At some point he'd turned his head to face the shape of Emry's body in the grass. The fire beyond that was so bright Hawk could barely make out more than silhouettes. Someone was screaming, desperate, enraged.

Emry sat up, feeling at his neck, as though he'd merely been knocked silly for a moment. Silvers of bright, livid red ran down his forearms, what little Hawk could see of them. Emry turned to look at Hawk, his face darkened by the blaze behind him.

"Why don't you get up?" he asked.

Hawk didn't move. "Em, I can't," he murmured. "I'm dead."

Emry turned his face a bit so that the firelight fell across it, illuminating his dark eyes, his sneer. The place on his throat and shoulder that had been split open was full of the same neon red light that had been on his arms, and a plume of noise was rising from it, distorting the light of the fire somehow.

"Excuses, excuses," Emry said coldly. "Alexei Hawk Press, you get up right now and go help your sister."

Hawk woke with a gasp. He scrambled to sit up, breathing as though he'd run a mile; the thin blanket that had been covering him fell away around his wings. The trailer was filled with a cold blue light that was streaming in from somewhere outside in the night. He'd been sleeping on the floor where he had room to rest his wings, using his bag as a pillow.

Teige slept on the small couch beside Hawk, flat on his back, one hand on his chest almost where the old bloodstains spattered his shirt and its elastic band. He didn't stir as Hawk leaned against the cushions near his head, breathing hard.

"God," Hawk whispered. "Why's it gettin' worse--"

"Nightmares?" someone asked behind him, innocuously.