by Zoe Chant
“Well, I found a jeweler who lived above her shop, so then it was just a case of shouting loud enough to wake her up. And then convincing her that it would be worth her while to open up.” He looked a little sheepish. “I, um, actually bought five rings. I also have one with your birthstone, one with emeralds to match your eyes, and an Irish Claddagh ring.”
Connie stared at him yet again.
“I have difficulty saying no to pretty things,” Chase admitted.
Connie folded her arms. “Well, we both know that’s certainly true.”
Chase winced, but didn’t back down. “Connie, I'm deadly serious about this. I need to marry you. Please?”
For a mad moment, Connie entertained the idea of actually going through with it, just to finally get an insight into his peculiar head. Maybe there was some great secret that would explain everything…
Her common sense ruthlessly crushed the silly thought. Of course there was no so-called secret, no rational reason for his erratic behavior. If he wasn't genuinely mentally ill, then he had to be just playing her, in some private, twisted joke.
“No,” she repeated, hoping he hadn't noticed her hesitation. “Now get up. We have a plane to fly.”
Chapter 8
Chase fought to contain the grin that wanted to spread across his face as he followed Connie to the airplane hanger.
She hesitated! She definitely hesitated before she said no. I'm making progress!
His stallion flicked its tail sullenly. Slow progress. Too slow.
It wasn't in the pegasus's nature to be patient. Or, if he was honest with himself, his own. Even though he treasured any tiny hint of Connie softening toward him, he couldn't help but want to accelerate the process.
Fortunately, he had the perfect opportunity.
Don't worry, he told his stallion, as Connie unlocked the hanger doors. We're going to fly for her. That's sure to impress her.
His pegasus perked up, prancing on the spot. Yes! No one is faster, no one swifter, no one stronger than us! Show our mate! Shift, shift, now!
Chase's lips quirked at the stallion's rampant enthusiasm. Not that sort of flying.
“Here she is,” Connie said, rolling the big sliding door back.
Chase let out a long, low whistle of appreciation.
The vintage Spitfire gleamed like a work of art. Even parked in the hanger, the venerable WWII warplane looked ready to leap up into the air at any moment. It sat back on its wheels like a crouching beast, its single propeller pointed toward the sky, eternally keeping watch for Nazi planes.
“Hello, baby,” Connie said to her plane, her voice soft.
Chase would have given anything to have her speak to him that way. “She's even more beautiful than I remember. New paint job?”
Connie nodded, stroking the plane's gleaming olive-green hide. “Battle of Britain squadron colors. It's not historically accurate, given that she's a Mark IX, but I flew her at a big World War II memorial event a few months back and they wanted the classic camouflage colors on her. I think it suits her, anyway.”
“She's stunning.” Chase noticed the way that Connie stiffened slightly as he approached the plane. He carefully kept his hands behind his back as he circled the vintage warbird. “You've kept her in absolutely perfect condition.”
“And I want her to stay that way.” Connie turned to face him, putting her hands on her hips. “Chase, I'm taking a huge risk here. I need to hear you say that you understand what's at stake. Do you even know how much a plane like this is worth?”
“About two and a half million dollars,” Chase said absently, still admiring the plane. “Not including brokers fees.”
Connie's eyebrows shot up. “How did you know that?”
“I kept an eye out for any news about Spitfires, looking for clues about where you were.” Chase shrugged. “One was up for auction a little while ago. Though that one was a standard single-seater Mark IX. I suspect yours would be worth more.”
“A lot more, actually.” Connie pointed up at the two glass bubbles of the cockpits, one behind the other on top of the plane. “There are fewer than ten of these trainer Mark IXs still in the sky, and they're the only way a non-pilot can ever experience the thrill of flying in a Spitfire. People will pay a lot of money for a ride. Dad might get the occasional win from air racing, but the vast bulk of our income comes from passenger flights. This is my livelihood I'm trusting you with, Chase.”
