In terms of his outward appearance, at least. But my Zane—was it wrong that I still thought of him that way? I wasn’t sure—had been completely human. Definitely not capable of picking that guard up with just his mind.
The most logical answer was simply what St. John had implied: he’d selected Zane as a candidate for “enhancement” through his formula, the virus he’d engineered to deliver and insert alien DNA into an existing human.
That also fit, I realized, with another detail: Zane’s body missing from the parking lot and/or hospital, and staff being unable to confirm what exactly had happened to him.
Somehow, St. John had found Zane in time to save him, likely by introducing the alien DNA into his system. Our ability to heal rapidly would be an enormous advantage in saving someone on the brink of death, if such a thing were possible.
But that wasn’t the big question. The real question—with those changes—was Zane still…Zane?
He’d looked right at me. Just for a second, but that was long enough. No meaningful glance, no expressive pleading with his eyes, just…nothing.
Zane was alive, yes, but possibly so damaged that he was no longer himself. And while I should have been relieved to find him breathing, the knowledge that he was no longer the same was almost worse.
And then, beyond that—in yet another level of horribleness that must be considered—there was a second question that I couldn’t shake, one I desperately needed an answer for: why? Why save Zane and bring him here as a potential competitor?
It was deliberate, not a happy coincidence; I had no doubt of that. St. John had been looking right at me when he talked about the advantages of his approach. In fact, thinking about it now, I had to wonder if St. John had held Zane out of the room until he was sure I was there.
So it wasn’t just saving a mortally wounded sixteen-year-old male. It was saving this one.
Why? Why? Why? The question beat in my head in time with the throbbing of my accelerated pulse.
The obvious answer was that introducing Zane as a candidate in the trials was designed to throw me. If St. John had somehow gotten wind of our…closeness, then Zane might be an excellent tool for distracting and disorienting me, keeping me from winning the trials.
But following that idea to its logical conclusion, St. John would also be forced to assume that I would want to save Zane, get him back. Which presumably might interfere with his winning of the trials.
Unless St. John was just hoping that I’d go all Victorian fainting female and have to be removed, too overcome by all my untidy human emotions?
Sorry, wrong girl, wrong species. Yes, I’d been shocked to see Zane alive, but that had lasted less than a minute before my training and instincts kicked in. I wasn’t as frail as I looked, an assumption St. John wouldn’t likely live long enough to regret.
But even that logic was flawed. It assumed that I was the leading contender, when even I, under normal circumstances, would have put my money on Ford.
Ford would not be swayed by Zane’s presence. If anything, it would give her a clearer path to victory. Kill Zane—an easier target because, no matter what St. John’s formula had done, it couldn’t make up for the instincts and skills honed over years—which would then compromise me emotionally, far more than discovering him alive. A two-for-one special. Witnessing Zane’s death (again) would, at the very least, make me sloppy, slow to react, and Ford knew that. It would create the opening she needed.
After that, hunting down the provided target would be no problem; Ford would have all the time in the world and no distractions. It’s not hard to win when there’s literally no competition.
And that was the problem. Since St. John presumably wasn’t (a) an idiot or (b) in league with Dr. Laughlin to give him the easy win, none of this made sense.
I was missing something.
I bit my lip. Like…perhaps the answers to my two questions—Was Zane still Zane? And why was he here?—were related.
Maybe Zane was here because he wanted to be. Not the old Zane I’d known, but the new one. The idea settled in my stomach like a rock with razor-sharp edges.
I didn’t know how St. John’s formula had changed Zane. But considering what I’d observed—Zane’s nonreaction to my presence, his obvious willingness to participate (there’d been no guards pushing him in the door, as far as I’d seen), and his driving belief that he’d never be good/fast/strong enough as he was, thanks to his father—a very different Zane seemed like a distinct possibility.
I pulled my knees closer to my chest, against the chasm I could feel opening beneath my ribs. There was only one way to know for sure: talk to Zane.
And possibly be killed in the process, thereby answering all my questions.
TOMORROW MORNING. WEST ENTRANCE.
Was it worth giving up my last opportunity to do what I’d come here for just for answers I wasn’t sure I wanted?