The Last Hunter - Collected Edition (45 page)

Prologue

Lieutenant Ninnis looked at the blade in his hand. The bright sun overhead reflected off its surface, the intensity of its gleam burning his eyes. But the pain didn’t bother him. Not because it was insignificant—even after spending nearly three months above ground, the sunlight still hurt his eyes—but because the pain delighted him.

Delighted Nephil.

The body and spirit of Nephil that resided in his body had been meant for another. Solomon Ull Vincent. A boy. The first and only child naturally born of a human being on the continent of Antarctica. The child bonded with the land on a supernatural level. Beyond understanding.

And now, beyond reach.

Ninnis turned his eyes away from the blade, and looked at the soft earth beneath his bare feet. His soles had become so thick with calluses from living underground that he couldn’t feel the softness of the fresh leaf litter. But it smelled raw. Alive. He’d always believed that subterranean life was ideal. He’d never understood why the Nephilim—the half human, half demon ancients he once called masters—obsessed about taking the surface back from the human race. But after spending the last week feeling the burn of the sun, moving through the young forest and hunting in a way that’s impossible underground, Ninnis understood.

The surface is wide open. Limitless.

And beautiful.

He didn’t admire sunsets, flowers or the glimmering ocean that now filled the previously frozen bay to the north. He didn’t watch the butterflies or birds that now filled the warm Antarctic air. He didn’t marvel at the herds of underworld creatures adapting to life under the sun. None of this interested him.

A twitch brought his attention back to the man at his feet.

Blood flowed through the man’s fingers and mixed with the soil. Hungry worms rose to the surface, feasting on the blood. Drowning in it. This is what Ninnis liked about the surface. The color.

Life underground was muted by darkness. Even when lit by torches, glowing crystals or the large electric bulbs in the Nephilim libraries, the world underground looked dull. But here, in the light, vivid colors danced with every shift of the breeze. And the blood—
the blood
—it glistened with the most delicious hue of dark red. The sight of it delighted him almost as much as the smell.

A tattoo of swirling spikes covered the large, bald man’s head. Ninnis wasn’t sure if they represented anything, but he was positive they were meant to intimidate. Covered with a splash of the man’s own blood, they looked silly. He wore black clothing from the neck down and much of his face had been painted black. At night, or underground, the man would be hard to see. But in the light, reeking of sweat, the man stood out like a beacon. He carried two knives, a handgun and a long black rifle Ninnis had never seen, but recognized as a sharpshooter’s rifle.

A soldier.

A hunter.

Ninnis chuckled at the thought.

Defeating this man had been no more difficult than defeating a newborn feeder. The man bore sharp blades, moved quickly and struck hard, but he lacked knowledge about the true world around him. Seeing Ninnis dressed in nothing more than tattered leathers had actually made the soldier laugh. The man mocked him in Russian before realizing Ninnis didn’t speak the language, and then switched to English. Ninnis showed no reaction to the man’s taunts. Instead, he circled the man, gauging this newcomer to
his
land.

They race to claim my continent, Ninnis had thought, only to find it already taken.

Fools.

When Strike appeared in Ninnis’s hands, the shocked expression on the man’s face was comical. And as the soldier fumbled to draw his pistol, Ninnis closed the distance, and eviscerated the man.

He now lay on the ground, clutching his belly to keep his insides from sliding out. Two seconds and one strike. The man had faced a god, and lost. As did anyone, or anything, that stood up to Ninnis. As the vessel of Nephil, he commanded the subterranean armies. More than that, he had the devotion of creatures that have lived for thousands of years before he was born, before he was taken captive in 1911 and turned into Ninnis the hunter, subject to Enki, son of Nephil. And now Enki, who along with his brother Enlil, previously ruled over the Nephilim, served
him
. They didn’t realize this, of course. He contained the physical body and spirit of Nephil, who’d been imprisoned in Tartarus and recently freed. The ancient spirit possessed unimaginable power, but it couldn’t control Ninnis. Instead, he decided to take the power for himself and use it to lead the Nephilim to victory over the surface world. While his goals aligned with those of the Nephilim, he would age more quickly on the surface. Death would claim him eventually. To obtain immortality, he would wipe out humanity quickly, and become legend, remembered for eternity as the savior of the Nephilim.

