"You're not supposed to use it on normal people, Matt," Simon replied softly, changing into the dressing gown. "You know that."

The Night Council would have to take care of it.

"If Lancelot doesn't answer, call the Redbright Institute. The police can't be here. It has to be the Night Council."

Only the Guardians could make it like it hadn't happened.

But it had happened. There was a body on the floor; his hands and face were covered with that man's blood. His parents bore the marks--more superficial than Simon's own wounds, but still there--of their ordeal.

And Matt still treated him like a bomb about to explode.

"I could use a drink," Simon said a bit louder, for his parents' benefit, and his father lit up, happy to see some small hint of his son back. Good. That would make it easier.

As his parents shakily moved toward the kitchen to get him something, Simon knew he had his chance.

He turned back to Matt and said, brusquely, "Sorry."

Then, barefoot and wearing nothing but a thin bathrobe, he ran out into the night.