Page 13 of Ghosts of the Dead

Jace leans back and turns his face toward the crackling fire. The glow paints his features in flickering orange, highlighting his unkempt hair. He looks harder in the light. There’s grief in the lines around his eyes I hadn’t noticed before he looked at the flames. “Is that why someone tried to kill you today? The sniper?”

“Could be.” I shrug. “Maybe someone doesn’t want me asking questions, or maybe I pissed off the wrong people. Could’ve been someone who sees hunting people as a sport. I won’t know unless I talk to him.”

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s not going to happen.”

I glance sideways at him. “Why?”

“Because I killed him.”

I stare at him with incredulity. Did the sniper try to kill these guys, too? “Again…why?”

He turns to face me. His eyes don’t flinch. “Because he tried to kill you.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

“You’re not the only one carrying ghosts,” he says, his voice softer now. Sad, even.

I study his face. The strong jaw, dark eyes, and the scar that acts like punctuation for his expression. “That scar through your brow…bullet?”

He exhales through his nose. “Fire.”

I blink. “You have a thing about fire?”

His gaze shifts to the flames, jaw tightening. “Yeah. It triggers things. Memories I’d rather forget.” Then his gaze flicks to me. “Thanks for helping, by the way. You didn’t have to.”

I shrug and play with the hem of my shirt that’s already lost an inch today. “You didn’t have to help me get out of the city.”

“Yeah, I did.” He looks up at the sky, signaling the end of that.

His words fall between us like coals. Low, heavy, and smoldering beneath the surface. For a second, something shifts in him. His shoulders drop. His eyes dull. He looks so tired it hurts to see. Not physically, but deep-down tired that lives in bone and breath.

He doesn’t sigh, slump, or break, but I see it. The moment he lets himself feel the pressure of keeping three broken people alive—four, including himself.

Then he pulls it all back inside, straightens, and reinforces whatever walls I wasn’t meant to see through.

That’s when I understand. He’ll burn himself to ash before he’s let anyone else go cold.

Without thinking, I reach out with my good hand and wrap my fingers around his. His head turns toward me, dark eyes hardening again. I give him a small smile. “Thanks, Jace. We’re all alive because of you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but a faint smile flickers across his lips before disappearing like it was never there. “I’m sorry for the life you left behind when the dead rose,and that it wasn’t as good as you deserve. For what it’s worth, I care if you live, Autumn.”

When I pull away, his fingers hold on to mine for a second longer before letting go. And for the first time, I care if three more people live, too.

Mars is burning up.I’ve already stripped off the two jackets we covered him with and peeled back the tarp, but heat still rolls off him in waves, thick and suffocating. Sweat glistens on his brow, trickling down to mat his dark hair against his temples. His skin is flushed, lips cracked, and a pale crust forms at the corners from dehydration. I grab the only clean rag we’ve got and dunk it into our precious drinking water, then crouch beside him.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” I whisper, sliding my arms under him. I lift him into my lap, bracing his back against my chest. He’s heavier than I expect, nothing but solid muscle and dead weight, but I manage to shift him without jostling his head too much, angling him just right.

His skin is almost scorching beneath my fingertips. Even unconscious, his body twitches with discomfort, jaw clenching like he’s grinding his teeth through some distant fight. His brows furrow as if he’s battling something in his dreams.

“Whatever you’re dreaming about, I hope you’re enjoying it, because we had to drag your unconscious ass all around a rot zone. Although, that’s only because I went into the city and you ran after me, but that’s only because someone was shooting at me. Then again, you freaked me out by promising safety and socializing. Who does that? We can go in circles over this all night. The point is—well, I lost the point. This conversation isn’t as fun when you’re not awake for me to chastise.”

This infuriating man put himself through hell to save my life. He better live, because I refuse to have his death on my conscience.

I press the cool, damp cloth to his forehead, and his body exhales beneath my hands. The tension in his shoulders unspools as I drag the cloth down his face. Over his sharp cheekbones, the stubble along his jaw, and the curve of his throat. His pulse flutters fast beneath the surface, hammering like his body still thinks it’s in battle.

His breathing slows. Not much. But enough.

“That’s better,” I whisper.

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