Page 8 of Ghosts of the Dead

For the first time since the fire started, I pause to simply breathe. My lungs still ache from smoke and my legs tremble from adrenaline, but I’m still standing and alive, and that’s something. I glance at my unconscious savior and feel intense guilt that I got him into this mess. Sure, he came looking for me, followed me all around this damn city, and then blew himself up, but I still feel some guilt. He’s already saved my life more than once, and I still only know his name. Well, his name, and the fact he’s pure muscle. If he was a twig, then maybe I could try carrying his ass out of this city. He’s not, so I need to find another way to transport him. While I left him on the rooftop, I can’t bring myself to leave him behind now.

I rise with the molotov gripped tight, prepared to fight our way out of this rotter-infested city with a single liquor bottle and a lighter, until I look up and freeze.

A man stands ten feet from the alley mouth. He’s tall and lean, dressed in dark gray cargo pants and a tattered black hoodie hanging open over a dark tank top. Platinum blond hair falls in messy waves over his forehead and shoulders. His skin is pale enough to look almost frostbitten, but it’s his eyes that stop me cold. They’re icy blue like winter storm clouds. “Holy shit, are all of you mystery men so beautiful?”

My gaze drops to the pistol in his hand that’s aimed right at me.

Time holds still as seconds stretch between us, thick as the smoke clinging to my skin. The man’s gaze shifts over my shoulder and he pulls the trigger. I flinch as the crack rings out and echoes off the brick walls.

I whirl around me to see a rotter crumpled behind me, collapsed with its skull pierced clean between the eyes. I hadn’t even realized it was that close. Didn’t think anything was behind me.

When I turn back, the stranger holsters his pistol like it’s nothing. He doesn’t speak as he walks toward us, each step silent and measured, an odd contrast to the growing flames behind me and billowing smoke around us.

He crouches beside Mars and checks his pulse before peeling open his eyelids. His fingers are thin, quick, and precise, like someone trained for triage or trained to kill. Maybe both. Who the fuck are these guys?

“He’s alive,” he says, his voice clipped and emotionless.

I nod and tighten my grip on the bottle.

After taking the boot from Mars’s lap and shoving it back into his bare foot, the man slides Mars’s arm over his shoulder and lifts him onto his back in one fluid motion. He’s slim, strong, and moves like a shadow.

“We need to move,” he says.

“You think?” I say.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, and doesn’t smile. He turns and starts jogging down the alley with Mars slumped against his back like he weighs nothing.

I follow. Not because I trust him, but because right now, I don’t have much choice.

And because, whether I like it or not, these men might die without me.

5

CASPIAN

Autumn runs ahead of me, and I’m grateful she’s not fleeing. I wouldn’t be able to stop her if she did. Not with Mars slung across my back like a bag of wet cement. He’s dead weight, and I mean that in my most hopeful way possible. He’s still breathing. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against me, the irritating way his breath tickles the hairs on my neck, and the warmth of his blood soaking through my hoodie, a stain that’ll stick around forever.

One of his socks is missing, and I’m guessing that’s what’s shoved into the bottle Autumn’s carrying. A makeshift molotov, impressive. He’s going to have complaints when he wakes up. Without a doubt. Mars always made a big deal about his favorite socks, so he’ll probably start with that, move on to the explosion and bar fire, then chew me out for something. I’m always getting chewed out for something. At least he still has a chance to complain. I’ve carried bodies before. Some breathing, some not. Can’t think about that now.

We round a corner and Autumn stumbles, catching herself against the wall with a sharp hiss. That’s when I notice the swelling around her right wrist, flushed withangry violet bruising. She cradles it against her chest, guarding it like something precious.

“Are you?—”

“I’ve got it,” she snaps, eyes forward and jaw clenched tight.

Right, of course she does.

Even injured, she keeps moving, keeps fighting. I don’t know whether to admire her determination or worry like hell about her. Probably both.

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment. She shakes her head, lets out a slow exhale, then continues forward.

The alley narrows as we go deeper. Light fades, and shadows cling to the red brick wall like mildew. Thick, wet, and suffocating. Broken crates litter our path. An overturned dumpster spills rusted cans and old bones across the pavement. A busted van sits on flat tires with its doors hanging open and windows shattered. A smear of something dark, maybe blood, maybe not, streaks across the ground.

I hate alleys. I hate being boxed in, but I hate the dark even more.

“How are we going to do this?” Autumn asks, pulling me back to our immediate problem.

“What?” I blink hard, forcing my brain to catch up. I’ve been watching her too closely, watching my feet, watching everything except what’s directly ahead. And what’s directly ahead is a dead end.

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