He lets out a breath. “I can try to help you. The truth, though, is that Pretha and I know nothing about mortals who have magic—or how the magic works with you.”
“Why would it be different?”
His brows raise. “Because you are different.” He walks forward and grabs my arm. He draws a fingertip from the inside of my elbow down to my wrist, just above where I hold the ball of shadow. A matching shiver shimmies down my spine.
His eyes lift and meet mine, and his lips part. For a moment I think he feels it too—the pulsing energy between us, this awareness that makes me feel more awake and alive than I ever have. It’s only the magic, I tell myself, but I am a terrible liar.
He drags his fingertip across my skin again, and I take slow, measured breaths and wish he’d release me. He would if I asked—I’m sure of it—but I refuse to let on that he affects me.
“What happens if I cut you?” he asks.
“I bleed.”
He nods. “And if you heal, your body will make more blood as you recover. But if the cut is too wide, too deep, if you bleed too much and cannot produce new blood fast enough to pump through your veins and tend to your body, you die.”
“I’m familiar with how it works,” I grouse.
He glowers. He traces that line again, and this time I can’t hold back the shiver. “Magic is like blood for the fae.”
“I don’t understand. You don’t bleed?” That can’t be right. I’ve seen Sebastian bleed—tended to some of his minor wounds myself at times.
“We bleed, but it’s the magic in our blood that heals us, the magic that keeps us alive, not the blood itself. Your blood gives you life. Our magic gives us life.” His gaze drops to my mouth, and my breath catches.
He releases my arm as suddenly as he grabbed it, and he backs away. Looking out the window, he drags a hand through his hair. He pulls it away from his face, tying it back like he’s getting ready to spar. “It’s not a perfect analogy, but it’s the best I have. Magic isn’t infinite. It’s tied to our life source, and we have to learn what our capacity is so we don’t overtax ourselves. But like blood regenerates after you lose a small amount, a faerie’s magic should regenerate. How much a faerie can lose and regenerate without weakening depends on their power.”
“What happens when a faerie bleeds too much power too fast?”
“In most cases, we would pass out before doing long-term damage, but if the magic is spent in an intentional, violent draining—” He turns back to me, and there’s something like grief in those beautiful eyes.
“If it’s spent too quickly, a faerie can die from using her magic?”
“It’s a choice. A magical act so great and so dear to the faerie that the cost is considered worth it.”
“Do you think I could die if I used too much magic too fast?”
He tilts his head to the side and studies me. “You haven’t begun to find the depths of your power.”
The shadow in my hand pops like a bubble and disintegrates.
Finn looks me up and down and shakes his head, disgust all over his face. “For someone who holds such a gift, it’s almost impressive how little of it you use. Your power is as vast as the ocean, and you’re limiting yourself to what you can hold in your hand.”
“I was doing what Pretha asked me to do.”
“You were failing,” he growls, his nostrils flaring.
“What do you want with me?” I cling to my annoyance. I’m much more comfortable with this animosity between us than I am with those . . . other feelings he inspires. “Are you here to help or just to put me down?”
He folds his arms. “Fine. Show me what you can do. And none of that handful of darkness nonsense. Impress me.” When I turn up my palms to signal that I don’t know how to do anything impressive, he huffs. “The room is half shadow. There’s plenty to work with here. Stop overthinking it and just show me.”
Stepping away from the light, I focus and try to disappear, managing only to make my fingers fade in and out of existence. But I feel it—I always feel it when he’s close—the power just simmering in my blood, begging to burst free. “Tell me how.”
“You’re fighting it. Just let it come.”
I stare at my hand and try . . . not to try. When the darkness flickers again, I growl in frustration. “I think I might actually be getting worse.”
“I have an idea,” he says, looking out the window. “Follow me.”