“Nearly home,” Memnon says, striding through the woods.

“You mean to your house,” I correct him tiredly.

He’s quiet, contemplative, at that, and I don’t know what to make of the mood. I’m so used to Memnon being pushy and conniving and angry with me, it’s unsettling to see this side of him. It’s the side I remember from long ago, but even then, it was always offset by his thirst for war.

We step out of the forest and onto a street, and Memnon leads us down it.

Up ahead, lampposts partially illuminate a massive house. There looks to be tarps on the roof, and whole segments of the house are nothing more than exposed wood or bare drywall. Despite its half-finished state, a warm, inviting glow comes from within.

“Is this the house I burned down?” I ask as we approach it. Between the darkness and the fire damage, I hardly recognize it.

“It is.” Amusement drips from his voice.

I pull away a little and take him in. “You sound proud of that fact.”

“I am.” Memnon glances at me. A tendril of his magic slips out then, the strand of it curling against my cheek. “Your ferocity is attractive, Empress, even when it’s focused on me.”

“You are unhinged,” I say, but my words lack bite.

Memnon lets out a self-assured laugh. “We make a particularly terrifying pair,” he admits, heading up the driveway of the house.

My stomach flutters at the idea of us as a unit before pushing the thought away. My gaze goes to Nero—wounded, agonized Nero. My panther’s eyes are shut, and his body is still limp. One glance into his mind and it’s clear he’s temporarily unconscious.

Memnon has been so reassuring that Nero will be okay that I’ve let down my guard. But now my guard is back up, and my earlier panic has returned.

The sorcerer’s magic unfurls ahead of us, and the front door swings open, and the lights inside flick on. Memnon strides straight into the house, heading toward the living room as the door swings shut behind us.

I peer curiously at his house. The walls bear no signs that they were incinerated not so long ago, but there’s still a faint scent of smoke that clings to the space, as though it’s soaked into the very bones of this structure. A couple of the walls are bare panels of drywall, and the ceiling above us is partially gone, exposing wood beams and some electrical wiring. All in all, however, it could be much worse.

“How did you fix this place so quickly?” I ask. I don’t even see scorch marks on the remaining walls or the floor.

“Magic and money,” Memnon admits. “It’s still very much a work in progress.”

A plush dog bed lies in the living room, next to a couch that looks new. Memnon sets me down on the couch, then carefully lays Nero out onto the dog bed.

My familiar doesn’t so much as stir.

It’s that lack of reaction that breaks whatever was keeping me together. I move off the couch and toward my familiar. Immediately, my eyesight darkens, and my legs fold.

I must black out, at least for a few moments, because when I blink my eyes, Memnon is holding me upright.

“No sudden movements, sweet mate,” he says. “You’re still badly injured.” Gently, he lowers me to the ground next to Nero, then squats in front of me. He gives me a stern look. “I will tend to Nero first, because I can sense your insistence, but you’re not going to move. When I’m done with him, you’re going to let me treat your wounds too. Deal?”

If he is capable of healing Nero, I’ll agree to just about anything.

“Deal,” I say softly.

Memnon nods, then pivots away from me and settles himself in front of Nero.

The night hid many of the big cat’s wounds from me, but under the bright lights of Memnon’s living room, it’s easy to see the extent of the damage. His belly and flank have been repeatedly sliced into, and the flesh around the cuts looks bubbled and mangled. Despite all my earlier spellcasting, the wounds still weep blood, along with a tar-black substance I recognize as dark magic. I can feel an echo of my familiar’s pain, and it seizes up my chest, making me draw in shallow breaths.

Memnon pets Nero as he looks him over, and the big cat licks what he can of the sorcerer’s arm. The sight has me biting back a sob.

“The curses he was struck with are still in him, preventing him from healing,” Memnon finally says.

Cursework is a complicated art. The Romans used to love them, but it was Memnon’s paternal side, the Moche people of South America, who were truly skilled at it. Particularly the royal family. Memnon’s father taught it to him, and now, when my soul mate closes his eyes and speaks low, the old Mochica language rolls over me like a lullaby, though I understand little of it.

The indigo magic that leaves Memnon’s hands and enters Nero is luminous. I watch it disappear beneath Nero’s matted fur, then wait.

Within seconds, oily magic starts to pour out of Nero’s festering wounds as Memnon’s magic purges it from my familiar’s body. As it leaves, it begins to sizzle away. The process takes minutes, but it feels like a small eternity.

Once the last of the dark magic leaves Nero’s body, Memnon spends minutes more healing the big panther. The sliced muscle and sinew reform, the bubbled flesh smooths out, and the skin seals itself up until Nero is whole again.

I slip into the panther’s mind, just briefly, and I can sense his renewed vitality. His body is still sore, and he’s very weak, but he’ll be all right.

I retreat back into my own head, shuddering out a breath.

“You did it,” I say to Memnon. “You saved him.” Disbelief coats my words.

I knew my mate could do it, yet there had been a time earlier tonight when I was certain I was about to lose my familiar.

Memnon turns to me, his eyes dropping to my cheeks. He reaches out and wipes away a couple spare tears I hadn’t realized I’d shed. “You would’ve figured it out too, est amage,” he says quietly.

I catch his wrist and brush a kiss against his knuckles, then press his hand to my cheek. “Thank you,” I say sincerely.

Memnon’s gaze flitters all over my face before he inclines his head. “Nero’s lost a lot of blood, so don’t be worried if he sleeps longer than usual or he’s a bit tired for another day or so. I will set out a flank of lamb and some water for him in a little bit so he’ll have something to eat when he wakes.

Memnon turns to me. “Now,” he says, and his tone changes. “Let me see your wounds.”

I glance down at my shredded shirt. Beneath the torn material, I can make out lines of scabs. It’s a strange sight, almost as though I have tiger stripes, only these were made by spells, then cauterized when I offered my blood to the entity beneath the earth. There’s a deeper cut on my belly, and I know my back must be a mess; it took the brunt of the hits. I can feel more dried blood on my face and hairline from the final curse Yasmin threw at me.

Memnon runs his fingers lightly over my skin. Again I hear him murmur in Mochica.

His magic moves like a lover across my flesh, and the way it ripples right now looks like the surface of the ocean. It sinks into my body, and every injury it touches heats. To my shock and horror, beads of black, oily magic push through my wounds.

I hadn’t realized some of the curses that struck me earlier were still lingering inside me.

I watch the oily magic burn away into vapor, then nothing at all.

“I used dark magic,” I admit softly. I chew the inside of my cheek. It’s not the first time I’ve done so either. I used it when I fought Memnon the night of the dance, and I used it the night of the spell circle. I hadn’t realized it, and I definitely hadn’t meant to, but it’s become a habit.

Fuck, it’s been a habit since before this life.

Memnon glances up from my skin. “You used your gods-given power to retaliate against those who harmed your familiar. It was justified.”