I gathered speed and certainty with every transition. My muscles were loosening, body falling into the familiar dance of playing chicken with gravity. I’ve been free running since puberty was just a scary specter in the rearview mirror of my life, running up on me like T. Rex in the first Jurassic Park. I’ve long since passed puberty, and a bunch more milestones I wasn’t looking for, and through everything that’s changed, free running has always stayed the same. I appreciate that.

I also appreciated the fact that getting to Dominic’s address involved several stretches of city that I was comfortable with, allowing me to take the time to confuse my route by doubling back, using unnecessary shortcuts and longcuts (like shortcuts, but designed to make the trip longer and more confusing), and generally messing around. If someone tried to follow me, or tried to use some kind of tracking spell to figure out where I’d started from, they were going to find it a much taller order than originally assumed.

New York is seen as a pretty big city, especially by people who look at the population size and try to imagine a world where all those people actually fit. In reality, the island of Manhattan is fairly small. It’s just compact, with enough people for a dozen cities all stacked on top of each other. That makes it a free runner’s dream and a monster hunter’s nightmare. The city’s cryptid population would know the rooftops and sewers as well as or better than I did, leaving the Covenant of St. George grasping at shadows as they tried to figure out where their targets were going to stop.

Home field advantage is a good thing, if you know how to use it, and if you’re not overly committed to the idea of playing fair. Personally, I’ve always thought that “playing fair” was another way of saying “play to lose.” I’m more a fan of my grandmother’s motto: play for keeps. If I was going to get involved in the Covenant’s little game, I was going to come out the winner, or I was going to die trying.

The address Artie had provided was to a nondescript live-work building that looked like it had last been renovated sometime in the early nineties, when all the dot-com kids were totally in love with the idea of working themselves into an early, if lucrative, grave. Dominic’s apartment was on the nineteenth floor. That worked out well for me, since the building was only twenty-three stories high. A little air is a nice thing to have. A lot of air can lead to plummeting.

Most of the time, I prefer to do my running without a net; nets just slow you down. Sometimes, however, even I have to admit the wisdom of having a little something to hold onto. That’s why I always carried a climbing harness when I thought I might need to perform a little friendly breaking and entering. I measured off my rope based on the floor where the apartment was supposedly located, leaving myself a few extra feet for maneuverability. Once that was done and the rope was set, I tied it to one of the building’s heat vents, checked the climbing belt twice to make sure it was secure, and stepped off the edge of the roof onto the empty air.

The air obligingly failed to support my weight, and I dropped forty feet straight down, only to be brought up short by the elastic ties connecting the rope to my harness. I went limp, letting gravity have its way with me. That was the best way to avoid any unwanted broken bones or dislocated shoulders. Physics can play nice, as long as it feels like you’re playing along.

(Antimony calls that particular move “pulling a Gwen Stacy,” and mutters imprecations about how she’s going to wind up short a sister one of these days. Antimony reads too many comic books.)

Once the rope stopped swaying, I sat up and looked around. I was dangling about two feet below the floor level of a nearby balcony. I swung myself over that way, reaching out to grab the rails as soon as they came close enough. Then I pulled myself laboriously upward, finally sliding myself onto the balcony.

The small child who was standing behind the sliding glass door leading into the apartment blinked at me. I blinked back, too surprised to do anything else. Slowly, he opened the sliding glass door.

I said the first thing that popped into my head: “Didn’t your parents tell you never to open the door for a stranger?”

“Superheroes aren’t strangers,” he said, with calm matter-of-factness. I must have looked puzzled, because he explained, “You flew onto the balcony. Strangers don’t fly. If strangers could fly, I’d never be allowed outside. So you’re a superhero. Like the man next door.”

Like the . . . “See, that’s who I was coming here to see,” I said quickly. “We’re supposed to be having a team-up. Can you tell me which way his balcony is? It’s sort of hard to aim precisely when you’re heading for something the size of a building.”

The little boy pointed solemnly to the balcony to the right.

“Great, thank you.” I boosted myself back onto the banister, intending to jump. Then I paused. “Oh, and hey, kid? There are bad superheroes, too. So you really shouldn’t open the door, even for people who can fly.” Most human threats were unlikely to attack from above. That didn’t do much to eliminate the cryptid ones.

“Okay,” said the boy, and closed the door. I guess when a superhero tells you to do something, you do it.

Leave it to Dominic to preach secrecy and caution to me, and forget to consider whether or not his neighbors could see him from their balcony. I smirked as I jumped back down and swung over to his apartment, grabbing hold of the balcony rails and pulling myself up for a second time. This time, no small children greeted me. Instead, the sliding glass doors granted me a view of a sparsely furnished, utterly deserted apartment.

“Jackpot,” I murmured, and started squirming out of my climbing harness.

After the last of the buckles was undone, I used a carabiner to snap the harness to the balcony rail. That way, I’d still be able to reach my rope if I needed to make a quick escape, but I wouldn’t be wandering around the apartment looking like the victim of badly-considered bondage. The kid from next door hadn’t reappeared on his balcony. I decided that was a good thing—no one wants people watching their breaking and entering, especially not when they’re as rusty as I am—and moved to try the door.

It slid open easily. I stopped, blinking. “Okay, that was . . . anticlimactic,” I muttered. Dominic must not have considered the need for exterior nineteenth floor security. If we both survived this, and were on speaking terms when everything was said and done, he and I were going to have some serious talks about that.