The world tipped and air rushed past his ears as he fell into the night.
Shitshitshit, his mind screamed, and he knew how Matilda had felt a few minutes before.
But it seemed that luck was minded to favour him at last, for his panicked flailing paid off: his hands hit the side of the gyro. He was so surprised he almost forgot to grip. He hung there for an instant, dazed, as Faulkner repositioned himself at the controls.
Black Hill Cemetery spun dizzily below his feet. He sensed rather than saw the upturned faces, lights frozen in their haphazard dance as his audience waited to see what would happen.
Clara was down there somewhere.
Cas renewed his grip on the gyro, gathering his resolve. Faulkner had no experience with flight, and he probably didn’t have Cas’s experience with autocarri
