Finn’s instincts told him to slow as he passed the big cemetery, told him to go into stealth mode. But some other sense, some deeper instinct, pushed him to keep running at full tilt, noise be damned. Told him another life depended on his speed, not his silence. 

 

So he was still darting through the fog at top speed when he sensed the flash of movement at the left edge of his field of vision, felt that static charge in the air a split second before he saw it—a figure bursting out of the cemetery’s western gate and coming at him from his left flank.