Chapter Twenty-Six. When You Must Race
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WHEN YOU MUST RACE
JAMES
I wasn’t lying to Farren when I said I would be happy to never race again.
I love flying. I love the feel of the wind, the power.
In racing you ignore all that and concentrate on not colliding with another rider, not pushing your dragon too hard while at the same time making them strain for victory.
Hort and I won the championship last year mostly out of luck.
I’ve trained Hort not for speed, but maneuverability.
When a bad collision of the front three riders occurred right before the finish line, Hort and I swooped in for first place.
We won many races because so many riders fail to understand pace, a dragon’s natural rhythm to conserve energy like a hawk gliding along until the killing blow.
Like Colm Ditters, they ride hard and fast without any concern for environment, instinct, or dragon safety.
Now I stand on the grounds of my family’s tournament track. The crowds don’t roar—not yet—but the murmuring of thousands coming to watch the first big practice race of the season rumbles through me.
In front of me lies the lake I almost drowned in, crystal blue.
The towering stands already half-filled with people exuberant for a good match.
And good means exciting. My last race was exciting enough for them.
The favorite crashing and almost dying. Today, I hope for dullness.
Maybe I’ll even throw the race to not catch the Revers scout’s attention.
I don’t want to race in college and definitely not professionally.
But I also don’t want a recruiter to mark me as a bad rider, making me ineligible for the all-around scholarship.
I drove in with Farren, but she’s already headed to the women’s changing area. I should do the same in my own designated locker rooms, but I’m hesitating.
On the way in Farren asked if I felt ready to be up in the air again.
I’d told her I was. I’m not so sure now.
I’ve been flying Hort over the rolling cliffs of the sanctuary leisurely for his physical therapy, not at the speed that’s needed during a sprint like this.
Plus, today I won’t have Hort to rely on.
I’m riding Bex, the dragon that not five weeks ago tried to kill Farren and me.
I couldn’t refuse since everyone assumes I had complete control over her.
To contradict that means endangering Farren.
Because if it wasn’t me silver-crafting, who did?
I tear myself away from the lake, heft the bag filled with my gear over my shoulder, and head in to change.
Colm’s already dressed, bronze plating across his entire chest and arms. Looks like my dad kept his promise and didn’t suspend his flying license for what he did to Hendrix.
I checked on the roster outside. He’s flying Thorn, another young silver dragon, who has even less experience and is known to throw frantic cutting wings if frightened.
He’s a fine, fast dragon in the right, reassuring hands. Those hands are certainly not Colm’s.
Colm slams his foot into his boot, aggressive even when tying his shoes. “Have you gotten into Farren’s pants yet?” he suddenly asks.
My entire body stills. “What did you just say?”
“You’re living with her, right? Can’t be that hard when you’re right on top of her anyway.”
“Farren and I aren’t like that.” The words so similar to what I said to Jeffrey, yet with Colm I’m irritated beyond measure.
Colm shakes his head. “That’s bleak since you’ve pined after that copper for years.”
It takes everything I have not to hit him. “I don’t like her like that,” I lie through my teeth. It’s a familiar lie. One I’ve been telling for a long time, especially to Colm and the other riders.
“So, you don’t mind if I go for her?” He’s prodding. “After all these years of yelling at any rider who talked about her?”
Because they talked about Farren like she wasn’t even a person.
In year eight and onward, pre-race conversation included a lot of ranking of body parts, who and what the guys found attractive, and stories of exaggerated sexual encounters.
Everyone soon learned discussing Farren could get under my skin.
Half of racing is a mental game of staying calm.
Which meant they all tried to exploit the one thing I’d ever risen my voice to defend.
I forced myself to stop reacting to comments, began ignoring her at races too, not even a glance.
When those efforts failed, I insulted her in the worst ways I could come up with because I didn’t want anyone messing with her in hopes to throw me off.
By now most of my fellow riders had assumed my crush was gone or not real.
