The mountain air seemed to freeze in time. The roar of the wind was silenced by a new sound—a deep, rhythmic thrumming that didn't come from the helicopter or the storm. It came from Adrian.
He lay on the cold concrete of the helipad, his body arching as the sapphire liquid surged through his carotid artery. The violet light erupting from his chest was so intense it cast long, distorted shadows of Maya and Julian against the mist.
220 bpm.
The sound was like a war drum. I crawled toward him, my hands scraping against the grit, my own heart stuttering in a strange, sympathetic resonance. The "Blue Frequency" in my wrist had turned a pale, ghostly white. I was no longer the power source; I was the satellite, pulled into the gravity of the sun.
"Adrian!" I screamed, reaching for him.
As
