His fingers grope at his bloody shirt, and then he rips it open. Buttons clink around me as he exposes his chest. Removing a clean handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes the blood away from where his wound should be.

There’s nothing but smooth skin.

I still grip his lapel like I’m a part of this, like I’m his good assistant pulling open the curtain at just the right moment to complete the trick.

He turns his grin on me before I can drop my hand and get away. I freeze, staring at the blood in his teeth—the perfect touch, just like the breaking glass. It adds the bit of flair that makes your stomach plummet and leaves you cold for the briefest moment before you appreciate the brilliance of it all.

Something flickers in his eyes. I realize a second too late it’s resolve. He’s not done.

He lifts a hand to my still outstretched arm and yanks free one of my daggers.

“Don’t.” I barely get the word out, leaning closer to him to stop him from plunging it inside himself. The body can only take so much healing.

Instead, he shoves the knife hilt-deep in my stomach.

It rips into me and lodges itself there as I fall back on my heels. Vaguely I’m aware of him getting to his feet, trading places with me, leaving me to bleed for his show.

“Pull the knife out,” someone yells. It’s a man’s voice. Through the fog building in my head, I can’t be sure if it’s Roman or Xander. Maybe neither.

Not Ethan, though. He takes his bow in a blur of white above me. The magicians erupt in vicious applause.

I watch my own hand fasten around the white hilt of the knife. It’s funny almost. My black clothes hide the blood. It could almost be a trick knife if you didn’t know any better. But I can feel the blood, warm and sticky. Maybe the crowd thinks it’s a trick knife. I slump backward, twisting my legs underneath me as I go. My movement jars the knife, and I cry out, but the hungry cheers swallow it. I turn my head toward the crowd and realize that they know it’s not a trick. They just don’t care. This is what they’ve been yearning for—something they haven’t seen before. Death played out for entertainment.

Except I can heal. I don’t have to die. I don’t even care if it’s blood magic—I just want the pain to stop.

I tighten my grip and slide the knife out of me just as Xander’s face looms in front of mine.

My hand crashes to the side, and the knife clatters.

“Okay, good,” Xander says. His face wars with itself to stay calm. “Now heal. Do it yourself or you’ll look weak.”