Roman glances around and grabs a stump of driftwood, dragging it backward to the edge of the cliff and propping it against the jagged rock. He nods to Willow, who steps over to him and reaches one glowing hand in the air, leaving her light floating there like she’s a goddess hanging stars. She puts the other one ten paces back, next to me. I resist the urge to touch it and see if it’s hot like a light bulb that’s been on for too long or if it burns like the magic in my palms the night before.

Roman holds a knife in his hand until it glows red-hot before running it in an X across the driftwood, leaving charred wood in his wake.

My hands tingle, ready. As Roman steps away, I lean down and yank a knife from my boot, tossing it almost before I’m even upright again. It hits the center of his X with a dull thud.

Willow claps, making my blood sing.

I try to keep smugness off my face and fail.

“Again.” There’s no hint of praise in Roman’s voice.

I pull another knife from my boot. This time I twirl it around my fingers, the same way Xander twirls his cards—until suddenly metal clangs against metal, and my knife falls to my feet while a slim, white-handled knife buries itself hilt deep in the sand just a yard away.

“What the hell?”

Roman hasn’t moved an inch, but one of the knives at his wrist is gone.

“You could have hit me.”

“Yes. And it would have been good practice for you too.”

Willow gapes between us, shifting in the sand from foot to foot. She throws me an apologetic look as Roman strides toward me and removes his knife from the sand. He doesn’t pick up mine while he’s at it.

“Stop playing with your knives like they’re cards. You’re too good for that.”

I ignore the subtle dig at Xander. “The audience loves it.”

“A vampire’s going to love it too when you give it time to rip your throat out. You’re dipping your toes in the lake of your power like you’re a child playing in a puddle. The lake will swallow you if you don’t know how to swim.”

My cheeks flush. I doubt he realizes how personal the metaphor is to me given that I really don’t know how to swim. I certainly won’t tell him.

He seems to be waiting for me to argue with him. I don’t.

“Back up ten steps.”

I back up until wet, crisp sand greets my toes. Any more and I will be in the water.

I hesitate. The throw is farther than I’ve ever tried.

“Do it.”