“Ah, yes.” The marshal, who had been looking rather confused by the hostile undertones to the conversation, straightened up. “Ms. West, due to the unfortunate malfunction on your other Spitfire, we've accepted this rather unconventional last-minute substitution. But, after careful consideration, we have decided that we must adjust your handicap.”
Connie had been expecting something like this. As a handicap race, all the planes in the Rydon Cup started at different times, so that it became a test of pilot skill rather than just the plane's raw capabilities. Previously, Connie had been set to start in sixth position, out of a field of twelve.
But Chase's Spitfire—she still couldn't think of it as hers—was a fair bit lighter than hers, thanks to only carrying a single person rather than two. It would be fractionally faster in the sky as a result, and therefore needed a bigger handicap.
“Now, wait a second—” Chase began.
Connie stopped him with an upraised hand. “No, it's only fair. So I'm starting in seventh place now, marshal?”
“Er, after impartial review and consideration of some new evidence…” The marshal's eyes flicked briefly to Sammy. “You will be starting in twelfth position.”
Connie stared at him in utter horror. “Dead last?”
Chase towered over the smaller man, his muscular shoulders bunching ominously. “Let me guess. Did this 'new evidence' come in the form of a fat check, by any chance?”
The marshal held his clipboard in front of him like a shield, visibly paling. “The—the decision of the committee is final,” he gabbled. “Please prepare for take off, and await your starting signal.”
“This is a real nice plane.” Sammy patted the Spitfire affectionately. “I sure am looking forward to spending more time with her in the future. Nice to meet you, Constance West. Oh, and tell your dad that if he needs a little loan to tide you over after this… he knows where to find me.”
“That's it,” Connie said, as Sammy sauntered off, whistling. “It's over.”
Chase looked as if he could quite happily have murdered the loan shark on the spot. “It is not over,” he said fiercely. “You said it yourself—you've been flying these planes all your life. You can do this, Connie. Don't think about what you've got to lose. Focus on what you're going to win. Think how much you want to rub Sammy's smile in the dirt. Think how satisfying it's going to be to see his face when you come in first.”
Connie groped for her earlier flare of rage, but her common sense smothered it. “I'm a good pilot, but I'm not a daredevil like my dad. Overtaking other planes is risky, and I'll have to do it eleven times!”
“Then take those risks.” Chase seized her hands, squeezing them in a crushing grip. “Let yourself go, fly like you were born in the sky. This plane has survived me flinging it around, after all. It's not going to come apart around you. And I'm going to be right there at your wingtip. I won't let anything happen to you.”
“But—” Connie started.
He leaned down and kissed her, fiercely, deeply, stifling any further protests. Heat ran through Connie's blood. She felt as if his wild energy was spilling from him into her, rekindling the fire in her belly. She pressed against him, as if she could draw his reckless courage into herself, storing it up for the race ahead.
Chase drew back a little, leaning his forehead against hers. “You can do this,” he repeated. “I'll see you in the sky, and I'll make sure you can see me too.”
Connie clung onto his hands, afraid that once he let go, all her courage would leak away like a deflating balloon. “If you can drive off the wyvern, will you come and fly the race with me? Please?”
“I'll be right by your side, I swear.” He gave her one last brief, tantalizing kiss. “Now go. It's time.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chase could sense the wyvern approaching. He'd barely slept last night, waiting for the shifter to return to the city, but it had only appeared at the edge of his perception as the planes took off for the race. It was still too high and distant to be seen, but it was closing in fast.
*Incoming,* he telepathically sent to Killian. He accompanied the thought with a mental image of the wyvern's green form, so that Killian's pegasus would be able to get its scent and track it too. *You ready?*
*To fight a wyvern? Not even remotely.* Despite his words, Killian's wide gray wings beat steadily, his flight smooth and strong as he circled over the racing planes. *I can sense it now, too. Looks like it's planning to intercept over the sea, during the later stage of the race.*
*I agree.* Chase increased his wingbeats, quickening his pace. *I'm going to see if I can catch it before it gets a chance to interfere with the race. You keep back here with Connie, just in case.*
He couldn't resist glancing down at the race as he powered through the sky. Thanks to Sammy's fiddling with the handicaps, five of the eleven planes that had started ahead of Connie were technically faster than the vintage Spitfire. But that didn't mean that they were faster in practice. A plane was only as good as its pilot.
Connie had already overtaken the plane that had started eleventh, when its pilot had run into some crosswinds at takeoff. Now she was closing rapidly on the next one, the Spitfire's engine roaring at full throttle. She'd taken advantage of the Spitfire's superior climbing ability to get above the light acrobatic plane. The modern plane might be faster in level flight, but not in a dive. All she needed was an opening.
The other aircraft took the turn a little sloppily, wavering from the ideal racing line… just a little.
Now, Connie, now! Be bold!
As if she'd heard his silent exhortation, the Spitfire flashed downward. Its wings sliced through the air like a knife through butter as Connie wheeled it neatly through the turn, cutting ahead of the other plane.
Yes! Two down!