The Last Hunter - Descent - Jeremy Robinson [68]
I step closer.
She’s dressed in leather rags. Her black hair is tied back in a tight braid. Was it like that when I took her? I wonder, but then remember her head was covered by the jacket’s hood. Her skin is dark, darker than anything I’ve seen underground. Her dark hands cover the side of her face, which is turned into the corner of the room.
“Tell me your name,” I say.
Her hands shake.
I clench my fists. “I am the hunter who took you. You will show me respect.”
“Why?” she says, her voice a chaotic vibrato.
“Why, what?”
“Why...” She sniffs. “Why did you take me?”
“I do not know why the masters wanted you specifically, but you were my final test.”
“Test?”
“To become one of them.”
“Who are they?”
“They are the sons of Nephil, the Nephilim. The heroes of old. The—”
“Men of renown,” she finishes.
This infuriates me. “Who are you?” I shout. “Show me your face!”
Her shaking hands lower. Her cheek bears a fresh wound, perhaps dealt by me, or Ninnis, or after she was brought here. She turns slowly, and then looks up, meeting my eyes.
Her eyes strike me like one of Ull’s arrows. I stumble back as her face contorts into something horrible, something sinister, burning with hate. And I feel an emotion I thought I would never experience again.
I am unhinged.
I am terrified.
33
When I strike the hard stone wall, my senses return for a moment. I take hold of Whipsnap and pull. The weapon snaps out. I toss my cresty skin to the side, spin the weapon into position, blade forward, and meet her eyes again.
My mind explodes.
I’m no longer in the room. The woman is gone. Everything is gone.
I am warm and comfortable, surrounded by darkness, and supported on all sides by something soft. Then something disrupts my state of bliss. An intense pressure builds around me. It does not hurt, but it is not comfortable either.
The pressure continues for some time, and I have a feeling of rushing through it.
I’m fast-forwarding through the memory.
Is this a memory?
What’s fast-forwarding?
I’m not remembering this. I’m reliving it.
Then there is light. And cold. And wetness.
I feel myself being drawn up, away from the warmth.
There is a crackle of sound so crisp and clear that it frightens me. When I scream, a high pitched squeal comes out. The noise that frightened me was my own voice. Everything smells wrong.
That’s because I’ve never smelled before.
There’s a tug on my belly. And a pinch. I cry out again. I’m shaking from cold and fright. Confusion grips my thoughts. I can feel myself slipping into hysteria.
Then I see her looking down at me. She’s smiling. And her eyes...her eyes!
“No!” I scream, swinging Whipsnap out, intending to sever the woman’s throat, but I don’t come close.
She stands, pushing herself back into the corner, but never taking her eyes off me. She reaches out a shaking hand.
“Stay back!” I swing again, this time throwing myself off balance. I drop Whipsnap and catch myself on the bed.
She speaks a single word that throws me violently into the past once again. “Solomon.”
She’s looking down at me, holding me in her hands, wrapping me in something warm. I’m used to warm and wet, but warm and dry is better than cold. And now she’s speaking to me. Smiling as she coos my name. “Solomon,” she says. “Solomon.” Her inflections are soothing. Her white teeth hold my gaze as she speaks. She brings me up close, so close I can feel her warm breath. “You are a precious boy,” she says, and then turns me away.
As she turns me I see the room through blurry eyes. But I see shapes I will come to know well and recognize them instantly.
Outside the memory, I shout for them. “Mom! Dad! Where are you?”
The memory of my birth flickers.
The stone room spins around me.
I fall to my knees.
My mind is on fire. Pressure builds around the chink in whatever mental dam has been put in place. Memories come fast, but are really just a quick spray. The first year of my life returns. The dam weakens. Then breaks.
In a single moment, like the explosion of an atomic bomb, thirteen years of perfect memory—nearly