William shifts the goruchel’s body with one hand, hitching her upright so that he can wrap his other hand solidly around her waist. “Hold out your hand. I can’t do it all, but I can start healing the worst of it. Close the lacerations at least.”

I hold my hand out until our fingertips touch. His eyebrows fold into each other, his eyes close, and his teeth grit with the effort, but he manages to pull aether from the air around his left hand while maintaining his armor. It looks like a lot of effort to do both. Then I feel the familiar cool sensation of William’s healing aether slip into my palm and travel up my arm and elbow, flow into my shoulder, and settle beneath my jaw, relieving my pain. The wounds from Kizia’s claws begin to close.

My entire body grows warm with healing, and William’s fingers withdraw. He pulls back to better hold the demon in place, panting slightly with fresh sweat beading at his brow.

“That was too much.” My voice is still hoarse but it’s nowhere near as excruciating to speak. “You’ll overextend yourself—”

“I am still a healer.” His voice is hard and sure, like he needs to remind himself, not just me.

I stare at my friend for a moment, fully processing what he’s saying. William is a healer to his very core. It’s who he is. The strength? The fighting? That’s just what he does. What he must do. He doesn’t enjoy battle the way Selwyn or Nick do. The way Greer does, or even Tor. How must it feel to hold death in one hand and restoration in the other?

There’s crashing in the woods behind us, and irate shouting. “Shut up!” Sel barks in a voice made of steel and rage.

He clears the tree line, dragging a struggling Jonas on the ground behind him by his shirt collar. As he approaches, I see a glint of metal in his belt. The other dagger. Sel stops about ten feet away and swings Jonas loose onto the ground in front of us.

The older man falls forward on his hands and knees, wracked by a coughing fit. At first, I think it’s because Sel had dragged him around by his shirt tight against his throat, but that’s not it, because when Jonas sits back, the coughs keep coming. They turn wet in his chest. His eyes are bloodshot, his face flushed.

Sel crosses his arms. “Hoping Jonas here will stop hacking up a fucking lung long enough to tell us why he tried to kill Bree and why there was a goruchel-mimic in his house.” His amber eyes flick to the demon on the ground and to William. “If she moves—”

“We need to question her, too,” William says.