It takes me a second to realize what he means. My finger’s still bleeding, and I’ve dragged it all over his hand. “Shit. Sorry.” I drop his hand and then grab it again, because I should probably clean it off. I’m not sure with what, though.

But he already has his handkerchief out again and is wiping up my blood while I keep holding his hand, and I don’t know if I should let go or not, but the hallway suddenly feels too narrow and too dark.

“It’s fine,” he says, looking down at me. “A little blood never hurt anyone.”

I drop his hand and step back.

“Can I see the knife?” I ask.

“You’re very curious,” he says.

“I want to learn.”

“Because you don’t know anything.” He steps back and leans against the wall. “I remember what that feels like. I used to love this. But you won’t keep that love if you stay on this path. Having real magic takes the wonder out of illusions.”

He’s turning to Mr. Doom and Gloom and Vague Warnings again. Part of me understands what he means—how it’s more impressive to create the feel of magic than use actual magic—but he’s also wrong. Even knowing it’s magic, there’s the mystery of how it works. I like figuring out what parts are magic and what are illusion, because according to Xander, they’re all a little of both. “You’re not going to show me the knife, are you?”

The blade is out and against my throat before I have time to blink. He steps toward me, but the blade doesn’t move at all. Instinct screams at me to step back, but I don’t. He’s so close that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his stare, feeling the faintest kiss of metal against my skin as I do. His eyes widen.

“I wanted to see the knife, not feel it.”

“It’s not a trick blade.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Impossibly, he takes one step closer, so we’re flush against each other, with his steady hand still holding a weapon against me.

He sighs. “You’re very foolish.”

“You called me brave last night.”

“They’re the same.” His low voice vibrates against me, and it feels almost like the hum of magic.

“You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Because you should be scared. There are no trick blades or rubber bullets in this competition.” He steps back and flips the knife into the air, catching it carefully by the blade before holding the handle out for me to take.

I grab it and press it to his throat.

He folds his arms across his chest.

“Aren’t you going to step away?”

“I’ve been known to be a fool.”

“Tell me why you hate them.”

“Or you’ll stab me?”

“Find out.”