Aligning himself on the half-broken chimney he’d used as a landmark, Gyre slipped the glove onto his right hand and leaned over the edge. The soles of his feet tingled furiously, as though they expected the tiles to tip him over at any moment. He groped until his grasping fingers found what they were looking for: a cable, about as thick as his thumb, heavy and slick in his grip and so translucent that it was barely visible.

“Just grab hold and step off,” he said. “Grip tighter if you’re going too fast. If I’ve set this up right, we should be fine.” It had taken him most of the afternoon to arrange, climbing the outside of the Wreckage in a shadowy corner.

“Clever,” Kit said, another broad grin spreading across her bloody face. “Very clever.”

“Well.” Gyre felt more pleased at her smile than he probably should have. “I don’t like to go anywhere without an emergency exit. Always prepared.”

Footsteps sounded behind the door, and he heard angry voices.

“You want me to go first?” Gyre said. “If I plummet to my death, you can take your chances with them.”

“I’ll go first.” She pulled the glove tight. “I trust you.”

“Why?”

Kit laughed. “Call it a hunch.”

There was a crunch from the door. “Better move, then.”

She took the line from him with her gloved hand and stood poised on the edge of the roof, staring down into the glowing abyss. “Just step right off, huh?”

Gyre nodded. Kit heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“Story of my life,” she said, and stepped off the roof.

For a heart-stopping moment, she plunged straight down and disappeared from sight. Gyre started breathing again when she zipped into view, riding the line’s downward slope in a long parabola, sparks trailing from where the specially treated glove gripped the rope. It was only a few seconds before she reached the end and he lost sight of her against the darkened cliff.

The door gave way with a splintery crash. Gyre grabbed the wildly juddering line with his own glove, turned to give a mocking salute to the enraged Auxies, and hopped over the edge.

There was a moment of free fall, until he ran out of slack and the line jerked him upward, brutally hard. He felt it whirring past under his glove and concentrated on keeping his other hand firmly atop the protected one. The lights of the city approached, shockingly quickly, and he belatedly remembered to squeeze to shed some speed. He hit the crumbling edge of the cliff hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and clung to the edge with his ungloved hand.

“That,” Kit said from just above him, “was a rush. You could sell tickets.”

She extended her own hand, and he grabbed it. Muscles bunched in her shoulders as she hauled him up.