—Natasha's POV—
The morning of the Run did not dawn so much as it seeped into being, a slow, gray osmosis of light through a blanket of low, oppressive clouds. The air in Ashbourne was thick and chilled, tasting of impending rain and damp earth, holding its breath for the violence to come. The official gathering point was a desolate, gravel-strewn lot carved out of the pine forest at the base of the Blackwood Mountains, where the old asphalt of the Serpent’s Pass began its sinuous, treacherous climb. The atmosphere was a bizarre fusion of festival and wake. The low, guttural idle of two dozen high-performance engines created a dissonant symphony, punctuated by the sharp, acrid scent of high-octane fuel and the frantic shouts of last-minute bets being placed. It was a grim carnival, and th
