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“No. I’m not sick. It was the DTs.”

“So you said. I’m not clear on what that is, though.”

“Withdrawal.” He rubbed at his arms, thinking it wasn’t over yet. His skin was itching and his lungs were burning as if they needed air, even though they had it.

What they wanted, he knew, was red smoke.

“Is there a bathroom through there?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Will you wait for me? I won’t be long. I’m just going to wash.”

It will be longer than her lifetime before you return cleansed, the wizard said.

Phury closed his eyes, abruptly losing the strength to move.

“What is it?”

Tell her your old mate is back.

Tell her your old mate is never leaving.

And then let’s get over to the real world and get what will take care of that tight feeling in your lungs and that itching all over your skin.

“What is it?” Cormia asked again.

Phury took a deep breath. He didn’t know much at the moment, barely his own name, and certainly not who the president of the United States was. But he was sure about one thing: If he listened to the wizard anymore, he was going to be dead.

Phury focused on the female before him. “It’s nothing.”

That didn’t go down well in wasteland. The wizard’s robes blew up as a wind came barreling in over the field of bones.

You lie to her! I am everything! I am everything! The wizard ’s voice was high-pitched and getting higher. I am—

“Nothing,” Phury said weakly, hefting himself to his feet. “You are nothing.”

“What?”

As he shook his head, Cormia reached out to him, and he steadied himself with her help. Together, they walked into the bath, which was kitted out like any other save for the fact that there wasn’t a logo on the toilet. Well, that and there was a stream running right through the back of the room—which he presumed served as the bath.

“I’ll be right outside,” Cormia said, leaving him to it.

After using the loo, he waded into the stream with the help of a set of marble stairs. The water rushing by was as it had been in the glass, a current precisely the temperature of his skin. Over in a dish in the corner, there was a bar of what he assumed was soap, and he picked it up. It was soft, shaped in the form of a crescent; he cradled the bar in his palms and submersed his hands in the water. The suds that formed were tight and small, a froth that smelled of evergreens. He used it on his hair and his face and his body, breathing in so the scent went down into his lungs— and hopefully could cleanse them of the centuries of self-medication he’d been sucking in deep.

When he was done, he just let the water run past his itching skin and his aching muscles. Closing his eyes, he shut the wizard off as best he could, but it was tough because the guy was throwing a tantrum of nuclear proportions. In his old life, he would have put opera on, but now he couldn’t—and not just because Bose didn’t exist on this side. That particular kind of music reminded him too much of his twin . . . who wasn’t singing anymore.

Still, the sound of the stream was lovely, its soft, musical chiming echoing up from the smooth stones as if the noise were skipping from one to another.

Not wanting to keep Cormia waiting, he planted his soles on the riverbed and lifted his upper body out of the rush. The water sluiced off his chest and down his stomach, like soothing hands, and, lifting his arms up, he felt it drop from his fingers and his elbows.

Running down . . . pouring down . . . easing down . . .

The wizard’s voice tried to rise up and take over. Phury heard it in his head, fighting for airtime, fighting to find purchase in his inner ear.

But the chiming of water was louder.

Phury drew in a great breath, smelling the evergreen and feeling a freedom that had nothing to do with where his body was, and everything to do with where his head was at.

For the first time, the wizard was not bigger than he was.

Cormia paced around the Primale temple. Not ill. In withdrawal.

Not ill.

She stopped at the foot of the bedding platform.

She remembered being strapped down