*Just distract it as much as you can,* Chase sent back.
Air burned like fire in his nostrils, his great lungs heaving with exertion as he struggled through the dead air. There was no updraft, no thermal to carry him upward. It was like trying to climb a sheer cliff with his bare hands.
*You can't dive from that high!* Killian's mental voice was horrified. *You'll break your neck!*
He ignored his cousin's warning, heaving himself up even further. He was so high now that the planes beneath him looked as small as children's toys. Killian was just a gray speck, whirling round the stationary, bright green dot of the wyvern.
*Chase! It's too—I can't—!* Killian's psychic message broke apart into a wordless impression of pain.
Chase's laboring heart missed a beat as he saw his cousin's distant form tumble down toward the waves. To his relief, Killian pulled up before he hit the water, but from his wavering, unsteady course, it was clear he was out of the fight.
Connie neatly cut off another plane, flying the twists and turns of the race route with cool, considered efficiency. She was in third place now, but she had a huge distance to make up in order to catch the two race leaders. The Spitfire surged forward as Connie gave it full throttle.
Heading straight toward the waiting wyvern.
Connie had no way of knowing the beast was there. Secure in its invisibility, the wyvern hovered directly in her path. All of its attention was focused on the approaching plane.
NOW!
Chase swept his wings back, folding them tight to his sides. Flying on just the barest tips of his pinions, he flashed downward. His tail streamed out behind him like a banner as he picked up speed, falling faster and faster until he felt like his wings were going to be torn off.
The howling wind lashed his face so hard that it was impossible to draw breath. Black spots danced in his vision as his lungs burned for air. He twisted his wings, swinging round as he fell, hooves ready to strike.
At the very last instant, the wyvern suddenly threw itself to one side, as if someone had shouted a warning at it. But it was too late. Chase was diving so fast that even the wyvern's supernaturally fast reflexes couldn't save it.
All four of his hooves hit the wyvern's flank, the bone-jarring impact nearly making him black out. If he'd hit the wyvern's head, he would have instantly broken its neck. As it was, the beast bowled head-over-tail, spinning uncontrollably down toward the water.
Still dizzy from the dive, Chase was nearly knocked out of the air himself as Connie's Spitfire shot past him with barely a foot to spare. He was tossed helplessly in the wind from the plane's wake, bobbing like a cork on a stormy sea.
By the time he'd righted himself, the wyvern was half-way back to Brighton, abandoning the fight. It flew low to the sea, its wing-beats erratic and labored as it fled.
Follow it! His pegasus pawed the air, eager to finish off the beast. Catch it, kill it, stomp it flat!
Chase shook his head to dispel his stallion's instinctive bloodlust. No, he told his pegasus. We have to help our mate. We promised to be there at her wingtip. And we will never again break a promise to her, ever.
He forced his aching wings to beat faster, catching up with the Spitfire. Despite his burning muscles, he fell into formation with the plane.
I'm here, Connie. And now, it's all up to you.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I'm going to lose.
Connie forced her hands to stay steady on the controls. She didn't have the luxury of shaking now. Her eyes stayed locked onto the two race leaders.
They were both modified Mudry CAP 230 aircraft, a high-speed acrobatics plane favored by serious racing pilots. Her own Spitfire was faster and more powerful… but the two Mudrys were far ahead of her.
It's too far. I won't be able to catch them.
Connie pushed the Spitfire as hard as she dared, but she knew it wasn't going to be enough. Her instinctive, finely-honed ability to judge distances and speeds told her that it was hopeless.
Unless they both make a mistake on the final corner…
Unfortunately, that didn't look likely. Both planes were piloted by expert racers. One of the planes, a bright canary yellow with white trim, she recognized as belonging to the winner of last year's Rydon Cup. So far he'd flown a careful, flawless course. The other plane, a cerulean blue, was unfamiliar to her, but its pilot clearly had a lot of experience and absolutely no fear. Connie had come perilously close to slamming straight into him earlier, halfway through the race. Her reflexes had saved them both from a mid-air collision, but she'd lost a lot of time straightening out and getting back under control.
Now she could only watch helplessly as the other two planes jostled with each other for first position. The blue daredevil kept trying to cut into the yellow plane's airspace, trying to force it to drop back. Unlike Connie, the pilot of the yellow plane held his nerve, refusing to cede the racing line to the maniac.
They were approaching the final turn point—the infamous hairpin, a true test of a pilot's ability and daring. Connie was certain that the yellow plane would choose to circle wide, taking the turn slowly but safely. She was equally sure the blue plane would attempt the faster but much more dangerous hairpin maneuver, taking the turn as tightly as possible.