The stairs descended into darkness.

  Not-Jonas led the way, moving with surprising grace for someone who claimed he was still learning how to walk in a human body. Forge followed at a careful distance, knife still drawn, every sense alert for threats.

  The basement air was wrong. Cold and damp, yes, but also something else. A smell that made Forge's stomach clench. Rot and chemicals and something organic that had been preserved past its natural lifespan.

  "Jonas spent a lot of time down here," Not-Jonas said conversationally as they descended. "Like, an unhealthy amount of time. I'm getting memories of this place and they're really not pleasant. Fair warning, you're probably not going to like what we find."

  Forge didn't respond. Just gripped his knife tighter.

  The stairs ended in a large chamber. Stone walls. Low ceiling. Carved from the swamp bedrock when Jonas had built his tower. The construction was sloppy. Uneven. Jonas had clearly possessed magical knowledge but no real building skills. The whole structure felt like it might collapse at any moment.

  But that wasn't what made Forge stop breathing.

  The chamber was lit by permanent magical lights. Cold blue illumination that made everything look corpse-pale. And in that light, Forge could see them.

  Four figures.

  Two in iron cages against the far wall. Standing. Motionless. Vacant eyes staring at nothing.

  One strapped to a table in the center of the room. Torso splayed open. Entrails hanging out in carefully arranged loops. Like some deranged anatomical study.

  And the fourth...

  Forge's gorge rose. The woman was on a different table. Positioned. Preserved. Her dress was clean. Too clean. And her legs were held in metal stirrups that served no medical purpose Forge could identify.

  But he could guess.

  The implications hit him like a physical blow. The care in her preservation. The positioning. The stirrups.

  Oh gods. Oh gods no.

  "Yeah." Not-Jonas's voice was flat. "That's exactly what you think it is. Jonas was into some seriously fucked up shit. I'm really, genuinely glad I didn't get most of his memories. Because corpse fucker. Ewwww. That would have been too much even for me."

  Forge barely heard him. His vision was tunneling. The woman's face was wrong. Skin too pale. Eyes... gods, her EYES. No lids. Just staring. Tracking their movement as they entered.

  She was aware. Still aware.

  "Trace," Forge whispered. The name came from somewhere deep. Buried memories surfacing. "Her name was Trace."

  She'd worked at the tavern. Serving drinks. Laughing with customers. Always had a kind word. Always smiled.

  She'd gone missing four years ago. Just vanished. Nobody found her. Nobody knew what happened.

  Two men had been suspected. Questioned. Nearly hanged. Eventually driven out of town because nobody trusted them anymore even without proof.

  They'd been innocent.

  And she'd been here. The whole time. In Jonas's basement. Being... being...

  Forge couldn't finish the thought.

  He turned to the cages. Forced himself to look. To actually SEE.

  Two men. Swamp hunters by their clothing. Or what remained of their clothing.

  The first one Forge recognized immediately. Chanse. Big man. Good tracker. Had taught Forge some of his skills when Forge was younger. Went missing almost a decade ago. Everyone assumed the swamp had taken him. That he'd encountered something too dangerous. That his body was feeding the ecosystem somewhere deep in the mangroves.

  He'd been here. For ten years. Standing in a cage. Undead. Aware or not aware, Forge couldn't tell.

  The second man was harder to place. Forge knew the face but couldn't summon the name. Another hunter. Went missing three years after Chanse. That disappearance had prompted the town law. No entering the swamp alone unless you were trained. Too many people vanishing.

  Two men driven from town for a crime they didn't commit. And the real monster was right here. Trading information to the Pantathians. Pretending to be eccentric but harmless. All while keeping people in his basement like experiments.

  The fourth zombie, the one on the table with its guts exposed, Forge didn't recognize at all. The face was mostly bone. No flesh remaining to identify features. The entrails were arranged in patterns that suggested study rather than torture. Like Jonas had been trying to understand how the organs worked. Or how to manipulate them through necromancy.

  Forge couldn't tell if the experiment had been taking the organs out or putting them back in. Either way, it was horror.

  His stomach rebelled. Forge turned away, bent over, and vomited. Nothing much came up. He'd barely eaten. But his body tried anyway, trying to purge the wrongness.

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  When he straightened, Not-Jonas was watching him with something that might have been sympathy.

  "Yeah," Not-Jonas said quietly. "That's about right. This is bad. Really bad. Jonas was..." He trailed off. "I don't have words. And I used to be kind of a piece of shit myself. But this? This is something else."

  Forge wiped his mouth. His hands were shaking. Rage was building. Hot and overwhelming. These were his people. HIS PEOPLE. He'd mourned them. Had cried with their families. Had helped search the swamp for bodies that were here the entire time.

  And Jonas had done this. Jonas had taken them. Experimented on them. USED them.

  The rage focused. Crystallized. Found a target.

  Forge drew his long knife. The blade sang as it left the sheath. He turned on Not-Jonas.

  "I knew you were a traitor!" The words came out harsh. Venomous. "You sick fuck!"

  He lunged.

  Not-Jonas's hands shot up. "Wait a second there, Dundee! I didn't do this!"

  Forge stopped. Barely. The knife point inches from Not-Jonas's chest.

  "What?"

  "I. Didn't. Do. This." Not-Jonas pointed at his own head. "Worm, remember? I've been in this body for like an hour. Maybe less. Jonas did all of this. And Jonas..." He tapped his skull again. "Is currently about as smart as a grapefruit. Vegetative state. I had to shut him down to stop him accessing me. Trust me when I tell you, I did not enjoy that trip down the rabbit hole. So put the knife down."

  The logic penetrated Forge's rage. Slowly. Reluctantly.

