Threads and needles flew out from Parian, catching at Chastity’s clothes, flowing through, then lancing back.

Stitching her to the cloth that Parian hung from.

It took time, and we didn’t have a lot. Small mercies that this building face they’d jumped to been out of the path of the gas; the only gas that painted this wall was gas that had blown back to touch the wall.

And that, really, was enough, especially when combined with snow and ice. What might have been the best handhold became slippery in three different ways.

Off to the side, the window opened. Roman, bleeding from a dozen places, reached down for Juliette.

“Massive blood loss is a good look on you, idiot brother,” Juliette said, looking up at him without reaching back. I could see her fingers moving by small fractions. Her own blood trailed down from where fingers dug into slimy, hole-riddled wood, like her skin was splitting at the beds of the fingers.

“This building is falling down. There’s no time to fuck around,” he snarled.

“Saying you’d die too is the most convincing case I’ve heard for suicide yet,” Juliette said.

Her feet scrabbled, trying to get traction and finding none. She kicked at the window with one boot-toe, trying to stand on the shattered glass edge, but it only crumbled. She slipped further.

“Bite me,” he told her. He reached down to her face, and shoved slimy, bloody fingers in her mouth. I could see the muscles and veins standing out on his wrist as he clutched her lower jaw with every bit of strength he had.

She, for her part, bit down with matching fury.

With that as their hold on one another, Roman hauled Juliette up enough she could get through the window.

Threads Parian was using were snapping as I tried to test the weight of Chastity. Others pulled free because of the slime, or made her coat tear more.

“Whip me!” I called out. The Wretch was too slimy.

I held out my bandaged hand. “Hit my hand!”

Chastity twisted until her back was to the wall. Cloth tore more.

Only the fact she was at the corner of the building let her get her arm back far enough. The full-body motion of even getting the whip up and moving in a loose circle before she could send it where she wanted cost her more. Threads pulled on her and limited her arm movement, but many of those threads came loose.

Come on, I thought.

She struck out, whip lashing toward my hand.

It struck my palm, but the impact was only a graze.

The forcefield’s teeth bit into the whip itself. A cue taken from Roman and Juliette.

I pulled back, gripping her that way. Lowering her toward the ground.