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She smiled. "Good. My magic can still work here. In all honesty, buddy, I didn’t know."

She’s a witch.

She slipped her hands through my fur and set those palms on my shoulder. More power entered me.

My injuries slowly closed beneath her palms.

How could I not sense all of this power in her? She must be good at masking it.

A flush crept up her throat, warm enough that I could smell it. Her breathing shifted, but it wasn’t the tired breath of a healer working too hard. I was pretty sure my magic was having a delicious effect on her too.

Yet. . .her magic worked intelligently, finding what was damaged and repairing it.

Bone.

Organs.

Muscle.

Blood vessels.

My leg trembled as shattered pieces pulled back together.

I stared in awe at this American witch. Her brow furrowed with concentration. Sweat appeared along her temples. Her breathing became heavier.

Still, she continued.

"Come on, ancestors," she whispered. "Heal some more for me, buddy."

I damn near purred.

Little witch.

A healer.

Curious.

Gorgeous.

Foolish enough to kneel beside an eight-tailed predator she could not identify and give him her strength anyway.

Never in eight hundred years had I ever experienced this.

Then I saw another shocking vision.

No. It can’t be. Now. . .I understand it all. . .

A thin, sparkling red thread wrapped around her pinky finger.

Could it be? Now, after. . .all these centuries?

I blinked and then lowered my gaze to my own front paw, holding a red thread on the smallest digit. I stopped breathing and followed my thread’s line, confirming that it connected to hers.

It’s. . .true. . .

The thread glowed brighter.

She didn’t even see it.