The yacht was a tomb.
Silence in the middle of the ocean is never peaceful; it is a heavy, suffocating weight that tells you exactly how far you are from help. I lay on the floor of the hallway, my forehead pressed against the cold mahogany, watching the red lines on my wrists fade back to a dull, bruised silver.
The Pulse.
I could feel it vibrating through the hull of the ship. It wasn't the engine the engine was a cold corpse. It was a digital heartbeat, a rhythmic throb of data that Silas had left behind like a scent. He wanted me to follow it. He was leading me into the ice, dragging my son behind him like bait.
"Barnabas!" I croaked, my throat raw from screaming.
I forced myself to my feet, my muscles screaming in protest. I staggered to the bridge, my vision swimming with indigo