And it's your mother's plane. The one she restored from a twisted wreck, by hand, over decades. It's not just your livelihood, Connie. It's your heart.
But Chase knew that Connie would never say that out loud. She was so determinedly pragmatic, she hated to admit to being influenced by emotion.
“I know what you're trusting me with,” Chase said gently. “And you can trust me. I promise.”
He regretted saying it the instant the words were out of his mouth. Connie's lips compressed, as she no doubt remembered just how badly he'd kept the last promise he'd made to her, three years ago.
“I'll be in the flight instructor's cockpit,” Connie said, pointing to the rear cockpit. “Both cockpits have full controls, so either one of us can fly the plane, but only I'll have the switch which toggles between the two cockpits. If I think that you're being at all reckless, I will throw that switch and take control back from you.”
“Understood.” Chase moved toward the front cockpit, ready to swing himself up.
Connie stopped him with a hand flat against his chest. “Let me make this crystal clear. If you value your balls, do not make me throw that switch.”
“I won't. I hope to have a lot of future use for them, after all.” He cocked a grin at her, which she did not return. “Can I get into the plane now?”
Connie hesitated, clearly searching for any other excuse to keep him out of the cockpit.
She really, really doesn't want me to do this. Maybe I should suggest she flies, and I navigate…
His pegasus pawed at the ground, snorting angry denial. No! She must see our strength, our speed! We must fly, or we will not win our mate!
His stallion had a point. Chase was pretty sure that no hero had ever won a fair maiden with an impressive feat of map reading.
He lightly pushed Connie's hand aside. “It's going to be pretty difficult for me to win the race for you if you won't even let me into the plane, you know.”
Connie grudgingly stepped to one side. “All right. I'll take her up, and then once we're in level flight I'll hand over control to you. Don't make me regret this.”
It was a beautiful day for flying. The old warbird soared like an eagle over the sparkling sea, its wings cleanly cutting through the air. The land was just a distant smudge behind them. Clear blue sky spread out before them, open, inviting.
The plane was a living thing, all around him, every tiny shiver and tilt transmitted directly to his awareness. He could feel it flex underneath him, leaping eagerly in response to every minuscule movement of his hands. It was like the Spitfire's body had become his own.
It was exactly like shifting.
The plane even had a mind of its own, just like his own stallion. This was a perfectly-honed weapon of war, with a proud history of defending Britain's skies from evil. It didn't want to cruise sedately in level flight. It wanted to swoop and dive and dogfight. It may have had the form of a machine, but it had the soul of a pegasus.
His own pegasus spread its wings, sharing the plane's exhilaration. Flying with Connie in a plane wasn't quite the same as carrying her in the pegasus mating ritual, but it was close enough that the stallion found it intensely arousing. Chase gritted his teeth, trying to ignore his raging erection and concentrate on the controls.
“You're doing good.” Even through the tinny earpiece, the surprise in Connie's voice was obvious. “Nice and steady. How does it feel?”
“I don't think I can describe it,” Chase said into his headset, wishing he'd worn looser pants. “I'm getting it under control no
w, though. Talk me through the race circuit, while I keep getting a feel for how she handles. Then we'll try a practice run.”
“Okay,” Connie said. “How much do you know about the Rydon Cup?”
“I've never seen it flown, but I've read a little about it,” Chase replied, as he eased the Spitfire through a sequence of elegant banking turns. “It's a handicap race, right?”
“Right. The planes start the circuit at different times, set by the race organizers. The idea is that if everyone flew perfectly, they'd all finish together. That way it's more a test of who's the best pilot rather than just who's got the best plane.”
Chase gave the Spitfire a bit more throttle, and grinned as the engine's deep snarl kicked up a notch. “And we've got the best of both. The other planes aren't going to know what hit them.”
He was pretty sure Connie was glaring at the back of his head from the rear cockpit. “Don't get cocky. Our handicap is pretty substantial. The race organizers have never had a WWII warplane enter before—all the other planes are modern light aircraft. The judges spent a lot of time debating a fair starting position. They've erred on the side of caution, and put us about halfway down the line-up. You're going to have to fly extremely well to make up for the handicap.”
