Hail sways gently, as if she’s caught in a breeze. A blink, and she seems to remember herself, forcing her eyes to focus on us. She’s got the jockey stutter worse than usual, worse than just a few minutes ago, but that’s to be expected. It’s just starting to sink in. When we set out again, she’ll be leaving a part of herself behind.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“We’ve got your wing,” I say.

“All right.” She blinks, shakes herself out, and tries again. “All right,” with a little more substance this time. “Let’s go.”

“Uh,” says Salt, “there’s the small matter of these stairs.” He rings a knuckle against the first step. “If that’s what we’re calling them.”

“It’ll do for now,” I peer up and over, catch an eye on the open doorway ahead. It’s maybe half as tall as Juno is, but the steps are taller than they’d need to be, even for that. I look up at Hail. “How’d you get up there?”

She shrugs, a little looser now. “I was angry.”

Salt chuckles at that. “Remind me to stay out of your way.” He steps back, looks the rock face up and down, and glances back at me. “You go first,” he says.

“Ah-ha.”

He rests against the rock, offers me a knee and shoulder. “You can do it.”

“Fuck you.”

I can’t see his face past the craggy visor, but I can feel him grin at me.

I set my boot on his knee and grip one of the big plates around his collar. His height gets me most of the way up, and Hail slaps a hand around my wrist and carries me the last of the way. When it’s Salt’s turn, he stretches to meet us.

“Like hell,” I mutter. Parts of me are seizing up just looking at him.

Hail sets a boot to the edge, leans over the side. “Take the left.”

We add our muscle together, suits straining against the weight, but he’s tall enough that we don’t have to work for long.

“Just two more to go.”

I glare at Hail. “Thanks for the reminder.”

She doesn’t wait for me to catch my breath, but jogs across the step, skips, then jumps. Her scrabbling boots carry her to the edge of the next step and she hangs for a second on her fingers, uses her suit muscle to pull herself over.

She waves us closer, and puts out a hand to catch me. “Your turn.”

I size the jump. “Anyone else, and I’d figure you for a Werewolf.”

“Didn’t have the temperament,” she says, no hesitation.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but then, I’m not surprised either.

She flexes her fingers. “Come on.”