TailWind by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page B

braver than the others—turned to look toward the refueling station. He snorted disdainfully as he sat down and buckled himself into the safety harness crisscrossing the command chair. He flipped switches, pushed a myriad of buttons, keyed in coordinates and instructions, checked the fuel tanks to make sure they were filled to capacity with crystals, engaged the engines, and then pushed the throttle to 10 percent. The Fiach lifted like a feather floating on the breeze with barely a disturbance of the dirt beneath her keel. Rising into the air with hardly any noise at all, the black runabout hovered there for a moment as its pilot made a few final adjustments. Gently nosing the sleek machine ninety degrees to the starboard he settled back in the form-fitting leather chair and pulled back on the stick. Lifting with a roar of its mighty propulsion tubes, the Fiach shot into the sky as though flung from a catapult.
    "Holy, Mother of Alel!"
    The voice startled Blaez so violently, his hand jerked back on the stick and the runabout screamed upward almost vertically.
    "Cut it out!"
    His head snapped around and his eyes flared wide as he saw a woman sprawled at the rear of the cabin, struggling to get up from the floor. Her skirt was peeled back from her legs and she was floundering in her effort to right herself. Cursing, he eased the stick forward, but it took a moment to level the craft and all the while, he was grinding his teeth, his body as tense and rigid as steel.
    Once the Fiach was flying sure and true, he engaged the autopilot and his hands flew over the buckles of the safety harness, flinging them aside, shooting up from the chair with every intention of strangling the stowaway.
    Rozenn Quinlan was grumbling as she smoothed her skirt down over her bare legs. She had just enough time to sit up before he was on her, bent down toward her, his snarling, infuriated face in hers, his lips peeled back, fangs extended. Her eyes widened for a moment, she stared at him, he glared at her, he growled, and then she began to laugh.
    It was the laughter that stunned the werewolf and made him straighten up. The woman was laughing so hard, tears were gathering in her eyes and she was practically rolling on the floor with mirth.
    "Stop that!” he yelled at her, the words garbled for his fangs were still out. He had never mastered the art of controlling his volatile temper no matter how often his instructors had smacked him on the back of his head. When anger or fear or just plain overwhelming irritation got the better of him, his canines had the tendency to elongate into fangs quicker than a randy sailor's pants in a bordello.
    "Oh, this is just too much!” she laughed, slapping her thigh.
    "What the hell is wrong with you?” he bellowed and reached down to snag her arm and jerk her to her feet.
    The strength in his hand, the power behind his movement was enough to squelch Rozenn's laughter. As his grip tightened to a painful hold, she sobered and met his raging glower with a lifted chin. “You're hurting me,” she said softly.
    Blaez's eyebrows drew together, his fangs retracted so quickly they sliced into his gums and he felt the wash of blood on his tongue. Shaking his head, he let go of her as though the touch had scalded him and stepped back.
    "Thank you,” she said, adjusting the bodice of her gown and extending a hand to him. “I am Rozenn Quinlan."
    His gaze lowered to her hand for an incredulous moment then slowly lifted to her face.
    It wasn't a pretty face. The woman was overweight—or pleasingly plump depending on which man you might ask. She had chopped off mousy brown hair that was quickly running toward gray and slight pouches beneath her eyes. Her face was broad, her lips thin, her earlobes protruding almost comically. The only arresting thing about her face was her eyes. They were a striking emerald green and framed beneath perfectly arched brows that—however—were in need of a thinning.
    "Hello?” she said,