Page 11 of Ghosts of the Dead

The flame dies. He tries again, and I watch him flinch when it sparks.

“Why are you trying to make the fire when you clearly don’t want to?” I ask.

He doesn’t look up from the pile of wood. “We need protection, and Mars is out. Caspian’s not here, not really. He’s got his own ghosts. You’re injured, so that leaves me to keep us safe tonight.”

I study his profile in the dimming light. Angular jaw, dark eyes, and a strong nose that looks like it’s been broken and reset at least once. A scar splits his left eyebrow in a jagged line, making his already intense stare look downright dangerous. His messy dark brown hair sticks out at the sides, and exhaustion clings to him like it’s sewn into his clothes.He’s undeniably attractive. The kind of rugged, dangerous handsome that should come with a warning label.

What is it with these guys all looking like gods? Apocalypse side effect? First Mars with his easy confidence and broad shoulders, then Caspian with those otherworldly pale features, and now Jace with his lethal intensity. Did the apocalypse come with some kind of attractive survivor upgrade I didn’t hear about?

“Here,” I scoot closer, careful of my injured wrist. “Let me help.”

Relief floods his features so fast he can’t hide it. He moves back, giving me space to take over. I arrange the kindling, add some torn fabric from my shirt, and coax a small flame to life. As it grows stronger, flickering orange and gold, I notice how he flinches when the flames rise higher.

Jace schools his features and looks at me with a smirk. “Well, you’re just a little fire demon, aren’t you?”

“What can I say? I like explosions, and everything that comes with it,” I answer.

The fire crackles quietly in the center of what used to be a storefront in the outskirts of the city. The place is so run down, I can’t tell what kind it used to be.

Charred shelving units line the edges of the space, angled like barricades against the wind where one wall is missing. Only half a roof remains with broken beams arching overhead, but it’s enough shelter for the night. We’ve wedged a rusted metal sheet and some broken boards over the largest gaps to keep out wind and give us the illusion of safety.

The flames flicker and light up soot-stained walls, dancing shadows across torn posters and cracked tiles. Smoke curls up through ceiling holes, mingling with the scent of melted plastic, old burnt insulation, and somethingsour underneath it all. The smell coats the back of my throat, but it keeps the rotters away. Right now, that’s all that matters.

I can still hear the distant groans echoing somewhere in the city ruins, like civilization’s death rattle. I don’t know how we escaped without the horde following, but we were lucky. They’re far enough away now, and our little fire should keep it that way.

Mars is unconscious again. He stirred while Jace carried him from the alley during our retreat, muttering something I couldn’t make out. His eyes blinked open once, but he was gone again by the time we piled into a vehicle Jace had found, and then we lost the rotters. He’s lying on his side now on a makeshift bed of old coats and insulation, and I can make out the faint rise and fall to his chest beneath the grime. His brow is furrowed even in sleep.

Caspian is curled in the far corner. He sits between two broken shelves, hunched into himself like he’s trying to disappear inside his hoodie. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them, head lowered. His platinum blond hair hangs limp over his pale face, catching firelight in streaks. He hasn’t said a word since the alley. He barely even blinks.

Jace keeps a safe distance and watches while I feed scraps of wood into the flames, keeping them strong enough for warmth without drawing attention. The fire reflects in his dark eyes, and I’m curious why he keeps his distance from it.

Silence fell over us when we left the city, so we haven’t talked about the sniper yet.

Someone tried to kill me today. Another human. A fellow survivor. It wasn’t a panic shot, but something deliberate. We still don’t know if he was acting alone, or how many more are out there like him. I’ve heard about the dregs ofhumanity hunting survivors for sport, but I can’t help worrying it might be more than that.

The wall is cold against my back when I lean back and draw my knees to my chest with my injured wrist cradled in my lap. I haven’t looked at it since the bar, but I don’t need to. The pain tells me enough.

Now that adrenaline’s drained, the throb is impossible to ignore. Hot, insistent, spreading up my arm like wildfire under the skin. I try flexing my fingers, and sharp pain shoots to my elbow. I hiss.

Jace looks up, his eyes catching mine in the flickering firelight. “Let me see it.”

“I’m fine,” I say. I feel like I’ve been saying that all day, and I still can’t convince myself.

His brow arches, making the expression look downright lethal. I wonder how he got that scar, and if he knows it’s basically an exclamation point for his face. “Autumn.”

I hesitate. He takes my silence as permission and crosses the floor with quiet steps, settling beside me so close our knees brush. He’s solid heat and calm presence, a stark contrast to his lethal furrowed brow. He sets down a worn first-aid pouch between us with frayed edges patched with duct tape.

“Let me guess,” he says, unzipping the pouch. “Jumped off a rooftop to avoid having a conversation?”

“Rotters on the ground were safer.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. I get the feeling he’s not much of the smiling type.

His touch surprises me when he takes my arm. His hands are warm, calloused from years of use, but gentler than I expect. He handles my wrist like it’s made of something breakable, turning it gently to assess the damage. I get my first real look.

The joint has ballooned and flushed deep purple. Twice its normal size. The skin is tight and shiny, fighting tocontain the pressure building inside. I try to move it, but the joint is swollen and stiff where purple bruising wraps around it.

“It’s the same color as your hair,” he says, examining the bruising.

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