark Station 2 mission. You were there too, and my parents, Mark and Beth Vincent.”

“They never had a son,” she says. “And you’re too young to have been—”

“My name is Solomon,” I blurt out. “You liked my name.”

She shakes her head, still confused, but then gently says, “King Solomon.”

“Yes!” I say.

“Solomon—”

“—Islands.” I finish the thought for her. We’ve had this conversation before, and she’s taking it in the same direction.

“Solomon Grundy,” we say at the same time.

“The nursery rhyme,” she says.

“And the evil comic-book zombie super villain,” I say, quoting twelve year old Mira verbatim.

“Are you in my head?” she asks.

“Of the creatures on Antarktos capable of doing such a thing, I am not one of them.”

“Antarktos,” she says, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only word in my reply that she’s heard.

“The Greek for Antarctica,” I say, and then I remember the word’s true significance. “It’s what Merrill—your father—calls this place.”

She looks me in the eyes. “You could still be in my head. You could be lying.”

“I’m not,” I say. Thanks to my perfect memory, I could recite every conversation we had during our time together. I could perfectly describe her house or the way her mother’s chocolate chip cookies taste, or I could rattle off a number of 1980s pop culture references, but it could all come from her mind. There is nothing I can say that will make her believe me, at least not without physical contact. “I promise.”

It’s a simple claim, the kind made between children, and it carries all the innocence and earnest emotion I can muster, which is actually quite a lot.

She smiles, her teeth gleaming white against her light brown skin. “You
promise
? Are you serious?”

I hold out my left hand and extend my pinkie. “Pinky promise.”

The absurdity of my request and the goofy smile on my face seems to put her at ease. She lowers the knife some. “You’re really one of the good guys?”

She steps forward, raising her pinky.

“Actually,” I say. “I’m leading them.”

When she’s stunned by my wild claim, I close the distance between us, wrap my finger around hers and recite the song lyrics she once sang to me. “Any hemisphere. No man’s land. Ain’t no asylum here. King Solomon he never lived round here.”

I’m dizzied by a pulse of energy that jolts my body before flowing from my hand to Mira’s. She jumps back, as though a lightning bolt has passed between us. With a gasp, she stumbles back, hands on her head. She stumbles for a moment, weak and disoriented.

“Mira,” I say.

Her eyes lock on to me. She squints, looking me up and down once, but then focuses on my eyes. Her hand slowly rises to her mouth. Tears well up and tumble down her cheeks. “King Solomon,” she whispers.

I nod slowly, a smile forming on my lips. “It’s me, Mira.”

She notices the knife in her hand. It falls from her grasp and clatters to the stone floor.

“Sol!” she shouts, and smiles so big and bright that it breaks my heart. I have waited a long time for this moment. When she charges toward me, arms out-stretched, I find myself weak with emotion.

She leaps at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and colliding full force with my chest. Overcome as I am, the impact knocks me back. My Jell-O legs fail me. We fall.

But before slamming into the stone floor, a gust of wind creates a buffer, cushioning our landing. Mira sits up, face radiant. She grips my cheeks in her hands. “It’s really you!”

I laugh and nod, feeling almost like myself again. Like little Sol.

She embraces me again, crushing herself against me. Her tears mingle with my own as they drip down the sides of my neck. Then she kisses me. On the cheek. Long and hard. If she’d done something like that when we first met, I probably would have passed out, but the expression of love is very welcome now. She kisses me again, on the forehead. Then the other cheek and I’m suddenly enveloped in a wave of kisses that make me laugh. There is nothing sexual about the kisses. Nothing intimate. We’re more like two puppies reunited after a long time apart.

But when Kainda clears her throat, there is no doubt that she sees things differently.