The gate falls. A guillotine blade dropping. The impact slams into the muck, sending a spray of black slurry over the banks.

  They are gone. And I am still here.

  The adrenaline that held my spine together evaporates. My body remembers it is broken. I hit the mud.

  My wooden leg twists against a raw nerve. My vision whitens. I clutch my thigh. Black discharge leaks over my knuckles, smelling of rancid meat.

  The sun rots low behind the treeline. My chest heaves. A raw, broken sob tears at my throat.

  A palm slams over my mouth to kill the sound. The pressure crushes my lip against my tooth.

  I am hauled backward. Reeds whip my eyes. Mud fills my collar. The world narrows to the splintered edge of a rotting trunk. Darkness.

  Steel digs into the soft skin under my jaw.

  "One sound," Belladonna breathes. "And I open you up."

  She looks down. At my leg. At the black rot seeping through the wool. Her face twists. She turns away sharp, staring at the gate.

  "I saw Rory."

  The name cuts me deeper than her knife.

  "I saw him in the line. Broken. Weeping." She leans closer. The blade bites. "While you hid in the bushes."

  Her hand shakes. A drop of blood runs down my neck.

  "I gave him a job," she says. Her voice cracks. She swallows it down. "He was supposed to be guarding the tavern. He was supposed to be safe."

  My mouth opens. Nothing comes out but a wheeze.

  I look away. She sees it. Her grip on my shoulder tightens until it bruises.

  "Did you give him to them?"

  She breathes the question like a curse.

  I wrench her hand down. "It was rigged!" My voice breaks. "My wife's name was on every stone. Every single one. I didn't have a choice. I had to save her!"

  She shoves a rag into my mouth. It tastes of grease and old blood.

  "You think you're the first man to burn a village for a woman?" Her eyes are cold. "You're pathetic." She grabs my collar. "You're coming with me. To the one person who might not kill you for this."

  "Who?" I choke. The rag muffles the sound.

  "Nora."

  A strangled gasp catches in my throat.

  Her watchers drag me up the bank. The compound dominates the swamp. It has no soul. Just a sprawling mess of warped metal forced together with brute strength.

  She scans the dark, then locks eyes with me. "Our source confirms it. Maximus has a prisoner. An old woman. She asks for the Sunfire Rose."

  My lungs lock.

  Nora is dead. I ate her.

  Belladonna tracks my panic. "If she's alive, she's in the Deep Vault. We are going in."

  A cold sweat breaks on my neck.

  Is it possible? Did I fail to consume her? Is she in there?

  The nightmare takes shape. Nora, alive. But not whole. Half-eaten. A torso screaming in the dark. The memory of her bitter winter tea sours on my tongue.

  No.

  I dig my fingernails into my wrist. Blood wells. The sting is real.

  This is just the Echo talking. She is gone.

  I check my pulse. It flutters. Too fast.

  Is Belladonna playing me? Does she know what I am? Or is her source lying?

  I study her profile. Cold. Still as a doll.

  If this is a trap, I die here. But if she believes it... she will burn this place to the ground to find her.

  And in the chaos, I can save the ten. Or what's left of them.

  I wrench the oily rag from my mouth, spitting filth into the mud. "I have to get her out," I choke. "Tell me what to do."

  Belladonna studies me. "I know you will." She leans in. "Because you're clinging to the lie. You think she's family."

  She points at the compound. "You go first. If the Mimic is there, it might hesitate to eat its own grandson."

  "And if she isn't?"

  "Then we move to Plan B."

  "What's Plan B?"

  She stiffens. Her head snaps up.

  The groan of heavy machinery.

  She shoves me back. Hard. I hit the dirt. "Down," she hisses.

  The gate opens. Torches paint the fog orange. The Collectors march, their boots heavy on the stone. Then, silence.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  "About time." She watches the last torch fade. "That's our window." She points to a waste chute. "Inside."

  Her watchers tear at a rusted grate. The iron snaps like a dry rib, muffled by the heavy fog.

  We squeeze in. The metal is slick with decades of grease. The smell hits me. Rot. Offal. I slide fast. A chunk of gristle slaps my face. My hand touches something soft. A rat? A finger? I gag.

