“My dad is a Lion,” I blurt out the moment I think it. “Damn it!” I yell, and smack the table, nearly losing my balance and toppling to the floor.

“A Lion,” she says, sucking in air, and there is a dangerous tone in her voice. “You thought I would help a Lion.” She pulls a slender dagger off her belt.

I take a stumbling step backward, trying to think my way through the disorientation. I now deeply regret not telling Aarya and Ash where I was going. “I can’t believe I protected your location.” And now I’ve just said that out loud. I’m so frustrated, I could scream.

“Meaning what? That no one knows where you are?” she says, the corners of her mouth pulling up in a terrifying smile.

“Exactly,” I respond, getting more upset by the second.

“Come to think of it,” she says, looking around her room, “there are ingredients I’m running low on.” She gestures at her glass bottles. “You may do nicely in that regard.”

For a second, I don’t move; I can’t even think how to react. My mind wants to reject her words and convince myself that she didn’t say she wanted to use me for tinctures or poisons or whatever sick things she makes in here. My eyes flit to the copious jars of dried ingredients on her shelves; I’m suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. I look back at the apothecary, who runs her finger along the edge of her dagger thoughtfully.

Sweat beads along my hairline. “Look,” I say, desperately trying to focus on something to say that doesn’t reveal my dad. “I get why you’re not leaping at the chance to help me.”

“I’m not helping you,” she says, correcting me.

“But you’re wrong,” I say, and shake my head, angry with myself.

“I find that exceedingly unlikely,” she says, taking a step forward.

“Will you stop?” I say. “Will you just stop coming at me with that dagger for one minute? I can’t think and I can’t tell you what I need to tell you.”

“Your not being able to think isn’t my problem,” she says, unmoved by my ramblings.

I brace myself, trying to navigate my thoughts past my fear. “You’re wrong that it’s not worth helping me,” I repeat, trying to gain my bearings.

“Of that, I am not convinced,” she says.

“I’m not who you think I am. I’m a Bear,” I say, my brain fighting itself to come up with anything that doesn’t sound like it was concocted by a first grader. Whatever she gave me took away my ability to filter and reason.

“Someone who has a Lion father is not a Bear,” she says.