Emry had peered at him, warily, through the rain. With his feet planted in the crabgrass he looked for all the world like he was real--but the rain did not take to him, did not seem to soak him, no matter how long he'd been standing there.

"My brother told me I had too many arms, too many heads, and too many wings." Emry had stood, hunched, in the half-twilight, at the edge of a swathe of ashy ground where his truck had been. His brow had tightened, his shoulders squared, indistinguishable from the living version. "He looked at me like I was a monster. A bigger one than he'd ever figured."

In the present time Teige mulled this over. He kilted his shoulders and head to one side, and murmured a slow "Well...you�are�a monster."

Hawk surveyed the steely talons that now capped his right hand with a deep glare. "'Preciate it," he said resentfully. Teige shook his head.

"No, no, no," he said irritably, "Y'know what your problem is, is you're getting 'monster' and 'evil' confused. What you are is a�monster.�A big fucken flying monster who talks to birds and exorcises ghosts. But you also got it in your fool head to walk a couple thousand miles to rescue yer baby sister."

Hawk finally turned his glare on Teige.