Wolfe is my home.
The air is sucked out of the room as I come to this realization and a wave of dizziness hits me. I've known this man for more than seven years, but I didn't know him until now.
I was so busy fighting him, myself, and my grief, that I didn't see who he was. I never saw the strength, the integrity and the honesty that makes this man. He thinks of himself as a bad man, a villain, a ravenous wolf. He's not. He's the most unselfish person I know. He gives everything he has to make me happy and comfortable.
He knows me better than I know myself. That's why he left me in Tucson, because he knew that I needed time to grieve, time to stop being angry at the world, time to find my own strength. He did what he knew was best for my well-being, even if I couldn’t see his sacrifice at the time.
"Your turn," he tells me as he wipes his face and chest with the towel.
I reach out and tug the towel from his hands. He lets me take it and I toss it aside. I step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist and tilting my face up to look at him.
"I love you, Wolfe."
I feel calm, at peace, completely sure of myself.
He’s frozen under my fingertips, but I give him time, knowing that this is what he's wanted for a very long time. Finally, he moves, sliding his hand up to my head and cupping the back of it, holding me to him.
"Be very sure, Skye."
I nod and smile at him, but I don't repeat myself. I'm taking a page out of Wolfe's book. He knows I meant what I said, I don't have to repeat myself.
He swoops down and kisses me, telling me with his body how much he loves me in return.
Thirty-Eight
As I step out of the palace, I look up at the beautiful azure sky with a sigh of contentment. I glance sideways at Kingston. "Pretty fucking awesome, isn’t it?"
"What’s that?" he asks with a scowl, squinting maliciously at the sky. Kingston isn’t a morning person any more than I am. The only reason I’m even half-way cordial this particular morning is because I’m in love.
"Everything," I say brightly, handing my teacup to the nearest guard. I’m surrounded by five of them, they may as well be useful since there’re no threats in sight.
As much as I want to balk at the added security Wolfe has placed on me, he's made sure that my work won't be hindered by the presence of his security. They do as I order without question, only checking in with Wolfe once they've seen me settled in my destination.
Though I’m no longer allowed outside the city walls, I make sure that there’s a solid protection detail for Dolly and Anita at the water refinery plant. The plant itself is far more vulnerable than anything within the city walls and I want to be sure the Outsiders don't get an opportunity to snatch the two women or cause damage to the equipment.
Wolfe and I have fallen into an easy partnership. In my wildest imagination, I would never have expected this. Not my place in the city, nor Wolfe's, nor our relationship with each other. Yet, it feels right. Almost perfect.
There's only one thing holding me back from truly embracing the things that Wolfe is pushing me toward. Claiming the position of Warlord. Becoming Wolfe's wife.
The fact that my husband still lives. It’s this that has directed my steps toward Dr. Summers’s lab on a bright summer morning. I need to confront and accept my past so I can move on with my future. The doctor greets me brightly as I enter her lab.
I wave and say, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
"Not at all," she says without looking up from her position in front of a microscope, a plethora of notes spread out on the table in front of her.
I walk slowly toward the zombie prison, my eyes searching for Silas. Once more, he’s huddled in the corner, his dirty long hair obscuring his face. I knock on the glass, drawing the attention of the two inside. The third is strapped to a table nearby, her gaze now also on me. As she strains to get up and attack, the two imprisoned Primitives lurch toward me, screaming and hitting the glass. I move to stand in front of the man…. the Primitive…. who used to be my husband. As I look into Silas’s eyes, I can positively say that I see nothing of the man I once knew in the dead gaze staring back at me.
"Is he usually like this?" I turn to direct my question to Dr. Summers.
"Like what?" she asks absently, not looking at me.
I look at Silas again, his stringy hair plastered to his face, head and neck. His lips pulled back in a feral grin. His skin sallow and dark with bruising. He's been punctured in several places on his body, bits of metal shoved through the openings. His missing nose is an awful sight. I'm not sure if he's done this to himself or if other Primitives did this to him, but the effect is gruesome and sickening.
He stands in front of me, listless but alert, as though he'll attack anyone who goes in. I forget my original question, instead asking, "Don't they get infections from stabbing themselves with dirty, rusted objects?"
Dr. Summers finally looks up from her workstation. "Necrotitis Primeval deadens the skin, a little like leprosy. Yet somehow it doesn’t rot and fall off. It's a horrific disease, one that defies medicine as we knew it at the beginning of the 21st century, and we haven't come much farther since then." She comes to stand next to me, her professionally cool gaze on our former Warlord. "For some reason, the virus mostly freezes us humans in the exact growth phase of our lives when we were bitten. Zombies don’t seem to grow older, but we don’t have a lot of empirical evidence either way, since studying them is incredibly difficult."
I didn't know that, but I suppose it makes sense. Even the mythology of zombie-ism agrees, zombies are dead reanimated people.
"Come with me," Dr. Summers murmurs, waving me over to a steel table where the female zombie is strapped down.
I approach cautiously, looking down. Now that I'm closer to her, I can see that she's young. Quite young. Probably not even out of her teens when she was turned. Empathy rises up, though I try to push it down. She’s here for experimental purposes, nothing more. I can't see her as having been human once.
Dr. Summers takes the stethoscope from around her neck and with a questioning look places the earpieces in my ears when I give her a nod. She takes the other end of the stethoscope and places it against the Primitive’s chest.
At first, I hear nothing. I look at the doctor questioningly, thinking that she’s showing me that zombies have no heartbeat. I wouldn't be surprised by this. But then, I hear it. A single heartbeat. I hold my breath, believing that I misheard, my brows furrowing as I wait. Then it comes again, one more heartbeat. My eyes lift to Dr. Summers’s and she nods. She pulls the earpieces from my head.
"We've always believed that zombies don't age, that they remain frozen from the moment they’re bitten. But now, I don't think that's true anymore. I think they do age, just incredibly slowly. As though the virus slows their metabolism down, almost to a halt. Yet they’re somehow still able to function."
"But then, how are they able to move so quickly?"
"Pure adrenaline," she says, her crystal blue gaze on the female laid out before us. The Primitive’s clothes are in tatters, hanging off her emaciated frame. Her bones are visible through a thin layer of skin. Unlike Silas, she's been punctured all over, including her arms and legs. "The constant adrenaline rushes as they hunt shortens their lives significantly. So even though growth and aging slow down, the effect the virus has on the human body is devastating. I believe it's why your friend’s organs shut down after she was turned human again."