And matters weren't being helped by Amaya—she was a continuous scream echoing through the outer reaches of my thoughts, and the Dušan was writhing up and down my arm, the movements somewhat disturbing and definitely furious. Neither of them, it seemed, was happy about my sudden retreat.
Not that I particularly cared. I couldn't fight if I was all glued up, and I had no intention of landing in the hands of the Raziq—I had no doubt that was who'd sent those things. For whatever reason, they didn't seem prepared to get their hands dirty trying to capture me, be it here or on the fields.
I released Amaya, then tried to get up, but with both my left arm and leg out of action, it was decidedly awkward. Eventually, I skewed myself around until my back was pressed against the wall, then did a sideways sit-up. I poked the white substance warily; it had set like rock, and made an odd, almost hollow sound when I tapped it. I dug my fingernails under one end and tried to break it away from my clothes, with little success.
I reached for Amaya and pressed her point lightly against the muck gluing my leg. Her hissing dropped several octaves—becoming more a grumbling sound, as if she was reluctantly obeying my unspoken need—and the flames dancing down her sides ran across the mass of white. The pungent scent of burning flesh began to infuse the air. It wasn't my flesh burning but the white substance. It might look and work like glue, but it obviously wasn't.
After several more minutes, the glue had disappeared, leaving only a powdery white stain on my jeans. I repeated the process on my arm, but this time, the powdery substance had chewed through my sweater and the skin underneath had a pink sheen, almost as if it had been burned.
I pushed myself to my feet, but the room spun and I had to grab at the wall to stop myself from falling. Heat shimmered around me; then Azriel appeared, quickly catching my other arm and holding me steady.
"You need to sit," he said.
"No," I replied, swallowing bile as sweat broke out on my brow. "I need to stay right here. Otherwise, I'm going to throw up all over your boots."
"These boots are part of the illusion I wear, so it would not matter."
"Which doesn't mean they won't get ruined when I vomit all over them."
It was a nonsense conversation, but right then I just needed to get my mind off the pain and dizziness. Slamming my soul in and out of my body like that had not been one of my brightest decisions, and I doubted I would repeat it anytime soon.
"Well, yes," he said equably, "but the point is, I can regenerate the boots—and the body."
"Does that mean you don't scar?"
"Do you see the wound from the silver bullet I took?"
My gaze swept over him, although I knew all I'd see was warm, suntanned flesh. "That's a skill I need."