Now there was definitely a smile on the ghoul’s face. Gyre leaned back on the table, which was pleasantly spongy in texture.

“What’s wrong with my arm?” he said.

“It was broken in three places,” Elariel said, getting off her stool. “I fixed it in place to keep you from injuring yourself further. Do you feel any pain?”

“Not really,” Gyre said, propping himself up again on his other hand. He noticed for the first time that he was nearly naked, with no shirt and only a pair of short, loose trousers. Elariel, of course, wore no clothing at all, and Gyre wondered if that was normal for ghouls. “It just won’t move.”

He tried again and peered a little closer. His right arm was pressed tight against his side, and there was something strange—

His gorge suddenly rose. His arm wasn’t pressed against his side; it was fused to it, skin stretching unbroken from limb to torso. Plaguing fuck!

“Give me a moment.”

Elariel stood at his side, and her hands touched him, fingers running along the join. As Gyre watched, his skin split, painlessly, separating his arm from his body again. Bands of fresh pink were wound around his biceps and wrist, presumably where he’d been … repaired.

Dhaka. The life-magic of which the ghouls had been the foremost masters. For all that he’d come to the Tomb looking for their power, actually seeing it—feeling it used on his own flesh—roiled his stomach. There was no visible sign of the power, just Elariel running her fine-furred hands up and down Gyre’s body, pressing and testing. When she found a stray flap of skin, she touched it, and it retreated obediently. Gyre flexed his arm, and she nodded approval.

“How long have I been down here?”

“Three days now,” Elariel said. “Your legs were damaged, too, so you may feel some aches for another day, I think.”

Three days. Quickheal and bone-break potion—though they were dhak by Order standards—had never worked that fast.

“And Kit?” Gyre said.

“She should be awake before tomorrow.”

Okay. He sat up and met the ghoul’s gaze. She retreated a step, her smile fading, and her long ears drooped. Time for the real question.

“So why are we still alive?”

Elariel looked at him for a moment, saying nothing.

“You must kill anyone who stumbles into your Refuge, or it wouldn’t remain secret,” Gyre pressed.

“No one ‘stumbles in.’ We have had four hundred years to conceal ourselves.” Elariel sighed, her fur rippling. “But you are correct. If the Geraia knew you were here, they would have you killed at once.”

“They’re your leaders?”

She nodded. “The oldest and wisest among us.” Gyre was certain he detected a sarcastic spin on the words. “The heads of all the families who remain in Refuge. They decide any matters that affect the city.”

“And you’re hiding us from them?”