Page 12 of Ghosts of the Dead

“Great. Now I’m coordinated.”

“Very fashionable,” he replies, and I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Should I be flattered or concerned that you’re comparing my injury to my hair?”

“Depends. Do you take fashion advice from strangers you meet in dark alleys?”

“Only the ones who save my life and wrap my wounds,” I say, fighting a smile of my own. “So far, you’re passing the test.”

The levity drains from his face. “You’re lucky it’s not broken.”

I let out a huff of laughter. “Define lucky.”

He pulls a cloth bandage from the pouch and starts wrapping my wrist with gentle fingers. The pressure is snug but not painful. He knows what he’s doing.

“You’ve done this before,” I say, watching his fingers work.

He doesn’t answer right away, focusing on the wrap. When his words come, they’re softer than I expect. “More times than I’d like to count. I only wish I had more that could help.”

I want to ask more questions, to pry into his life the way I won’t let anyone pry into mine, but I don’t get the chance.

His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist when he adjusts the cloth, and his hand stills. “You have a tattoo.”

I tense. “For my sister.”

His thumb rests beneath the ink. Two slashes crossed by parallel lines. The Gemini symbol. “You have a sister?”

I nod. “Summer.”

He doesn’t joke like I expect him to. Like everyone else does. He doesn’t ask about seasonal names or make smartass comments. He listens, no judgment in his gaze.

When he finishes tying off the wrap, he lowers my hand into my lap, and his fingers linger longer than necessary. “Tell me about her.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re holding onto something so hard it’s eating you alive. Maybe talking helps. Maybe it doesn’t. Either way, I’m here. I’ll listen.”

This man is more perceptive than I give him credit for. I almost believe I don’t need to say anything because he can read me like an open book, even though I’ve worked so hard to close myself off.

My thumb rubs across the tattoo’s edge as I look down at my hand. Dirt caked under my nails. Knuckles scraped raw. The wrap makes my wrist look fragile, much like how I feel every moment of every day. I give in to this kind man with the lethal gaze. “We were inseparable. Always have been. Same laugh, same temper, same love of breaking rules.”

I stop before telling him how we used to swap places at school to mess with people. That makes me smile a little before it fades.

“When the dead rose, it was only the two of us. We’d been in foster care, bouncing between homes until we landed with a family that barely knew we were there. So when everything fell apart, we had no one else. No one who cared if we were alive.”

Jace stays true to his word. He doesn’t interrupt. Only listens.

“We survived longer than most. We were smart and careful. Tried to be, thanks to all the books, movies, and television we grew up on. We had checkpoints, watch schedules, plans for everything that kept us going one more day.” I pause and run my tongue along my upper lip before continuing. “Then one night, dregs ambushed us. I was knocked out, and when I came to, she was gone.”

Silence settles around us. He doesn’t fill it, sitting there with patience and fire reflected in his dark eyes.

“I heard one of them say something about selling her.” My eyes close for a second, then I take a shuddering breath. “I’ve been looking ever since. She disappeared nearby. It’s been a few weeks, but I’m not giving up.”

“Does that have anything to do with those explosions I saw?” he asks, adjusting the bandage around my wrist.

I nod. “I was trying to clear out the rotters so I could search. Hard to look for clues when you’re dodging the dead every five minutes.” A small smile tugs at my lips. “I’m a big fan of molotov cocktails.”

His mouth twitches, but not in amusement. “That’s one thing we don’t have in common.”

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