He’s tall and wears a black cloak with a high collar—like Count Dracula. Carter’s heart hammers.
Carefully, he inches closer until he can see more of the man. His heart pounds even faster. His hair is black and shiny, slicked back. Silver rings glint on his fingers. Tiny sequins sparkle like starlight on his cloak.
It’s him.
Sorin the Magnificent.
Alone, deep in the shadows of the lifeboat, vaping.
Carter’s mouth goes dry. Excitement rushes through him. He hesitates only a moment—one has to grab opportunities fast, with both fists, when fate presents them. He sucks in a humongous breath and steps forward to introduce himself.
But just as he’s about six feet away from Sorin the Magnificent, he senses movement. Carter spins around, freezes, as a huge, hulking shape materializes out of the darkness and surges toward Sorin. The ship’s light flashes across the hulk’s face.
He wears the mask of Thanatos—the silent death.
Poppy
Twenty-Eight Minutes To Impact
Poppy returns to the theater, walking unsteadily as the shift and sway of theOrchidincrease. It’s as though the ship is restless—unwilling to be trapped for the night in the volcanic arms of the ancient caldera, where spirits whisper and reach and call from deep sunken cities of the Minoan times.
Intermission is underway. The lights are slightly brighter, and conversation in the lounge is animated yet tense as guests huddle in groups beneath swaying chandeliers, glasses in hand.
Poppy can’t see Avi or Roshaan. Patrick sits alone at their table.
She weaves her way toward him, bracing herself on chairs as the ship rocks. She sits, stumbling slightly as another tilt pitches her forward.
“Feeling a bit better?” he asks.
She nods. “Sorry about that. This storm is messing with my stomach and nerves. Never mind that vile mind reader.”
He swallows the rest of his drink and signals a waiter. He orders another round of boulevardiers. His expression is curiously flat, unreadable.
“You know,” he says quietly once the server departs, “he’s actually very good at what he does.”
“Sorin?”
He nods. “He had a go at poor Lilli and Hendrick—calling her a duplicitous enchantress, and him a sly trickster.”
She swallows, glances around the room. “Where are they now?” She notices Lillith’s diamanté purse is gone.
“Went out for some air.”
“Is Lillith okay?”
He shrugs. The waiter arrives, wobbling slightly as the floor tilts. He sets down their drinks.
Patrick reaches for his glass. “It’s not so much what he says,” he murmurs. “It’s that his words land against each individual’s private, internal narrative. The guests—his victims—do the work for him. They come with an expectation hewillfind a secret, so their own guilt or shame is already topmost of mind.”
Poppy stares at the moving liquid in her glass. It catches candlelight. Above, the crystals in the chandeliers quiver and tinkle like tiny bells.
“I don’t know, Patrick. What he said to me felt ... just nasty.”
He snorts. “You challenged him. A man like that—he hates being challenged. He had to make a show of putting you in your place, to scare the rest of the audience. He wanted to make them tremble in fear that he might turn onthemnext.”
“I suppose I am always the foil people pick on. I must haveloserwritten all over me.” She hesitates, then looks up into his blue eyes. “Bullies have always sensed something in me. Ever since I was little.”
He holds her gaze. Something in his features softens.
