Page 31 of The Blood we Crave

A reuniting of friends. A way to drown out what this town has in store for us this year, honoring the one of us that couldn’t be here and the girl whose death had brought us all together.

I want to be excited, to enjoy this moment with the people who’ve been engraved into my life, who make me feel human instead of a ghost. But all I keep thinking about is this might be the last time I see any of them.

Am I ready to face death?

I had done it before, walked away unscathed, but am I ready to do that again? Stare into the eyes of the reaper and accept the fate I’d escaped as a child?

“Tie your shoe.”

The chilly breeze of his voice tickles my ear, and I glance down to see that my laces are in fact untied.

“Surprised you’re helping me. Me tripping would put you at an advantage, don’t you think?” I look over my shoulder as Thatcher walks up to my side, walking in step with me.

A smirk adorns his lips, his mask resting on top of his head as he looks down at me. The wind blows violently, nearly knocking me over.

“I don’t want to win by default of your clumsiness.” He lifts his hand up, sliding the mask down and shielding his face before tilting his head lightly. “Good luck, pet. I’d start praying to whatever god you have that I don’t catch you.”

Fake blood pours from the black eye sockets of his stark white mask. The blank expression on the face hides all his features from me. He barely gives me time to reply before he is stalking forward, leaving me in the dust behind him and joining the other two boys in front of us. I duck down, tightening my laces to the point they might cut off circulation, hoping they stay tied through the entire game.

“Five minutes,” Alistair orders, turning to face us with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “That’s your head start.”

“That’s not enough time,” Sage argues, furrowing her eyebrows. “We should at least get ten, dude.”

Alistair slits his eyes, glaring at my friend with a look that sends a chill down my spine. But she holds her ground, keeping her head high and shoulders back, matching his stare.

It’s the only way to earn his respect. Have a backbone, and don’t back down. Don’t let him win.

“Four minutes and thirty-four seconds,” he grunts, and if it wasn’t for the skull face covering that hides the bottom half of his facial features, I’m sure I’d see a smirk. “Tick-tock,dude. You’re wasting time.”

There’s a brief pause where everything stops. It even feels like the rain halts just long enough for all of us to glance at one another, a silent agreement passing through in the wind.

I let my eyes drift to Thatcher, the tallest of the group of boys in front of me. I can’t see them, but I know his eyes are glued to me. His prey hovering in front of him. I’m a piece of meat dangling on a claw, and he’s the starved caged animal waiting to be fed.

My heart drops to my stomach, and when I feel the rain on my skin once again, I run.

Win or die.

There is no other option.

Because if he catches me, there is nothing that will protect me from his wrath. Not even God himself could save me from Thatcher Pierson.

It doesn’t take long for me to feel it.

The burn in my chest and the pressure in my ears. Even though I’ve been jogging every day, my breath control is still shit. But this is not my gentle, peaceful dawn routine, the one I spend staring at Thatcher’s back muscles. There are no happily chirping birds or a comforting sunrise to soothe my sore limbs.

I suppose it’s easier to run when it’s for your life.

The tall trees seemed to squirm closer, overrunning me with their branches and sodden trunks. I inhale a ragged, wet breath that makes my lungs feel shaky. I can hear Sage and Briar close to me, breathing heavily as we try to put space between ourselves and the chasers.

Fog has settled in thick, and the deeper into the trees we travel, the vaguer everything becomes. I can smell the rain in the air as I pump my arms, pushing me forward. A branch or maybe a bush nicks at my pants, cutting through the material and scratching my skin. A hiss of pain leaves my lips, but I don’t worry about checking the damage. I’ll deal with it later.

Time is obsolete. It’s probably only been a few minutes, but my legs tell me it’s been hours.

For thirty minutes, we have to stay out of their reach, all of our phones set with timers to alert us when the game ends. Winners stay dressed, and the loser takes a dip into the Pacific with no clothes.

We weave through the base of the trees, splitting the cloak of fog with our bodies, and run with no destination in mind. I try to listen for them, but all that fills my ears is the thudding of my heart and heavy breaths.

They’re out there.

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