Port Siena ended at the sea in the form of wharfs and small inns; beyond lay the vast and glittering ocean. Hawk banked over the boardwalks, looking for the longest pier he could see. A draft of hot air, as though from a fire, caught his wings, and he drifted higher.

He landed at the end of a long and unoccupied pier. It was breezy and none too hot--perfect weather for flying. He looped the strap of his bag over his head and dragged his wing through it, fumbling in it at the same time for his radio and half of a squashed baguette. The bread he stuck in his mouth as he clicked the radio on. It gargled static.

He tore off a chunk of bread, tuning the radio absently. There wasn't much of a chance now to find any more food before he left, and he knew very well that the bread wasn't enough, but...god, he was hungry.

Above the static he thought he heard hooves clopping softly on the cement behind him, and felt a soft rush of air against his neck separate from the breeze. Just then, the static subsided and a fuzzy voice rose.

"--ituation at the 41st Pier in Port Siena, near the seafront inn," it said, "where several large demons have set fire to two police cars..."

The voice was buried under static that popped and squealed. Hawk looked up to see a helicopter hovering over the ocean, rotors thudding.

"kkshhhhey Isle Response Unit is on the scene," the voice went on, and Hawk turned to look behind him.

"Holy shit," he murmured.