He could feel the power eating at him from the inside out. Eventually, the spirit of Nephil would be released, most likely upon Ninnis’s deathbed. Without the boy, Solomon, willingly offering himself to Nephil, the spirit would die. And there is nothing Nephilim feared more than death. Within the realm of Tartarus, the spirit of Nephil had existed in a state of eternal torture beyond comprehension. It was a place designed to contain and punish the Nephilim, who had so long ago corrupted mankind before being chased underground and buried beneath Antarctica’s ice cap. Outside of Tartarus, if a Nephilim died, they simply ceased to exist. Their spirits were different from human souls. They lacked something, some kind of substance, and would simply fade away.

Ull, the Nephilim who had shared Solomon’s middle name and become his master, had suffered such a fate after the boy killed him. No hunters other than Ninnis and Kainda knew about his fate, but…

Kainda.

Remembering his daughter brought a glimmer of discomfort to his chest. It was a kind of pain in which he did not delight. Because he didn’t understand it. She betrayed him. Left with the boy, Luca, and his sister, Emilie—traitors all three. They were why he now stalked the freshly grown wilderness. Preparations to invade the outside world would continue in his absence. He didn’t foresee humanity putting up much of a struggle. They had been devastated by the massive shift in the Earth’s crust that had repositioned Antarctica at the equator and returned the land to the lush paradise it had been so long ago.

But paradise would be stained with blood. First, the man at his feet. Then any other outsiders foolish enough to try to claim Antarctica. And finally, Kainda and the thirty-six other hunters who deserted the underground and their masters. Only after he’d seen the life drain from their bodies would he give the signal to attack the rest of the world.

A sudden scratch of shifting leaves snapped Ninnis out of his thoughts. The soldier showed resolve. The man drew a blade from a sheath on his chest and sent it flying toward Ninnis, who did nothing to avoid it.

Four inches of steel pierced Ninnis’s chest and slipped between his ribs, puncturing a lung. The intense pain would have knocked any other man to his knees.

Ninnis smiled.

Holding his gut with one hand, the man pushed himself away from Ninnis.

Ninnis twitched his wrist and Strike’s blade rolled up. He attached the weapon to his belt, and looked down at the hilt of the knife sticking out of his chest. An expert shot. The man might have made a good hunter after all. But Ninnis no longer had any interest in breaking and making hunters. Solomon had been the last hunter, destined to contain the spirit of Nephil, and that hadn’t turned out as planned. Once the Nephilim reclaimed the surface, there would be no need for hunters, whose small bodies made them important assets in the underworld.

Ninnis clutched the knife in his chest and drew it out slowly. An explosion of pain radiated through his body. The blade came free with a slurp. Blood followed.

Purple blood.

Ninnis watched the violet plasma drip down his chest, fascinated by its color. Human blood—his blood—ran red. He’d been carrying a feeder skin of Nephilim blood, consuming it regularly so that its healing properties could help his human body endure the rigors of containing Nephil. It would also have no trouble healing this wound. But would it have to? Ninnis watched as the flow of blood slowed, and then stopped.

An intense itch surrounded the wound and then pulsed with pain. It felt like being stabbed all over again, but in reverse. And then, the wound was healed.

Ninnis knew he was changing. He felt hungrier. More ruthless. More powerful. More hard-hearted. But he hadn’t realized the changes were also
physical
.

“I am becoming Nephilim,” he said.

The soldier at his feet continued to struggle, a pitiful whimper escaping his mouth. Ninnis looked the man in the eyes. “I’m changing,” he said. “And hungry.”

Ninnis brought the soldier’s razor sharp knife up to his eyes and looked at his reflection through the smear of his own purple blood. He licked the blade clean, and smiled at the man. “My appetite seems to have changed.” He cocked his head to the side. “I hope you don’t find it rude if I make you watch while I eat.”

The man filled his lungs to scream as Ninnis lunged toward him.

And ate.