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TWENTY

T ogether, Rahn and Kel strapped Coup’s legs into Savita’s saddle.

Rahn’s saddle designs had seemed strange, at first. Where Rube’s designs were strong and durable, Rahn’s were sleek and varied.

The skirts and seats of her saddles were shaped like hourglasses, rather than the traditional rounded slope, so the leathers didn’t weigh on Savita’s wings.

Sav would have more freedom, more speed, while Coup would have less material to secure himself to.

Kel kept a hand on Savita’s side as they wove back through the crowd, feeling for any bursts of anxious heat, or hints that her temperature might flare as it had in recent training sessions.

Yet Savita appeared unfazed by the commotion; if anything, she seemed invigorated.

Her temperature was steady and her depthless eyes remained focused.

As Rahn shifted away from Savita’s side, Kel paused. Blinding flashes—from high overhead, in the raised stands—dotted her vision. Coup smiled and waved from Sav’s back, unbothered by the lights.

“You’re in your element,” she said dryly.

Coup continued to wave. “Meaning?”

Kel gestured to the media storm crowding the track’s rails. “Oh, come on, I’ve watched you in interviews for years. You adore the attention.”

Coup smirked. “You’ve watched me for years, huh?”

Before Kel could respond, Coup shrugged, almost imperceptibly. “It’s not that hard to fake a smile, Varra. Most of us need one to earn a living.”

Kel blinked. Coup continued smiling, waving, parading.

Rahn sighed from behind Kel. Kel turned, eager for the distraction. The technician held up her tele-comm to the other Howlers. “Canen can’t make it to today’s race, but he refuses to stop spamming me with fire icons until I show you this picture.”

Above a text chain littered with far too many fire symbols, a photo of Cristo filled half the screen.

The words I ’M WITH THE HOWLERS streaked his cap and T-shirt, below the Howlers’ logo.

Red and black paint dotted his face, pulled up in a cheesy grin, and behind him sat piles of identical shirts and caps.

“Oh no,” Dira said, grimacing.

“Who could’ve guessed a billionaire genius could cosplay as such a convincing dorky dad?” Coup drawled.

Rahn sighed, shaking her head and pocketing her tele-comm.

Kel forced a light laugh. Perhaps she should have been giddier, bejeweled with new gear and sponsored by Salta’s leading tech giant. But her spine was rigid and her breath kept catching. Every camera flash and phoenix shriek made unease coil tighter in her chest.

The starting line—where the water began—quickly came into view.

Most of the other twenty-four teams were already lined up.

The track was only wide enough to fit every phoenix with their wings pinned.

Once they took flight, each would have to fight for space.

Kel imagined most phoenixes would try to back away from the water.

Phoenixes of all sizes and colors clawed at the asphalt ground. A honey-hued phoenix shrank back from a maroon, speckled phoenix, swiping at the former with extended talons. Blood trickled down pale feathers.

Kel’s stomach dropped. She’d known Vohre races were more vicious. She’d watched plenty of reruns, had seen Dira research every team competing today. But watching Savita enter the chaos was another thing entirely.

She could see in Coup’s eyes, the way he sized up the other phoenixes, that he knew it, too. But she also saw his jaw clench and his hands tighten around Savita’s reins.

As if noticing the same thing, Bekn murmured, “Don’t do anything Coup -like, okay? We just need to place.”

Coup sighed. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll give Cristo the show he wants.”

Coup, Kel, Dira and Rahn turned on the comms in their ears and the latter two whooped, sending pitchy static down the line and muffling Bekn’s dry response.

Kel pressed a glove hand to Sav’s side in a silent goodbye, before following Dira, Rahn and Bekn back to their tent.

Usually, tents and booths were raised for sky-high views of the tracks.

But this race was low enough that the ground provided the best view.

It felt strange, preparing for a race without the creaking, shifting metal of raised steps.

As Kel and the other Howlers watched Coup lean forward in the saddle, Kel realized that Coup had no intention of staying safe. If his grins to the media were any indication, he was a talented deflector. Of course Coup had told his brother what he’d wanted to hear.

More importantly, Kel realized, as the starting siren wailed, Coup had never promised caution. Only spectacle.