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“No?” Jason’s brows arch as he studies me, maybe surprised by my vehemence. Yeah, yeah, I overreacted.

“I mean, there’s no sign of that. He’s au naturel, right?” I lift my hands, going for innocence. “Just what I heard.”

You’d think I’d appreciate the fatality of carelessness by now. In the West, you’re careful or you’re fucking dead, or worse—see prior notes on the fucked-uppery of magic.

End of story.

Jason shrugs his humped shoulders. “Dunno. The Rogue’s pretty impressive either way.”

“For sure.” I nod, tension unwinding from muscles I didn’t realize had tightened. Once again, it’s like we’re discussing someone else, a common hero of the broken.

I fucking love it.

Jason hums. “We all aspire to be that good at something.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” God knows I aspired hard, worked even harder. Suffered. Ran. Climbed. Learned. Lost. Chased. Conquered—and tasted defeat twice for every win. I didn’t get this way through luck of the draw.

My life, like any clever card trick, is meticulously planned and executed to look absolutely effortless. But it’s all paid off in the end, ain’t it?

Clang, clang, clang!

The harsh jangle of bells behind me announces a new arrival to the bar. And it ain’t a regular, since we all know to open that door soft so it doesn’t sound like a herd of cows just busted through.

Oooh.

Jason glances up, and I turn. No way a curious fucker like me is gonna not look. Three girls march in—roughly my age, around twenty-six—dressed up too much for this bar, and from the glow on their faces and the swagger in their walk, they’re already a few drinks into the night.

“Can you put the game on?” the one in the middle asks, slurring slightly. She’s the tallest, dark skin and hair, with full curves and rounded eyes. Her skinny blonde companions pale to semitranslucent ghosts in comparison.

“Game?” Jason’s brows lift. “Like, hockey? Bruins?”

“Sure.” The smaller of the two blondes giggles as she slides onto the stool next to mine. She sways, and I put out a hand to catch her automatically. It’s barely nine on a Tuesday, so I’m guessing these gals got a story.

Maybe they do belong at this bar. We all got stories here, regulars or not.

She giggles again and tilts her head up to bat her lashes. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Now, I may be a shady fuck of a Rogue bastard—with a résumé of unsolved crimes to prove it—but I am not shitty enough to take advantage of a drunk girl. I mean, she is kind of my ideal audience. I’m just not gonna steal anything from her. Or make like any typical dude and try to sleep with her.

My cards slide into my fingers like they’re actually magic, which they’re not, of course. They’re a three-dollar find at a curio shop in Miami Beach. “You want to see a trick?”

“Ooh, a magic trick?”

I hold my smile carefully. “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

Her eyes go round—they’re blue. She’s cute, if a bit pale and washed out. “Real magic? Western magic?”

Western magic. Like some trademark tourist draw. I ignore the way those barbed words strike against my soul, threaten to dredge up memories buried deep in my past. Western magic, nah.

Dark magic, she means.

But I don’t say that.

“Nope. No magic here.” I let the cards riffle between my hands in a smooth shuffle. Feels so damn good having those bad boys back in action. “And I can’t do that earth magic shit. You gotta have a gene for that or something, right?”

“I dunno.” She shifts on her stool to turn her body toward me. “So, what are you, then?”

“Talent and practice.” I give her a wink and my trademark dimpled smile, and when she smiles in return, I know it doesn’t matter what my fingers do, what words I say. I’ve got her like a fish on a hook. I extend my hands between us, holding out the deck in a wide fringe. “Pick a card, any card.”