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 now, 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.”

Tags: Zoe Chant Fire & Rescue Shifters Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net