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“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 myfamiliar’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 feelmore 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 sincebeforethis life.

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

It did seem justified, but it doesn’t make me feel better about using it.

The sorcerer must sense my lingering unease because he adds, “We have both used such magic many, many times. It is…tainted, but powerful.”

I peer at Memnon, my eyes lingering on his scar. “What do you think it’s tainted with?” I ask, fearing the answer. I’ve heard all the stories about dark magic, the most famous of which is the Law of Three—using it will curse you three times as badly as the original act. But mostly, supernaturals don’t speak of dark magic. And now that I’ve used it a few times, I’m starting to worry.

Memnon shakes his head, his eyes dropping to the last of the curse as it dissolves away. “I don’t know.”

After a pause, I admit, “I heard a voice.”