  The creature. The worm. It HAD just taken Jonas. Couldn't have done this. These people had been here for YEARS.

  But Forge didn't lower the knife. Not completely. Just dropped it from striking position to defensive stance.

  "I'm keeping this out," Forge said. "Should have drawn it earlier."

  "Fair," Not-Jonas agreed. "Probably smart. I'd do the same."

  Forge looked back at the zombies. At Trace still tracking them with lidless eyes. At Chanse standing motionless in his cage. At the nameless hunter beside him. At the experimental subject on the table.

  "Can we save them?" The question came out desperate. Hopeless. But he had to ask.

  Not-Jonas's face fell. "If it's possible, and I don't think it is, I don't have the ability to do it. Most of that knowledge went with this fuckbag's mind. I didn't have time to absorb his memories. And honestly? I'm glad I didn't have the chance. If I'd become even a part of this dude..." He shook his head. "I don't even know what I would have done. Some things are too broken to fix. And I'm not risking becoming him to try."

  They can't be saved.

  The knowledge settled into Forge like lead. These weren't people anymore. Just animated corpses. Trapped in bodies that didn't work. Aware or not, suffering or not, it didn't matter. They were gone. Had been gone for years.

  All that remained was mercy.

  Forge approached the table with the experimental subject. The nameless zombie. Its guts hung in careful loops. Bones visible through decayed flesh. The face was skull with patches of dried tissue.

  He raised his knife. Positioned it at the neck.

  "I'm sorry," Forge whispered. "I'm sorry nobody found you. I'm sorry this happened."

  The blade cut. The bones were brittle. Old. They parted easier than fresh bone would have. Forge worked methodically. Professionally. Like field dressing an animal. Detaching the head from the body.

  The zombie stopped moving. Whatever necromantic energy animated it released. Just meat now. Just remains.

  Forge moved to Trace next.

  She was still tracking him. Those lidless eyes following. Her mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. Just a silent plea or accusation or maybe nothing. Maybe just reflex.

  "I'm sorry, Trace." Forge's voice broke. "We looked for you. We really did. Your family... gods, your family. They never stopped hoping."

  He positioned the knife. Had to look away as he cut. Couldn't watch those eyes as he killed her again. As he released her from whatever hell Jonas had trapped her in.

  The body went still.

  Forge stood there for a moment. Breathing hard. Trying not to think about the implications. About what Jonas had done to her. About how long she'd been aware. About whether death was mercy or just more cruelty piled on top of everything else.

  Then he turned to the cages.

  Chanse and the nameless hunter stood motionless. Staring at nothing. Two men who'd taught Forge his craft. Who'd been good people. Who'd deserved better.

  But Forge couldn't risk opening those cages. Couldn't risk getting close. Two zombies in an enclosed space was too dangerous. If they were hostile, if Jonas had programmed them to attack...

  He stood there. Knife in hand. Looking at his former mentor trapped in undead flesh.

  Unable to do what needed doing.

  Not-Jonas had been watching silently through all of this. Not interfering. Not commenting. Just observing with that too-curious expression.

  Finally, Forge turned away from the cages. Looked at the creature wearing Jonas's face.

  "Why should I let you live?"

  Not-Jonas tilted his head. "That's a good question. A really good question. Though I don't think we should consider it as 'let me live' because I'm pretty sure I could take you down easy in a fight." He paused. "That's not a threat! Just an observation. Just being honest. Which I apparently can't stop being."

  Forge gripped his knife tighter.

  "But here's the thing," Not-Jonas continued. "Even though I don't know everything about Jonas, I do know a lot. I saw many of his memories before I had to shut him down. I didn't get the emotional context or the thought process behind those memories, because of what it might have done to me. A hard lesson I learned the first time. But I do know about your small town. I saw it through his mind. I saw the people. Their struggles. Their fears."

  Not-Jonas stepped closer. Forge didn't back away. Stood his ground.

  "I know Jonas didn't like you very much at all, by the way," Not-Jonas said. "Thought you were self-righteous. Judgmental. A problem. I know he had plans for Hawth. Bad plans. Enslavement. Revenge. All the petty bullshit of a man who convinced himself he was the victim."

  Forge's jaw clenched.

  "I know about your little club too," Not-Jonas continued. "The resistance. The Shadow Conclave or whatever you're calling it. Jonas reported it to the Pantathians. But apparently they don't care. Think you're harmless. Not worth the effort of crushing."

  That stung. But it wasn't news. Deep down, Forge had always known they were tolerated rather than feared.

  "But most importantly," Not-Jonas said, and now his expression shifted. Became sharper. More focused. "I know what Jonas had planned specifically. For you. For Kandis. For everyone who matters in your town. And I know things about the Pantathians. Information Jonas traded. Intelligence he gathered. Weaknesses he observed."

  Not-Jonas's smile returned. Different now. Almost conspiratorial. Like a salesman sensing an opportunity.

  "So, what do you say?" The tone shifted completely. Became smooth. Practiced. Like instinct taking over. "You want to make a deal?"

  Forge stared at the creature wearing Jonas's face. At the thing that had killed a troll. That had driven gremlins to slaughter. That was currently puppeting a man's body while that man's consciousness rotted in vegetative silence.

  A monster offering partnership.

  An enemy of his enemy offering alliance.

  A parasite suggesting cooperation.

  Forge looked back at the cages. At Chanse and the nameless hunter. At what Jonas had been capable of. At what the Pantathians allowed. At what Hawth faced if nothing changed.

  Then back at Not-Jonas. At the wrong smile and the too-curious eyes and the complete inability to keep thoughts internal.

  What choice do I have?

  "What kind of deal?" Forge asked.

  - - -

  End of Chapter 32