“No problem.” The Spitfire was as responsive as his own wings. “She may be a grand old lady, but she's raring to go. I bet she'll fly rings round those young upstarts.”
“Just remember that we have to stay within the race corridor, otherwise we're eliminated. That's where I come in. I'll be keeping us on course. If I give you a heading, you have to respond instantly, understand? No arguing, no messing around, no improvisation.”
“You're the boss,” Chase said. “How tight are the course turns?”
“To stick to the ideal line, pretty tight. We can expect to be pulling two, maybe three Gs on the turns. There's also the notorious hairpin corner, near the end of the race.”
“I've heard of that,” Chase said. “Last year a couple of planes crashed trying to make that one, right?”
“Yes, it's a dangerous maneuver. Fortunately, it's been enough of a problem that the organizers have decided pilots can circle round counter-clockwise there this year, if they don't want to risk the hairpin turn. We will definitely be circling.”
“What?” Chase protested. “Where's the fun in that?”
“The fun of not ripping the wings off a priceless antique plane,” Connie retorted tartly. “The turn's technically within the Spitfire's capabilities, but I'm not risking it. I mean it, Chase. Don't even think about it.”
Chase silently patted the Spitfire's instrument panel. Don't worry, girl. I won't hold you back. We'll show her what you can do.
“Chase,” Connie said suspiciously. “You're thinking about it, aren't you?”
Chase let out a rueful laugh. “You may think that I don't know you, but you definitely know me.”
“Unfortunately,” Connie muttered. “Listen to me very carefully, Chase Tiernach. I will take back control of the plane from you if I think you aren't going to be sensible on the hairpin. And then I will rip off your balls and wear them as earrings.”
“Earmuffs,” Chase corrected cheerfully. “They're too big for earrings. You should know.”
“Chase,” Connie growled.
“Fine, fine. I promise, no hairpin. I'll make sure that we're well in the lead by that point, so we can do the turn the slow way. No problem.” Chase took a firmer grip on the steering column. “Shall we do a practice run?”
“Okay. The actual course is half over the sea, half over the land, starting and ending at Shoreham Airport. But we'll do the whole thing over the sea for now, just in case…” Connie trailed off.
“Just in case I crash,” Chase finished for her. He rolled his eyes. “Stop being so nervous, Connie. I've never crashed a plane.”
“What have you crashed?” Connie asked suspiciously.
“Never you mind.” Chase gunned the engine to drown out any further discussion on the matter. “Let's go.”
Connie gave him the first heading, and Chase obediently turned the plane, pitching the nose upward as he did so.
Show me what you've got, old girl…
The Spitfire climbed like a homesick angel. Chase laughed out loud in sheer delight. Connie muttered a soft curse in his earpiece, but didn't tell him to be more cautious. She too knew that the best strategy for the race would be to gain as much height as possible at the start, so that they'd be able to dive if they needed to get a speed boost later on.
Connie called the first turn point. Chase tipped the Spitfire up on one wing, banking while still climbing. The harness straps cut into his chest as the plane whipped through the turn, as fast and deadly as a hunting falcon.
His pegasus spread its wings and soared along with the plane, filled with fierce delight. Faster! it urged him. Show our speed, win our mate!
A distant speck in the sky caught Chase's eye as he banked through the next turn under Connie's direction. He craned his neck, peering through the glass bubble of the cockpit.
“Connie,” he said. “You cleared our flight path, right?”
“Of course I did. Air traffic control are keeping this area free for us. Why?”
“No reason,” Chase said, his forehead creasing as he stared hard at the rapidly-approaching speck.
A rival! His pegasus bared its teeth. Overfly him, swoop, strike!
Hush, Chase told the aggressive stallion absently as he tried to identify the other flyer. Of course it isn't a rival.
