What had to be three of the longest seconds I’d experienced in recent memory passed, my eyes darting across Nailbiter, looking for the next angle of attack and seeing nothing pointed my way. My own breath was cold against my face, which was a reminder that I had a mask and I hadn’t put it on in this case.

Probably better that I maintained my peripheral vision.

Three seconds to consider, to give the Warrior Monk time to protest, to call this madness or pettiness.

No.

The Wretch unfolded and unfurled, and I was close enough to Nailbiter that it could find things to grab. A forearm, an elongated torso, a leg. Twisting, crushing, pulling. She gained durability as she stretched out, but durability wasn’t invincibility.

I stood straighter, rolling my head to one side, then the other, a gloved hand adjusting the armor at my front. I turned to see what was happening with Rachel and the henchman.

The Wretch, for the time being, didn’t move while I moved within it. Fingers dug into ground, scraped at wall, and invisible teeth gnashed at air. But for the most part, the Wretch maintained its hold on Nailbiter’s extended body parts.

I didn’t want to kill, so I moved in a more measured way, walking at first, until the scratched underside of my damn foot made contact with the cold surface of the road, making my knee buckle. I used flight as a crutch to keep me upright while advancing.

In this floaty, walky way, I approached the nearest wall—a three foot fence concrete that bounded a parking garage’s lot. I put my hand out and felt the Wretch. A tensile membrane, hard energy. My two years of waking nightmare. It slid under my hand. A length of stomach, back, or thigh that was in the process of trying to get into place to do something. I could feel the curvature of it, my hand pressing against the inside of that nightmare-shaped shell.

I hadn’t really had an occasion to deal with a scenario like this. When the Wretch was firmly anchored and I wasn’t. Normally, it moved with me. Now?

I pushed against that surface, the Wretch moved, and Nailbiter moved with it. There was no resistance. No situation, as far as I could tell, where the Wretch would anchor to something and I’d smack into it from within.

With flight and a strong push of my hand, I smashed Nailbiter into the short concrete rim. The dog’s paws touched ground, and it began to pull away, the pencil-thin fingers pulling out of its head and torso.

I flew back, dragging Nailbiter away, then smashed her into the barrier again. It was like trying to smash a balled up bundle of barbed wire flat. Too much spring, too many parts sticking out, too much tensile strength in there.

Not good enough, I thought.