Heals an arm

She returned to the burning lab, knowing the asura could use mortal currency to purchase leverage against Naomi. Slashing the safe open, she shoved money and one-kilogram gold bars into it, slowed by poison and her missing arm.
Sirens wailed in the distance, a sound distorted by the swimming in her head. She zipped the bag shut, stumbling from the lab. Blood drops fell like beads from her fingertips, pattering a trail on the floor. It would reduce to black dust once parted from her body a while, but she wasn’t confident she could slip past the police in her state—not while weighed down by the bag.
Shuffling past Tooloo’s headless corpse and up a stairwell, she felt the chamber shift and slumped into a wall.
Blackness covered her vision like a ribbon.
When she came to, voices were rising up the stairwell, beams from their lights cutting through the precious darkness that hid her. I cannot black out again.
Teeth gritting, she ascended the stairs to a floor open to the elements, surrounded by skeletal beams. Wind brushed her loose hair, cooling her sweat-soaked face. Blood now drizzled from her wounds, which wouldn’t clot—perhaps, like a mortal, she’d bleed until she died. The kanaf stitches in her wounds tightened, forcing a grimace, but staunching her blood loss to a drip.
Below, more police cars arrived. They seemed small like toys, but there was no way past them. To shake off this poison, she had to sleep.
Collapsing against a vertical girder and slumping to her knees, she scanned the work area and spotted a stack of unplaced cinder blocks. Too weak now to walk, she was reduced to crawling, leaving behind her a slick of blood and some of her pride. Lying parallel to the stack of cinder blocks, she pulled her remaining fist back, punching a critical block at the base of the heap. It powdered and the stack teetered, heavy blocks dropping atop her. They thudded into her hard, small body, an avalanche that covered her and the duffel bag.
Lying still in her concrete cocoon, she slept.

Chapter 17, Page 271-272


Ryn slept only during the new moon or to heal, but it was always dreamless—her awareness would have sharpened for danger, except Kessler placed her somewhere warm that smelled of him, and her slumber was disturbed only when he bandaged her. His hands startled her and she woke with a snarl, but his scent and clinical ministrations quieted her. Once bandaged, she sank into a fortification of covers.
When dawn’s light touched her eyelids she roused and stretched, Kessler’s coffee mug shattering as it hit the floor. He’d wandered into the bedroom where she stayed and was now transfixed on her regrown arm.
“You didn’t put me in jail,” Ryn whispered, unsure why. He was police now and it was what his tribe did—police were for jailing lawbreakers, as surely as she was for killing monsters.
“Your arm.” He still gaped. “I thought—”
“Are you not honorable?” She’d thought Kessler unlike other mortals—capable of being one thing, unchanging, of having no duplicity; closer to her kind than his own. “Why am I not jailed?”

Chapter 18, Page 278