Rubbing my aching head, I opened my eyes to find myself dangling about eight feet above the rooftop where I’d been running. That was awkward. A quick check showed that I was still in possession of all my limbs and all my weaponry; thank God for custom holsters. “Gotta tell Dad we have a new stress test for the snaps on these things,” I said, and tried to jackknife up to grab my knees. The rope promptly started to sway, turning what should have been a simple exercise into something better performed by a circus acrobat.

Fine; if it wanted to be that way, I would improvise. The rope was creaking, but it wasn’t showing any signs of giving way. That was good. Tips for getting out of a snare without breaking any major bones, number one: make sure you control when you get down, not the rope. I started rocking with more vigor, until I had built up sufficient momentum to let me fold myself in half despite the motion of the rope. I wrapped my arms around my legs, taking a moment to breathe before I leaned back and assessed the situation further.

The rope was looped around my left ankle, drawn tight in some sort of complicated slip knot. “Huh,” I said, sliding my hands up to grasp my calves and pull myself closer to the knot. It was a maneuver easier performed than described, and resulted in my feeling somewhat like a giant inchworm. “Who the hell tied you?”

The knot, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer. It was starting to chafe. If it hadn’t been for the amount of time I spent balancing on one leg while being dragged around the dance floor, I probably would have been in a lot of pain; as it was, I was going to be in a lot of pain if I didn’t figure out how to get myself safely untied, and soon.

My work uniform didn’t give me a lot of padding, and the roof below me wasn’t what I’d call a safe place to land. I could cut the rope—I’d be disowned if I went out without a knife, or at least looked at admonishingly—but the odds of me flipping around and landing on my feet weren’t good. Actually, they were bad. My only good option involved climbing the rope, somehow managing to get a grip on the flagpole it was tied to, and starting from there.

“I should never have quit gymnastics,” I grumbled, and began swinging back and forth again, trying to work up the momentum to let me grab hold of the rope. On the third swing, I managed to swing myself up far enough to get a good grip. I let go just as fast as the stinging slime that coated the rope started to burn my palms and fingers. I swore loudly as I fell backward, snapping to a stop when I ran out of rope. I felt the jolt all the way up to the ball of my thigh as shooting pains ran through my ankle.

At least I didn’t black out this time.

The rope kept swaying even after I’d stopped helping it along, rocking me in a motion that seemed designed to induce vertigo. I wiped my hands on my uniform skirt before digging them into my hair, allowing myself the luxury of swearing at great and enthusiastic length as I waited for my ankle to stop throbbing and my palms to stop tingling. The damage wasn’t going to go away, but it could at least die down to a dull roar before I resumed trying to get free. I wiggled my toes. Nothing seemed broken. Small blessings, but I take what I can get when I’m stuck in a snare.

The thought made me pause. Before, I’d been focused on trying to work my way out of the trap. The Doctrine of Grandma Alice, preached by mouse and mother alike: “When in doubt, get out. Worry about what might be trying to eat you later.” Now that I was being forced into temporary idleness, the true vulnerability of my situation was brought forcibly to hand.

None of the cryptids I knew of in the surrounding area were the type to set this sort of trap. That meant I was either dealing with somebody who was out of their home territory, somebody completely unfamiliar, or—worst case scenario—somebody who knew I was making this circuit and had decided to do something about it.

There are parts of the cryptid community that don’t like my family, what we do, or what we stand for. Parts who’d like it if the cryptids retreated from human society altogether, stopped trying to fit in, and went back to skulking in the shadows and occasionally eating people. Even parts that still think of us as members of the Covenant. Those elements of cryptid society are the reason no Price who wants to have a decent life expectancy goes anywhere unarmed.

There are some lessons a family only needs to learn once.

Letting my hands drop and dangle freely, I did my best possum impression as I started running a mental tally of available weaponry. One knife, strapped to my left thigh, and the handgun under my windbreaker. I could reach them both. If necessary, I could start shooting, cut the rope, and let myself fall. The damage the roof would do was nothing compared to the damage some cryptids can dish out when they decide they want to.

Footsteps crunched in the gravel on the far side of the roof, coming closer. Moving carefully, so as not to set myself swaying again, I pulled the gun from under my windbreaker and aimed toward the sound. Judging by the tread, whatever was approaching was solo, human-sized, and not in much of a hurry. That was fine by me. I’ve always been good at night shooting, but sometimes a girl doesn’t want to put her faith in firing blindly into the dark. Better to let whatever it was come to me, and make my bullets count.

(Someday I’m going to get myself a day job that lets me wear clothes capable of concealing a decent amount of weaponry. Ever try to hide a gun in a competition rumba costume? It’s neither easy nor fun. The inner thigh holster that doesn’t chafe has yet to be invented by man, beast, cryptid, or Price.)

The thing on the roof was close enough now to have a visual on the snare’s silhouette; whatever it was, it could tell that it had caught something. It started walking faster, becoming more visible with every step it took. It was humanoid, dragging something through the gravel behind it. My upside-down orientation made it difficult to estimate height, but if forced to guess, I would have said that whatever it was, it was maybe six inches taller than me. It extended an arm, reaching for something at its hip. I steadied my aim.

The thing on the roof—now clearly a human man—pulled a flashlight from his duster pocket and clicked it on.

The light was practically blinding. I squinted against the glare, keeping my gun aimed at where his head had last been located. In the meanwhile, there was a sharp intake of breath from the man holding the flashlight. Guess when he went night fishing on the rooftops of Manhattan, he wasn’t expecting to catch himself a strip club waitress.

“Hi,” I said, brightly. “Ever been shot in the head? Because I don’t think you’d enjoy it much. Most people don’t.”