The extra illumination didn’t threaten to give them away—the spotlights bathing the prison would do that. The lights revealed a centrally peaked metal roof sloping away on both sides. The patter of rain beat a soft tattoo on the metal and sent little rivulets of water trickling down the roof. A few yards past the hole in space, the raised boxy panes of a skylight straddled the apex. It looked a bit like a greenhouse. Rainwater beaded the glass. It reminded Mollie of rainwater beaded on the windows of a French police car; she’d seen that once, a million years ago.

Ray stepped through first. The metal gave little creaks of protest under his feet. He crouched with one foot on each side of the apex and crab-walked halfway to the skylight. It looked uncomfortable. “Careful,” he whispered. “It’s really slippery.”

Bubbles went next, then Babel. They waddled past Ray to the skylight. The trio stared expectantly at Mollie through the portal.

You don’t have to do this, said the small selfish coward voice in her head.

Actual voices now. That was new.

It went on: This is pointless and stupid and it’s not going to work. You could let these motherfuckers twist in the wind. Get as far away from Talas as you can and try to enjoy the earth’s final hours.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she muttered, stepping through the hole in space. At least the rain was warm.

But she was too preoccupied with trying to close the portal to pay attention to her footing. She stepped to one side of the peak, rather than straddling it as the others had done. Her shoes had no purchase on the rain-slicked metal. Her feet flew out from under her. Her hip and head slammed against the roof hard enough to ring the metal like a gong. She slid toward a long drop. Woozy, head spinning, she scrabbled pointlessly for a fingerhold.

Bubbles yelled, “Mollie!”

A clang, a thud, and then a hand clamped around her wrist. She jerked to a halt. Ray lay sprawled over the roof, one ankle hooked around a pipe. “Careful, kiddo.”

Spooky quick, that guy.

Somewhere nearby, an alarm Klaxon pierced the silent night.

“Well, shit,” said Mollie.

St. Gilles prison smelled of testosterone and anger, of urine and fear.

“Hey! Who are you people?” someone shouted in Belgian French: a man in a guard’s uniform, down below. Barbara opened her power, spreading it as widely as she could but leaving an untouched space around the four of them. The guard’s shout turned to gibberish as he touched the mic velcroed to his shirt, as Ray—moving faster than Barbara thought possible—slammed into the man, shoving him up against the nearest wall and hitting him twice, quickly. The man crumpled, and Ray stepped back, brushing at the front of his suit as if flicking away lint.