Page 17 of Ghosts of the Dead

Sometimes I see nothing at all. No screaming, only silence. Sometimes I see her already gone, and that’s the worst image of all.

I press my good hand to the center of my chest, right over my sternum, like pressure alone can keep me from falling apart. My breath stutters out.

This was supposed to be simple. Find her. Get her back. Move on.

I didn’t plan for…this.

I glance toward the fire where one of the three newest complications in my life leans against the exposed frame of our shelter. Jace sits with his hand on his pistol attached to his side, and his chin tucked to his chest. His broad shoulders rise and fall in a slow rhythm, but I know he’s not asleep. He seems to sleep about as much as I do, so probably never. He listens even when his eyes are closed, always poised to act like his body forgot how to rest.

The thin scar slicing through his left eyebrow is shadowed in firelight. Everything about him looks carved from something tougher than flesh, but I’ve seen the cracks underneath and how carefully he hides them. There’s something magnetic about his intensity. The way he carries himself like he could take on the world single-handedly. I have no doubt he would win if he did.

Mars lies closer to the fire, his face flushed with fever. Sweat beads along his temple. His shirt is half-twisted, exposing one shoulder and a chest that rises with shallow breaths. One arm curls over his stomach, his fingers twitching like he’s fighting something in his dreams. He muttered something about cocktails earlier before slipping under again. Even unconscious and vulnerable, there’s something undeniably attractive about him. The strong lineof his jaw, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The way his soft lips pressed against mine.

Jace has checked Mars’s pulse and examined his eyes multiple times, each time sighing with relief and announcing he still only has a mild concussion. He’s mentioned Mars has had several before, which didn’t make me feel any better, but I trust Jace’s assessment. Not that I have much other choice, but I like his confidence.

Caspian huddles in the corner opposite mine, with his knees pulled tight to his chest and his hoodie drawn low over his face. He hasn’t said a word in hours. He’s barely moved since we first settled in. Jace told me to leave him be, that he needed time to sort through his own ghosts. Even broken and haunted, there’s something ethereally beautiful about Caspian. Those pale, angular features and striking ice-blue eyes that seem to see too much. I want to go over to him and make sure he’s okay, but if what Jace says is true, it would mean risking whatever progress he’s already made.

I let out a slow exhale and rake my fingers through my hair. It’s tangled, gritty, and falling in limp waves over my shoulders. Everything about me feels used up. My limbs ache. My thoughts drag like they’ve been soaked in mud. Even hope feels tired.

What I hate most is how safe this feels. Even in ruins, with Mars sick, Jace haunted, and Caspian hanging on by a thread, they’re all still here. I hate how much that matters. I told Jace to take them home, to leave me and save themselves the moment Mars is safe to transport. None of them did. Now I’m stuck with three dangerous men I trust more than I should, and that’s the dangerous part.

Three men who saved me from a sniper and ran into a rot zone after me, a stranger, yet refuse to leave me behind as though somehow I mattered to them. Since I won’t leave without Summer, I guess we’re all bound together for the long haul.

I reach for my water bottle and grip it with my good hand while trying to twist off the cap. Pain shoots up my arm when my wrist screams in protest. I grit my teeth and try again. The bottle jerks in my grip and waterdrops spill into the dirt. “Dammit.”

“Here, I’ve got it.” The voice is soft, quiet, and close. I look up.

Caspian stands a few feet away where firelight catches the edge of his jaw and the pale angle of one cheekbone. Even with his hood still drawn low, I can see how pale he is. He’s drawn tight around the eyes with his lips pressed in a flat line. He walks over and kneels beside me without meeting my gaze. He’s graceful, even in his obvious pain. He takes the bottle, unscrews the cap with a quick twist, and hands it back without a word.

“Thanks,” I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. I take a drink of the cool water.

He shrugs and settles down beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. The contact sends an unexpected flutter through my chest, something the proximity of these guys has awakened. His presence is soothing in a way I don’t expect. It’s nice.

“I thought you were asleep,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s worse when I sleep.”

The way he says it, that flatness like truth doesn’t need explanation, settles like lead in my chest. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Yeah. I don’t enjoy talking about my issues, either.”

He shifts, and the edge of his hoodie falls back enough to reveal one pale blue eye and a messy lock of platinum hair. When he glances at me, there’s something vulnerable in that gaze that makes my heart skip. “You should probably stay away from me.”

The words take a moment for me to process. I blink back my surprise. “Oh. Okay…I didn’t mean to bother you.”

I start to shift away, but before I can move far, his fingers wrap around my arm in a gentle grasp just above the elbow. The contact is light but electric, enough to stop me in my tracks. The motion causes his hoodie to slip farther down, revealing how haunted his expression is, and how heartbreakingly beautiful he looks in the firelight.

“Wait. That’s not—” he exhales. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I pointed a gun at your head.”

“The magazine was empty.”

“Even so.” His voice turns hollow. “If it wasn’t empty…if Jace hadn’t stepped in…”

“If the virus never broke out, if I’d been born with four eyes,” I finish. “There are a lot of what-ifs and we can play this game all night.”

His eyes close for a moment before opening again, somehow looking even more haunted than before. “Still…” he says.

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