But not Colm. Not damn Colm Ditters. He’s made it a point to remember exactly how to get into everyone’s head. It’s probably his best skill.
“Just going to ignore the question, Murphy?”
I turn to face him fully, craft my iron locker shut with a slam. “If you like being rejected, go for it.”
He chuckles as he stands, inches taller than me. “I’m not you.”
The words burn into my back as I step out into the daylight of the tournament and toward the stables.
Bex’s stall resides in the back. Ever since the incident I’ve been told they’ve kept her isolated more often than not, unsure what to do with her.
Earlier, I saw the trainers trying to feed her and it’s obvious she’s grieving Hendrix.
No one likes to admit or even think about the damage we inflict on these creatures.
It’s dark, but someone stands at Bex’s stall, reaching a hand through the bars to her forehead. No one should be back here. I run forward, only to crash to a stop when I identify who has the audacity to caress a dangerous dragon—Farren.
“Hey,” she calls.
I startle at the stark difference of today versus my last race.
Two months ago, Farren would never have spoken to me, let alone given this friendly acknowledgment.
She wears her hair in a short braid, all loose pieces clipped back.
She’s draped in brown leather and a copper breastplate like always and immediately I’m drawn to her.
Farren wears the outfit of a rider well.
“Convincing her to drop me?” I joke.
“The opposite, actually.” Farren matches my energy. “Lucky you.”
Those last two words burrow in my chest. I don’t feel lucky today.
My confidence has seeped out of me so entirely I kind of wonder where my self-assurance in racing ever came from.
Plus, Colm’s words still burn. And even worse, I’m all too aware my father could see us together.
I know better than to act friendly in public. Another mistake.
“You shouldn’t be talking to me,” I answer, colder than I even mean.
She frowns for a split second before plastering on a more serious countenance. Pretending or hurt I’m unsure. “I just wanted to say that I’ll be there,” she says.
“What?”
“They offered me any spotter station, so I requested patrol.” While most spotters hunker down at different points on the track to watch for trouble, the patrol flies beneath the front-runners, following the flow of the race.
Getting this position means she’ll be flying fifty feet beneath me.
It’s also the most coveted and difficult spotter position.
“Can you and Daphine fly that fast?”
I meant the question in seriousness. Daphine is three times the size of any Sprinter competing. Ocean Swoopers are never as fast as their Sprinter counterparts, but flown during races because with their size and power they can airlift a Sprinter. Like how Daphine saved Hort and me.
Farren’s eyes light up like it’s a barb. “I’m going to ignore that.” She glances at Bex before meeting my eyes. “Just know if you fall, I’ll be there.”
I’m such a jerk. She’s reassuring me, providing me a literal safety net so I can be less scared. Even if I don’t feel lucky, I am more than fortunate having her here. “Thanks, Farren.”
“But try not to need me, all right?” It’s the words of my father she kept repeating two days ago in town, mad at the way he said them. “‘Try not to be needed’? Like I want people to get hurt or drown,” she’d yelled. “Like I plan on it!” Now, she’s twisted them into a joke, our joke.
“I’ll try to not need you.” Even if each day this summer has only shown me how impossible that is.
All twelve dragons hover in the air, awaiting the bell.
I’m third in line. My pristine record got smudged when I was disqualified for not finishing my last race.
I became too accustomed to being first last season because, boxed in on either side, I’m claustrophobic.
The snort of a green dragon next to me is loud in my ear.
On my other side a red dragon keeps flashing the silver on their neck, an aggressive threat.
Bex swishes her head and the reins jostle in my grip.
That’s when I realize I barely have a grip, my hands tremble so much.
Bex is smaller, narrower, and even with a standard saddle I feel uneasy.
I keep imagining her bucking me any moment.
She hates me, her restlessness seems to communicate.
Wrong. This is all wrong. I should have stood up to my father, told him I wasn’t ready.
But he wouldn’t have listened. I’ve gotten too used to the Walshes who ask after your well-being—physically and mentally. I got used to a family who cares, and wouldn’t force me back in the air.