Even from a distance, the bat-wing silhouette clearly wasn't a pegasus. He would have said it was a dragon, except that it was much too small. He knew all the dragon shifters living in Brighton—including his own teammate, Daifydd Drake—and all of them were at least the length of a bus.
This dragon, if dragon it was, looked to be about the size of a large horse. About the size of his own pegasus, in fact, which explained why his own stallion had mistaken it for a challenger. It was a poisonous emerald-green, which wasn't a dragon color Chase had ever seen before. There was something not quite right about its tail, too…
“Chase!” He jumped at Connie's shout. “I gave you the heading twice! Why aren't you turning?”
“Sorry.” Chase hastily changed course, the plane lurching as he jerked it roughly round. “I got distracted.”
“Distracted by what? It's empty sky out there.”
“That's what you think,” Chase muttered, too quietly to be picked up by the microphone.
The other shifter was approaching swiftly now, on an intercept course with the Spitfire. Chase couldn't imagine that it could possibly have failed to notice them. The Spitfire was loud enough that the shifter would have to be stone deaf not to have heard the plane.
Maybe it's just having some fun? It probably doesn't realize I can see it.
Chase had occasionally buzzed light aircraft himself, just for the challenge of matching speed and course with them. A normal human pilot wouldn't be able to see a mythic shifter like a dragon or a pegasus, not if it didn't want to be seen.
Deliberately, he tipped the Spitfire first to one side, then the other, waggling the wings in hello.
“What are you doing?” Connie demanded.
“Just, uh, a little crosswind,” he lied, still watching the other shifter.
It hadn't responded to his impromptu greeting. Chase tried to mind-speak it, but it was like shouting at a closed door. The other shifter was deliberately blocking all psychic communication.
I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this.
It was close enough now that he could see that it was roughly dragon-shaped, with a long neck and wedge-shaped reptilian head. But it only had two legs, not four. Its curved, muscular tail ended in a scorpion's barb, the needle-sharp point at least two feet long.
Bloody hell, it's a wyvern!
Chase had never seen one before. He'd never heard of someone who'd actually seen one before. They were so r
are, they bordered on legendary, even amongst mythic shifters. They were bogeymen in the stories shifter kids told around campfires: Stone heart, poison blood, acid breath…
The wyvern opened its jaws, and spat out a fine, dense cloud of mist.
Chase slammed the plane into a near-vertical climb. The plane shrieked in protest, threatening to stall, but Chase forced it upward. The cloud of acid missed them by inches.
“What are you doing?” Connie screamed in his ear as the plane hurtled straight up toward the sun.
“Sudden emergency!” Chase desperately craned his neck, trying to see where the wyvern had gone. “No time to explain!”
He caught sight of the wyvern, only a dozen feet off their tail. Its wings cut through the air like knives. Even with the Spitfire's engine roaring at full throttle, it was catching up with them.
Let's see how you handle this…
Chase flipped the Spitfire nose-over-tail, tumbling into an upside-down dive. The wyvern futilely snatched at them as they shot underneath it with inches to spare, its wicked claws snapping shut on empty air.
“Chase!” Connie's furious voice blasted through the headset. “I'm giving you three seconds to straighten out or I swear to God I am taking back control of this plane!”
“If you hit that switch, we'll both be dead!” Chase yelled back.
He pulled the Spitfire out of the dive, praying that they'd gained enough distance from the wyvern to be able to risk a straight dash back toward land. At the moment, they were too far from Brighton for Chase to be able to psychically contact the rest of his fire team. Commander Ash in his Phoenix form could drive away the wyvern, if Chase could just get close enough to the city to reach him…
DANGER!
Chase instinctively jerked the steering column in response to his stallion's shriek, spinning the Spitfire on its axis. He was almost too late. The wyvern's acid cloud of breath clipped one wingtip, eating dozens of small holes into its metal skin.
“Chase!” Connie must have seen the acrid vapor steaming off the acid-etched metal, but of course she had no idea the real source of the damage. “That's it, I'm taking back control. Three!”
