Almost instantly, the feathers and striped skin and talons burst away from Hawk's arm; half of it dissolved into light, leaving only a smattering of stray feathers and the hard tips of the talons. Hawk felt at his throat and turned his right arm this way and that, unsettled, but every part of him had gone completely back to normal without issue.

The leftover feathers were blowing gently away from the balcony. Hawk leaned over the railing to see them drift down along the walls, into the darkness, and muttered, "Aw, shit."

Numair had fallen asleep half-propped up in bed, with a little notebook open in his lap and a pen still barely held in his lax fingers. A lamp glowed wanly on the shelf above his head, and he snored softly.

Suddenly he jerked awake, as if someone had clapped next to his head; he sat up instinctually, rumpled and bleary-eyed and confused.

"Oh, sorry. Did I wake you up?"