  I hit the bottom. A pit of grey slime. It is thick. Warm.

  I scramble out, trying to get it off my skin. It clings. It feels like I've been dipped in the misery of a hundred starving men.

  Belladonna wipes slime from her jaw. "Find uniforms," she snaps. "Masks. Hide your faces."

  Her team scatters. I drag my leg to a bunk. The stone wall is cold against my shoulder.

  My fingers brush a loose brick. It shifts. A small, hollow sound.

  I work it free. Behind it, a scrap of paper. Folded tight.

  I unfold it. It's a child's drawing. A big man. A little girl with wild hair. Underneath, in shaky letters: 'My Da'. I trace the lines. The charcoal is smudged. The paper is worn thin where a thumb held it too often.

  Belladonna goes still. Her eyes lock on the paper. She crosses the room in two strides. She rips it from my hand.

  She stares at the drawing. The paper trembles in her grip. "He was here," she breathes. "He was right here."

  Silence fills the barracks. Belladonna holds the paper as if it might shatter.

  "He hid this," she says. "In the middle of this hell."

  I watch her. My chest aches. I did that. I hid it. But the memory is gone. Digested.

  She looks up. Her eyes are dry. "Do monsters love, James?"

  I look at my boots. I say nothing.

  Yes. Even monsters need something to hold in the dark.

  She presses the drawing to her chest. Then she folds it and tucks it away.

  Her face hardens. "Get your gear. We have work to do."

  She grips my arm and steers me to a rusted hatch. "This is the ventilation shaft." Her eyes track the pipe. "It goes deep. Follow the draught. It leads to the Deep Vault."

  She snatches a silver face from a crate by the wall and thrusts it into my hands. "Put it on."

  I slide the metal over my skin. The world narrows to two slits. Inside, it smells of the last man who wore it. The dry dust of dead skin mixed with a wet, oily stink.

  "Good," she says. "You look just like them. Now act like it."

  She cranks the wheel of the hatch. The rusted hinges scream as it swings open, revealing the black mouth of the shaft.

  She points down the shaft. "Go find your grandmother before I change my mind."

  I pull myself into the shaft. It is a metal throat. Tight.

  I crawl. With every inch, the husband recedes and the monster takes over.

  The shaft angles down. Sharp. Through the slats, I see slices of the facility. Harsh lights. White tiles. Wet floors.

  I am coming for you, Father.

  I haul my rotting limb over the slats.

  I check the rooms below. Cell 4. Vacant. Cell 5. Bare. The facility is a tomb.

  Where is Rory? Where is Grace?

  The quiet makes the panic louder.

  Maximus! Where are they?

  Wrong question. The question is... Where are you?

  The Voice vibrates in my marrow, a spike of pain that drives through my skull. My neck snaps to the right, my vision forced down to a specific slat.

  Below, a room of blue-white light waits. No shadows. No dirt. Perfect.

  Drop.

  I lock my knees. Useless. My body belongs to the Voice. It drags me forward.

  I pry the slat open. I swing down, hanging by my fingertips for a second before letting go.

  I land on a white tile. The cold bites through my boots, matching the chill in my bones. The silver mask is a cage around my face, the air inside it stifling and sour with my own panicked breath.

  I fumble with the latches and wrench the metal off, letting it clatter onto the tile. I don't care who hears. I can't breathe behind that silver lie.

  I rise. The room is lined with floor-to-ceiling glass cylinders. Inside them, black liquid moves against gravity. Slow swirls. Hypnotic.

  I walk to the nearest vat. My reflection is trapped in the glass. The dark liquid behind it swallows my eyes. Empty sockets.

  Beautiful, is it not?

  I lay my palm on the glass. It throbs against my skin. A heavy beat that syncs with my blood. Thump-thrum. Thump-thrum.

  My breath fogs the glass. The poison. From the well.

  It is not poison to you. To the well, it was a burden. To you, it is fuel. You are a Vessel built to hold it.

  A tray sits on a pedestal. On it, an iron bar and a glass tube of black liquid. The label: —.

