Page 42 of Ghosts of the Dead

Across the fire, Jace stands and tosses a wrench onto the ground with a sharp metallic clatter. His jaw is set like stone. He doesn’t say a word when he turns and stalks off into the sunset with his broad shoulders rigid.

My smile falters, and I watch him disappear past the edge of the firelight until he’s swallowed by shadow, and something inside me aches.

I’m not sure which burned hotter. The fire Mars lit in me, or the storm Jace always leaves in his wake.

Mars rests his forehead against my shoulder with a sigh. His fingers squeeze my thigh for a moment before letting go.

“Well, that killed the moment,” he says with a dry sigh.

I slide my leg off Mars’s lap. “I should sleep. We both should.”

He doesn’t stop me. His eyes follow me with something between yearning and restraint, but he says nothing.

I move a few feet away and curl up near the fire, wrapping my arms around my knees. The night settles in around us.

I try to sleep. But with fire in my veins and storms in my head, rest feels a thousand miles away.

15

MARS

Autumn shivers. It’s not dramatic, more of a small twitch of her shoulders where she sleeps with her knees drawn up and arms wrapped tight around them.

My old flannel swallows her frame with the sleeves stretching past her fingertips. I love seeing her wrapped up in something that’s mine. Years of wear and tear and neglected holes leave it almost useless against the night chill, but seeing her in my clothes makes me wish I had more to give her. A whole wardrobe to wrap her in.

Caspian’s slumped against the crumbling wall with his hands disappeared inside his hoodie and his head drooping. He fell asleep on watch, with his eyes having never left Autumn until exhaustion claimed him.

Jace remains in the car with his legs dangling out the side and his arms locked across his chest. His eyes might be closed, but I know better. He never truly sleeps. He’s that same coiled spring, always ready to snap.

I should feel guilty for pushing Jace earlier, but I don’t. His walls are reinforced steel and self-inflected. While he barricades his pain behind sharp glares and mutteredwarnings, Autumn’s the one shivering, and I’m the only one noticing.

So I do what I always do. I fix it.

I toss another log into the fire and slip away from our makeshift camp, picking my way across asphalt and rubble in search of anything remotely blanket-shaped.

Most of the buildings on this street have collapsed into piles of concrete and twisted metal, leaving plenty of wreckage we haven’t had time to search through properly.

I start with the remains of what looks like it used to be a clothing store. The sign is long gone, but I can make out remnants of display cases buried under debris. I’m digging through a pile of broken glass and fabric scraps when I hear the telltale shuffle behind me.

The rotter emerges from behind a collapsed wall section, its jaw hanging at an unnatural angle and one arm completely missing. It’s fresh enough to still be wearing the tattered remains of a business suit, which is a shame because I would have loved to meet whoever thought it was a good idea to wear a business suit in this day and age.

When it lunges at me, I sidestep and grab a metal pole from the rubble.

“Sorry, buddy. Wrong place, wrong time.” I drive the pole straight up through its chin and into its brain. The metal scrapes against bone when it punches through, and the rotter drops like a stone. The metal pole clangs when I toss it aside and the sound echoes off the empty walls around me.

Damn.

I pause and listen, scanning the shadows for any sign the noise attracted company. The street remains silent except for the distant crackle of our fire in the distance.

Good. This area really is as deserted as it looks, and I’d like to keep it that way.

I move deeper into the wreckage and continue mysearch. Beneath a collapsed stairwell buried under chunks of concrete and debris, I spot something promising. I have to move several pieces of weathered objects and garbage, but eventually I pull out a rolled-up blanket. It’s a little dirty and weatherworn, but it’s intact.

“Perfect,” I whisper with a grin. It’s not the prettiest, but I can clean it up tomorrow. For now, it’ll work until I find something better for Autumn.

I roll it back up and place it under my arm. I whistle a mindless tune as I head back.

When I return, the fire smolders low, flickering red against the ash. I should add another log, but I want to check on my favorite season first.

---