" He opens one bottle and holds it out to me. ‘Drink this one.’

Inside is a milky blue liquid with what looks like thin slivers of glass floating in it. Surely he doesn’t mean for me to drink glass. ‘Am I going to regret consuming its contents?’

‘No. But I imagine you’ll still call me every expletive you can possibly think of.’ He presses it into my palm.

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’ I sniff the vial and scrunch up my nose at a sharp tang that burns my nostrils. Like something that might come out of my chemistry set. ‘Ugh! What’s in this? It smells vile.’

‘I knew a human girl once. She was stubborn, like you. Refused to drink the paltry contents of that bottle, like you . . .’ He pauses for dramatic effect. ‘And she died a horrible, painful death – torturous, really – because she wouldn’t take my advice.’

I scrutinise him. ‘There was no girl who died, was there?’

‘There will be if you don’t drink what’s in that damned bottle. "

― Elizabeth May , The Falconer (The Falconer, #1)