  Drink.

  My body obeys. I reach out. My hand shakes, a war between bone and will. My skin touches the tube.

  "No." I force the word out. "I saw what it did to the oak. The roots turned black. It's death."

  Look at yourself, James. Look at your leg.

  I look down. The black discharge has soaked the wool. It smells of something that should be buried.

  The meat is failing. The husband is dying. You cannot save them like this. You are a broken tool.

  The pressure in my spine eases. The Voice softens.

  Drink, and the pain stops. Drink, and the flesh becomes stone. Drink, and you will have the strength to tear this place down.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I see myself. My leg is restored. My skin is flawless, hard as marble. Evangeline looks at me with awe instead of fear.

  I clutch the tube. The cold bites. It feels like a weapon.

  "I could save her," I breathe.

  Yes. You could save them all.

  I lift the tube to my lips. The smell hits me. Intoxicating. Like rain on hot asphalt.

  Then I see it. My palm. The circle of smooth skin where the eye used to be.

  I freeze.

  Perfection. It erases the scars. It erases the history.

  I remember her hand on my cheek. Evangeline. She didn't touch the smooth skin. She touched the grit. She loved the man who limped.

  A god doesn't limp. A god doesn't hurt.

  If I drink this, I become perfect. And James is made of scars. If I erase them, I erase him. When she looks at me, she won't see her husband. She will see a stranger. A glowing, perfect monster.

  "If I drink this," I say, my voice hard, "I stop being James."

  You are not him. You never were.

  "You know what?" I lower my arm. "I don't think you're on my side."

  I stare into the black liquid. "I know what this does. It scrubs the Vessel clean. The scars go. And the memories…"

  The pieces click. The holes in my mind.

  "…go with them." I look at the liquid, disgusted. "That's why I forgot Eli. That's why I forgot Derrick. It eats them. All of them. It digests their souls."

  "If I drink this, I agree to forget her. When I leave this skin, I will wake up in the next skin with no memory. I won't remember why I wanted to save her. I won't even remember her name."

  They are fuel. You burn them to become brighter.

  "I won't burn him," I say. My grip tightens. "I won't let you erase her from my future."

  I hurl the tube. It shatters against the wall. The black liquid hisses, eating the grout.

  "I like being James." My voice shakes. "I have a wife. A son. I don't need to be a god."

  You are a fool.

  The headache becomes a hammer. A brutal, relentless pounding.

  "I like being weak," I say, backing away. "I like hurting. Because it means I'm still human."

  Fine. Rot then. Let the Blight take the rest.

  I pull myself into the shaft. The Voice is silent.

  I push forward. The air is staler here.

  I peer through the slats. A white room. Stained grout. The smell of bleach and burnt meat. A leather strap lies on the tiles. Gnawed. A handprint marks the wall.

  I stare at it. My skin crawls. I was here. The thought flickers, then dies. The memory is gone.

  I move on.

  The metal closes in. Dead end. The Deep Vault is below.

  I peer through the slats. Soft light bleeds up. Not the harsh blue of the labs. Warm. Yellow. Like a hearth.

  I expect a torture chamber. Instead, I see a rug. Worn wool. A bookshelf crammed with old volumes.

  My grip on the slat slips. I blink, sure I'm seeing it wrong. But the light stays warm. The rug stays real. I crawled out of a morgue and into a home.

  There is no Nora. Just two monsters.

  Maximus and Teddy.

  Maximus is crouched on the floor. No skin cloak. Just a man with a ruined face. He looks small. Almost human.

  He repairs a toy. A small wooden automaton. His scarred thumb finds a stud on its back. Whirr. The little arm waves.

  Teddy's hands smack together. He laughs, a bubbling gurgle of joy.

  Maximus grins. Real. Human.

  He reaches out and strokes Teddy's lumpy, hairless head.

  "See?" His voice is soft. "I fixed it. For you."

  My jaw goes slack.

  I look at the hand on the boy's head. The gentle touch.

  I see myself. Fixing the hearth for a boy who isn't mine.

  I am looking in a mirror.

  And I have to shatter it.

  ? Featured Web Novel