Run Boy, Run (Chasing Death #1)
Chapter 1
Reed
I shift my weight on the bed of dying leaves and pine needles, as quiet as a corpse in rigor mortis. The wind shakes the bristles of the evergreen trees.
My breath filters through the small hole in the mask, the warm air reverberating back against me. The mask serves as an important symbol—it instills fear in the prey and domination in the hunters. A primal distinction that goes back centuries.
My eyes scan the periphery, nothing yet. Just the beam of the full moon providing the vision of an empty running trail that weaves in between patches of forest and water.
I still my pulse and my lungs to those of a polished predator. The world diminishes to my instincts and to the elements that surround me.
The forest is quiet tonight, only the breeze and the current of the water disturb the silence.
I’ve trained for these moments.
Yeah… it was against my will, but when your family has the legacy of being the top vigilante serial killers in the world, what can you do?
My nose whiffs the air. It picks up the sap of the tamarack tree and the decaying flesh of a cottontail rabbit.
Poor bunny. Must have been divebombed by an eagle or a hawk.
Truth is—I feel more sympathy for animals than I do my own prey. They are innocent, driven by instinct. A stark contrast to those fueled by greed and ungodly desires.
Those that come into my crosshairs deserve it.
Criminals of the worst degree—traffickers, grave robbers, corrupt politicians, and actual sociopathic serial killers.
They deserve to be smashed into a pulpy mess.
To have their stomachs gutted while their intestines slither out.
Their limbs severed from their body with a chainsaw while their blood splatters over the frosty ground.
Their bones snapping like baby twigs while they begin their next journey as organic compost for my salad at the hospital cafeteria.
The Quinns bury the scum of the Earth as fast as we can.
But there’s an endless buffet of greedy carcasses to decapitate. Like an all-you-can-kill Vegas brunch served with a side of desperate pleas and mimosas doused in tears.
Nothing sweeter than the bubbly orange juice laced with a bit of salt.
Then I hear the rustling of soft footsteps nearby. Light, oblivious pants that slink through the chilly air, the sweetest sounds that a hunter can hear.
He thinks he’s alone.
Aw, how precious. My little mouse has returned for another round of hide-and-seek. I know him—Cooper Larson, a first-year med student, swimming in innocence. He calls me sir, a ridiculous number of times in one shift.
But he doesn’t know that I’ve been the one he’s been dancing for in these woods. Begging for me to chase him, to take him, to crack the facade of purity he puts on with those stuttering words.
I have to admit, his crystal blue eyes and straw-blonde hairs have captured my attention in the ER. I was quite surprised with his skill of stitching up my arm, so-much-so that I looked past his trembling fingers and his pulse racing faster than a hummingbird.
Quinns can be quite intimidating. We’ve been bred and trained to instill fear in others.
Generations of cultivated killers. My ancestors perfected the art of the well-timed glare, a silent smirk that promises either salvation or dismemberment depending on the time of day.
It’s sewn into our marrow—an heirloom of predation that’s passed down like wedding rings and emotional repression.
But his heartbeat is unique. It didn’t thump like a deer on the chase.
He’s aching for the thrill.
For the bloodier things in life. He wants to be devoured.
Maybe one night with me is all it will take to get it out of his system.
And him out of mine.
The soft thuds approach closer, his scent of divine temptation growing. Christ, it’s almost impossible to stay rooted to the ground. The aroma of wild clover infiltrates my brain.
It’s almost as if he can sense that I’m watching him. He tilts his head every other step. Ears perked for the slightest ruffle.
As if he knows that I’m savoring the way the moonlight reflects off his cheekbones. His lips are parted, like they are aching for something to fill the void. His blonde hair shimmers from the dim natural light.
God, do I want to fill that void…
Snag him right here, drag him into the branches of the pines, press him against the bark, and hear those pouty lips in action.
No, Reed. Discipline.
You know the rules. No touching the prey unless they deserve it.
That takes research, months, or in some cases years of thoughtfully investigated cases into the targets.
But why does it feel different when I stalk him?
Quinns aren’t supposed to have feelings.
We have strict boundaries and rules to guide our actions.
A set of ethics to determine right and wrong.
A tidy hierarchy to determine who gets to keep breathing and who becomes fertilizer for the crops. Rules to protect us from descending into madness.
We’re a family built on rigor and purpose, pruning humanity’s decay one pulsing carcass at a time. Not lusty beasts that step out of line the moment our thoughts wander off into the ventral realms of our bodies.
Yet here I am—perched in the shadows of the pines like some lovesick gargoyle—watching this little five-foot-six blonde clover, my pulse racing unprofessionally, enthralled by the dilation of his pupils. The slight tremors in his fingers are begging to be gripped, to be controlled.
My pants shift of their own accord, the blood rushing south with the enthusiasm of a mortician handed fresh business. The leaves rustle in response.
Shit. My training didn’t prepare us for when your prick hardens like a rock for a delicate blonde mouse.
His pupils grow when his ears catch the stir of the leaves. Like two black holes drinking in the dark. He’s either fascinated by what hides in the woods or frozen with fear.
But he steps closer to my position, his breath warming the frosty air.
My ancestors are probably rolling in their graves this very moment.
Their skulls groaning with disappointment, jawbones clattering, begging for this moment to be wiped from their omnipresent memories.
A Quinn undone by a boy in the woods. Centuries of training and pride reduced to this pathetic spectacle—one idiot descendent plopped across the dirt, too aroused by his own desires.
“Come on then. Don’t make me beg for it…,” he mumbles to break the silence.
His voice breaks through me like a scalpel sliding down my esophagus. It’s raw and pleading, cracking through my judgement.
Oh, how I ache to answer. To rise from the shadows, close the distance, and taste those open lips. To show him what kind of hello I can deliver.
But the cruel world, or maybe my ancestors from six feet below, interrupts our growing courtship.
A cadence of heavy pounds across the Earth disturbs our precious moment, reverberating to my chest. The air thickens with a reek that doesn’t belong here—sweet and rotten, the unmistakable stench of putrid maple syrup and something far worse: French-Canadian arrogance.
A Baptiste.
Of course. The universe couldn’t resist chaos.
Their presence curdles in the air—like spoiled milk that has been forgotten in the depths of summer.
And unlike me, they don’t play with their prey.