Dee wrapped both hands around Bellamy’s thigh. She pressed down, her grip tightening, her short nails marking shallow crescents in his skin. Blood welled in the wound, squelching wetly between her fingers, but not spilling free. Then stark white light blazed from beneath her hands. Its brilliance was searing. Dee closed her eyes against it, but behind her lids she could still see its negative dancing. Steam rose from the cut, smelling like hot blood and burnt skin. It was like receiving the wound anew, but in reverse: torn muscle knitting itself together one taut cord at a time.
For the healer’s part, she felt only the heat of her healing and the overwhelming gratitude that her powers remained intact. Another benefit of skills gleaned from an interdimensional being, she supposed.
She sat back on her heels. She took a deep breath – the first since her arrival, she was sure – and wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Well?” she asked. “How does it feel?”