I’d feel a lot better if his hands were out at his sides. If they were, and I missed, then the bullet would just dig into the side of the stage, and the only thing lost would be my pride. But he’s raising the stakes. He also better hope the bullets don’t sail through his palm and into his chest. I want to ask him if he’s even done this before. He must have. He’d be a fool to try something new right now.

I cradle the gun in both hands. One loosely gripped around the handle, the other a resting point for the barrel. I’m pretty sure it’s not how you’re supposed to carry a gun.

“Now, Ava,” Ethan orders.

I let the gun drop to my side, weighing it there before I lift it.

It wobbles, foreign and unwieldy. Not at all like my knives, which fit the curves of my hands and warm almost immediately to the temperature of my body.

I almost toss the gun and walk away from this. Instead, I rest my finger on the trigger, take aim, and pull, realizing a moment too late that I should have tried to use magic to guide the bullet. He probably expected me to.

I miss.

CHAPTER 25

I swear his hands dropped two inches lower the moment before I pulled the trigger—too late for me to adjust my aim.

I hit him straight in the chest, and blood blooms across his white shirt.

Our audience gasps, and a few people cackle with glee.

His knees hit the stage with a thud the same time the gun thwacks from me dropping it. I dart forward, skidding to my own knees beside him.

Even though he’s still upright, his head slumps against his chest.

I grab his arm. “Ethan.” I shake him. “Ethan.”

I can’t hear the audience. Either they aren’t making a sound or the buzzing in my head is drowning everything out except for my own gasping breath.

“Wake up!” I yell. I scan the crowd of onlookers. Some gape. Some wear slight smiles, like this is part of some marvelous trick. Only three people move. Xander pushes through the crowd to my left with Aristelle trailing behind him. Roman’s making his way along the side. Willow stands with Nadine two rows back, both frozen.

My hand is wet. Blood seeps through the lapel I’m holding on to.

He’s not healing. Some wounds are too difficult to heal. You can’t control your magic when you’re losing consciousness. It’s why most magicians choose less deadly illusions to play with, Roman had told me.

Suddenly, Ethan’s head snaps up, and he grins with blood in the cracks of his white teeth—a mirror of his jacket.