“I can’t believe you were going to let a kid test this,” I hiss.

He’s staring at the drop of blood on my finger like he’s just as surprised as I am.

He clears his throat. “Well, I wasn’t going to suggest they actually try to cut themselves.”

He pulls the knife back from me.

“Don’t do this at home,” he says to his audience. “Unless I’m in your home, of course.”

The kids laugh, but he doesn’t.

He holds out his empty hand, palm down, and then slowly places the knife, which still has my blood on it, directly above it. He looks straight at the audience as he pushes the knife slowly through his hand and then pulls it back out again.

No one claps. He takes a black handkerchief out of the pocket of his slacks and dabs away the tiny amount of blood, or what looks like blood, on each side of his hand.

I don’t know where the knife went, and I’m not sure if he tucked it away without my notice or if he made it disappear.

“More?” he asks calmly.

Most of the kids are chattering and pressing in closer to get a better look. But there are two girls with their fingers over their eyes and a boy in the back who looks like he might cry.

Deb’s pulling at the collar of her shirt. She gives me a wide-eyed, pleading look.

Grabbing Roman’s hand, I tug him away. The kids are standing up like they’re going to follow him and ask to see him stab his knife somewhere else, so I pull him past Xander’s glare and Willow’s clapping and past the entryway and into the downstairs hallway that’s always a little too dark.

“Time for cake,” Deb hollers. If anything can steal the attention of twelve-year-olds, it’s cake.

Good. I stare at Roman. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, looking down at me.

“That was a little much,” I say.

“They seemed to like it.” He pauses. “So did you.”

I bite my lip. It’s true. It reminded me of David Blaine pushing an ice pick through his hand with people standing right next to him. He didn’t have blood as part of his trick, though. Roman’s was more dramatic.

“Can I see your hand?” I ask.

He seems surprised, but he unfolds his arms and pushes off the wall to stand closer to me. He holds out his hand, palm up. I stare at it without touching at first, but I can’t resist. I grab his fingers and pull it closer to my face before flipping it over to look at the other side. There’s blood on it.

I look up like I’ve caught him at something.

“I think that belongs to you,” he murmurs.