Adam himself, though, was anything but, especially when it came to what I knew of alien/human hybrids. At a quick glance, I wouldn’t have thought him more than a normal human. In his early twenties probably, he was dressed in khakis and a bright yellow T-shirt stretched to its limits. He was broad and muscular, almost absurdly so. He actually had to turn slightly sidewise to fit through the door. He could probably have ripped the wooden cabinet off the wall without any additional abilities beyond his strength.
Which made sense. As I understood it, Emerson St. John’s approach involved introducing alien DNA through a virus and rewriting portions of the human genetic code. Picking a fit human specimen was not only logical but probably necessary to ensure survival.
Upon closer look, though, there was something…off about Adam. It wasn’t the same kind of “differentness” that people saw in me. His brown eyes were dilated, making the pupils strangely large. And he seemed paler than he should have been, but his cheeks were flushed pink with color.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
Adam walked in and took a position behind St. John’s table, standing instead of sitting, as if waiting for instructions. I studied him, trying to get a read on what it was about him that screamed “wrong” to me. Other than the fact that if it came down to hand-to-hand, he would crush Ford and me. If he had even remotely the kind of psi abilities we had, we were severely outclassed.
“And, of course, the primary advantage to our method is demonstrated in our special model,” St. John said proudly.
I was too busy squinting at Adam to pay attention to St. John’s sales pitch, which was a mistake.
Ford sucked in a sharp breath. I automatically glanced back and found her staring at the door. I followed her gaze. My body went cold as soon as I saw what she was looking at.
Who.
The person in the doorway, the “special model.” Like Adam, he was dressed in khaki and yellow. But he was taller, well over six feet with dark hair that was mussed and eyes that, when not so dilated, would have been a perfect shade of gray-blue.
Zane.
I stumbled backward, blinking rapidly, as if a trick of the fluorescent light was responsible for the mirage of the dead boy I loved.
But, no, he was still there. He wasn’t looking at me, staring fixedly ahead. But it was unquestionably Zane.
I couldn’t breathe.
Laughlin laughed. “Impressive, I must admit.”
Next to me, Jacobs shot to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Our method can be applied to anyone,” St. John said, continuing his speech. “No need for the time-consuming process of growing personnel with special skills. With our formula, you can enhance anyone you want. Key contacts within an organization, informants, those with a personal connection to the target.” And with that he looked straight at me.
St. John had done this intentionally. Why? What did it even mean to “enhance” someone? How deep did St. John’s process go? My thoughts were consumed by this shift in reality. I was afraid to move, to inhale or exhale with any degree of force, as if that might cause the sight of Zane to dry up and crumble away.
“Assuming they survive,” Laughlin said dryly with a sniff. But he didn’t seem upset, more amused than anything.
“This is unacceptable!” Jacobs shouted, his fists clenched.
“Oh, don’t be a poor sport just because he outmaneuvered you,” Laughlin said gleefully. “Picked the boy up off the pavement, did you?” he asked St. John. “Smart.”
“What is going on?” Melody demanded.
I ignored all of them, the din around me fading into a faint hum, as I watched Zane. His chest was moving in and out steadily, and there was no sign of the bullet wound that had seemingly killed him.
He was here. He was alive.
The urge to see him close up, to touch him, swept over me, squeezing my chest. I lurched in Zane’s direction.
Jacobs made a grab for my elbow, but I pushed him away before he made contact, sending him stumbling and crashing into his chair under the invisible force of my mind, the very ability he’d gifted me with.
Then I shoved at our table, swinging it neatly out of my way. The fastest route to Zane was through the U, not around it.
Chaos erupted then, with someone shouting for the guards, who piled into the room, moving around Zane like water flowing around a rock as they searched for the threat.
And still Zane didn’t react. What had they done to him?
“Stop her!” Jacobs’s shriek pierced the fog in my head.
But I didn’t need to be stopped. I halted all on my own in front of St. John’s table, two feet from Zane.
His face was pale, but his cheeks were flushed, just like Adam’s.
“Zane?” I asked, my voice hoarse and scared sounding.
He didn’t move, but his gaze flicked to mine for the barest of seconds. Any farther from him and I probably wouldn’t have seen it.
He knew his name, at least. But that appeared to be it. The look he’d given me had held no recognition or significance.
Knock, knock, knock, but nobody’s home.
My knees wobbled, weak suddenly, as a huge, wrenching sob rolled out of me, catching me by surprise before I could stop it.
Not that it mattered. The GTX guards were on me seconds later, pulling at my arms and shoulders, tugging me away.