The bell erupts in a ringing clatter, always unnaturally earsplitting.
While I’m not ready, Bex is—a trained champion through and through.
Wind surges around me like a colliding wall and I have to tense every muscle to stay in my saddle.
My foot slips out of the stirrup she’s so fast. Damn it.
I’ve lost more than time by not training; I’ve lost my focus.
We somehow manage the early lead, the opposite of my usual strategy. I can imagine commentators noting it like it’s some master decision when it’s the opposite. If you’re first, you’re a target, the speed which every other dragon will pace against.
Bex rounds the first corner and I hover off the saddle in order to turn with her, all my weight helping her wings use the centripetal force and sail smoothly. It feels like she is the one racing and I’m only along for the ride. The lack of control shakes me to my core.
Colm swoops Thorn beneath me, a risky move since there are regulations about how low one can fly before a rider is disqualified, and I’m almost at the limit. I can feel Bex angle her head to check out the rider daring to pass her.
That’s when everything changes. Beneath me Bex’s silver metal unsheathes, not whisking out in fear like I’ve seen hundreds of times from dozens of dragons, but covering her scales like a person might grab a weapon before charging for battle, slow and steady.
She screeches in such deep primal anger Colm twists upward to glower at us. I meet Colm’s eyes for one moment, one single moment. Then Bex’s wings pound the air to regain her lead.
I realize what this is a moment too late.
Bex isn’t angry at losing the front position of this race.
This is hatred. Bex doesn’t hate me. Or maybe she does, but she hates someone else more—Colm.
When she was trying to get to Hendrix weeks ago, she might not have been attacking Farren or me.
Because behind us, stood Colm. We forget the intelligence of these creatures.
If she hadn’t seen the accident herself, she could probably smell or sense what Colm had done to her baby.
Before I can do anything, Bex dives for Colm and Thorn.
Colm swerves out of the way with a curse. “Murphy, what the hell?”
Bex comes back around. I pull the reins hard, wrenching her jaws away from Colm and avoiding a collision with Thorn, but Bex couldn’t care less for listening or winning this race. She wants blood.
The crowds roar as we fly past, a pillar of people up on their feet. First and second place neck and neck. It’s cheer-worthy. Exciting. People always want someone-could-die-from-this exciting. And they might get just that.
We round the second corner, only one long stretch before the finish line.
This is where in a normal race I’d urge Hort for speed.
Instead, I’m jerking and praying for Bex to just fly straight.
She refuses to pass Thorn and in arrogance Colm refuses to concede his lead.
Like a predator, she wants to stalk before the killing blow.
She dives again and I’m yelling now. “Colm, turn. Turn!”
Colm doesn’t listen. On a straightaway, especially the last straightaway, you don’t twist or let up. He can’t comprehend these maneuvers aren’t my doing because he’d do the same scare tactics to get ahead. Dive-bomb me and frighten Hort. But I’m not riding Hort.
Bex’s claws rake Colm’s back, against the bronze armor.
Her silver-coated talons cut through like butter, down to the leather underneath, a flash of blood.
I yank with all my might and crafting ability.
It’s enough to create distance. But Colm’s screams scare his own dragon.
Thorn reacts. A metal wing hits Bex in the chest. The hit lurches me backward.
Just like that we’re colliding. It’s inevitable.
A tangle of talons and wings and metal. Bex tries to hook her talons onto Thorn’s back to steady us, but silver on silver, she doesn’t make purchase.
We all spiral, losing altitude.
“Get off me. Get off me,” Colm hollers.
“Shut up and hold on.”
I let go of the reins and craft. With all my might I push our dragons away from one another.
The force is more than I expect, Bex finally allowing me control in order to detach us.
I spin downward while Colm whirls upward.
I gave him the advantage, distance, and altitude to right himself, maybe even rejoin the race and win.
But when I look up Thorn flies alone, and a lone figure plummets toward the lake.