There is a sacred hierarchy in human needs. At the top, self-actualization. At the base, physiology. And somewhere, hidden in the footer of Maslow's pyramid, is the divine need to scrub sewage sludge from your pores with boiling water.

  The bathhouse at the Three-Headed Dog Inn wasn't a spa. It was an adapted industrial boiler room. The water was heated by a Fire Elemental chained in the basement, who warmed the pipes with constant hatred. The water smelled of sulfur and eucalyptus.

  To me, it smelled like paradise.

  I submerged myself in the stone pool up to my chin. The heat penetrated my bones, thawing the marrow. Beside me, floating with a towel on his head, was an elderly Goblin. On the other side, a Fish-Man read a waterproof newspaper.

  "Arthur," Luna's voice came from the women's section, separated by a magical bamboo wall that blocked vision but not sound. "Do you think the mud is out of my hair? Or am I going to have to shave it and become a Shaolin monk?"

  "Rift mud has an alkaline pH," I replied, closing my eyes. "It acts as a deep conditioner. Your hair will be stronger. Just don't swallow the water, or moss will grow in your stomach."

  "You always know how to ruin the moment, Doctor."

  I stayed silent for a minute, feeling the Parasite relax inside me. It uncoiled from my spine, floating in my bloodstream like a satisfied animal.

  I looked at my left arm. The scars from the stadium battle were still there, silver marks where the flesh had remade itself. And, climbing up my shoulder, the black veins of the symbiote pulsed softly.

  I wasn't human anymore. Not entirely. My father's diary confirmed that. I was a science project gone wrong... or too right.

  "Arthur?" Luna called again, voice lower. "What are we going to do about the spy downstairs?"

  "We're going to have dinner with him." I opened my eyes. Analytical coldness returned, chasing away the relaxation. "And I hope he likes spicy food."

  Half an hour later, we were in the main hall, clean, dressed in civilian clothes bought from an undead merchant (my leather jacket smelled faintly of formaldehyde, but fit well).

  The food arrived. Madame Gristle was in the inn's kitchen, having taken command after challenging the previous chef (a Troll) to an arm-wrestling match.

  The dish was Basilisk Ragout with Mandrake Mash.

  "Careful with the mash," I warned Valéria, who was already forking a mountain of it. "If the Mandrake isn't cooked properly, it screams in your belly and causes sonic indigestion."

  Valéria paused her fork in mid-air.

  "I hate this place."

  While they ate, I took my plate and a mug of dark ale. I walked calmly through the crowded hall, dodging cat-girls and orc mercenaries.

  I went straight to the table in the dark corner.

  The hooded figure was still there. The Helix Pharma device was off now, tucked in his pocket. He was eating nuts with a gloved hand.

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  I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. The noise of wood dragging on the floor made him stop chewing.

  "Seat's taken," he said. The voice was male, young, but tired.

  "I know. By you." I placed my plate on the table. "And by the fear of being discovered."

  The man tensed his shoulders. His hand went under the table, probably reaching for a weapon.

  "Don't do that," I said, starting to cut my Basilisk meat with surgical calm. "If you draw a weapon here, the Gorilla bouncers will rip your arms off and use them to scratch their backs. House rule: aggressive neutrality."

  The man hesitated. He released the weapon but kept his hand hidden. He lowered his hood.

  It wasn't a monster. It was a human. A young man of about twenty-five, with deep dark circles and purple blotches on his neck skin.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "I'm the guy you were reporting on your communicator. Arthur Veras."

  The young man paled.

  "The Butcher of the Stadium."

  "I prefer 'Insurgent Pathologist.' And you..." I activated my analytical vision. The spots on his neck glowed yellow on my retina. "...you are a Synthetic Mana Addict. Chronic user of 'Pixie Dust,' the cheap stimulant Helix sells on the streets."

  He covered his neck with his shirt collar.

  "What do you want? Are you going to kill me?"

  "Depends." I took a sip of my ale. "Are you a Helix employee?"

  "Ex-employee. I was fired from the Logistics Department. Now I'm an 'independent informant.' I sell target locations to whoever pays the most. Helix pays well for you."

  "Used to pay," I corrected. "Helix is burned. Sovereignty has taken over the hunt. And the Twilight Squad doesn't pay informants. They 'clean up' loose ends. If they get here, you die with me."

  The informant swallowed hard.

  "I need the money. The withdrawal treatment... is expensive."

  I pulled a small vial from the inside pocket of my jacket. It contained a clear liquid.

  I placed it on the table, sliding it to him.

  "What is this? Poison?"

  "The opposite. It's Wyvern Detox Serum." A lie. It was just Saline Solution mixed with Valerian Root and a bit of my own blood rich in Parasite antibodies. But he didn't need to know the details. "It will clean the mana receptors in your brain. One dose and the craving ends."

  The young man's eyes shone with greed.

  "You give me this... if I don't turn you in?"

  "No. I give you this if you tell me what the Twilight Squad is bringing." I leaned forward. "They didn't enter the forest after us. They retreated. Why?"

  The informant looked at the vial, then at me. He took the glass with trembling hands.

  "They retreated because the Quarantine Zone is going to be expanded."

  "Expanded?"

  "The Squad Commander requested the activation of Project Behemoth."

  The name made the Parasite inside me hiss.

  [MEMORY ACCESSED: BEHEMOTH CODE.]

  [DEFINITION: BIOLOGICAL SIEGE WEAPON. CLASS: CITY DESTROYER.]

  "Behemoth..." I repeated. "They're going to release a giant monster on top of the Necropolis?"

  "It's not a monster." The young man pocketed the vial and stood up, ready to flee. "It's a fungus. A giant mycelium that devours mana. They're going to bombard the city with spores tomorrow at dawn. Anything magical here—the monsters, the lights, the undead—will turn into fertilizer in an hour."

  He pulled his hood back up.

  "Get out of the city, Doctor. There is no cure for the Behemoth. It doesn't fight. It just... rots everything."

  The informant hurried away, blending into the crowd, clutching his "cure" like a treasure.

  I sat there, staring at my plate of ragout.

  Sovereignty wasn't going to invade. They were going to commit a silent genocide. They were going to kill an entire city of sentient monsters and refugees just to get us.

  Valéria and Luna approached the table.

  "So?" asked Valéria. "Is he gonna talk?"

  "He already did." I stood up, leaving a bill on the table. "We have a problem."

  "Bigger than the Twilight Squad?" Luna asked.

  "Much bigger." I looked at the inn's ceiling, imagining the sky outside. "Tomorrow morning, it's going to rain biological death. We need to talk to the Lich Magistrate. Fast."

  "Why? Are we running?" Gristle asked.

  "No." I smiled, but there was no humor in my eyes. "Because the Behemoth fungus has a weakness. It devours mana. But if you feed it too much mana... it suffers explosive indigestion."

  "You want to blow up the fungus?"

  "No. I want to modify it." My eyes glowed with the red light of the Parasite. "If Sovereignty wants to use biological weapons, they should know I'm the best bio-hacker on the market. Let's turn this plague into our smokescreen."