The Namib Desert pressed down on Mike like an oven left open too long. His shirt clung to him, sticky and damp, though the air was as dry as parchment. The sun hammered every grain of sand until the horizon seemed to ripple like water. He cursed under his breath, wishing for the sharp winds of Svalbard. He'd grown up where snow was a permanent companion, where the air bit at your nose and cheeks until you couldn't feel them. Here, though, his skin felt raw from heat, his tongue thick and useless.
The ghost town of Kolmanskop sprawled before him in the distance through his binoculars—more than forty-odd skeletal houses abandoned to the desert, half-swallowed by sand. Peeling wallpaper flapped in faint breezes, and dunes bulged through shattered doorways, as if the desert were slowly swallowing the past. Once, this had been a booming diamond-mining town. Now it was a corpse, bleached and sand-choked, its bones creaking under the desert sun. Getting here had been a feat in itself; a simple "shadow cloaking" trick and a bit of his fear aura had made airport security a breeze. People simply seemed to subconsciously avoid the space in front of him in a line, creating an invisible bubble of personal space that no one, not even a guard, wanted to cross.
His father had sent him here for the last diamond. Of course it had to be him.
Mike glanced at his phone, thumb tapping out of habit and he was greeted by a black screen. The battery had died hours ago, stranding Google Maps somewhere deep in the circuits. He'd had no choice but to wait for nightfall. In darkness, when the desert finally froze, he could spread his shadow outward—Shadow Spread (he still hated the name)—to feel his way across dunes.
The technique demanded focus, though focus was slippery. Whenever he tried to concentrate, his thoughts slid away: Powder, his pet baby polar bear, devouring his carefully hidden beef jerky stash; the taste of salt and meat he could almost smell even now. Useless distractions. But the shadow trick worked. By 11 p.m., guided by the pale waxing gibbous moon, he had finally reached Kolmanskop.
Better to come at night anyway since tourists sometimes wandered the ghost town by day, and he couldn't exactly dodge their cameras by explaining sorry, I'm an underage shadow-wielding diamond thief.
Earlier, the desert had already punished him for daring to cross it: once with the snap of a snake's fangs missing his ankle by a breath, and once with the humiliation of tumbling down a 300-meter dune, choking on sand. He was still spitting grit from his teeth and swore half his shoes had turned into miniature sandboxes.
Kolmanskop at night was chilling and a bit scary in his opinion because it was quieter than any silence he'd ever known apart from the one in his home's basement, the kind of silence that made you wonder if the world itself had stopped. The only sounds were the occasional rattle of some unseen animal and the ghostly croak of the wind. A lone quiver tree stood nearby, its twisted branches writhing against the moonlight, like some desert sentinel.
Mike pressed on, house by house. He searched twenty-eight of them, each more hopeless than the last. Wallpaper curled, floors sank, beams cracked. Nothing. His hope withered until only exhaustion was left. Using another Shadow Spread was tempting, but he knew it would drain him near-empty.
And then, beneath an old porcelain bathtub heavy with sand, he saw it: a glint. Orange, deep and fiery.
His pulse hammered.
He shoved the tub aside with both arms, sand spilling in heaps. He dug with his hands, the sand gritty under his nails, until he reached it. It was an irregularly shaped diamond, its facets catching the moonlight and glowing like an ember. The moment his fingers closed around it, the orange light vanished, replaced by an inky, deep black. A powerful surge ran through him, a bolt of pure energy that made his hair stand on end. He remembered his father's warning: "Don't hold it for long."
Mike dropped it into his worn brown leather sling bag and stood still, waiting. This was the part in books and films where "protectors" leapt out of the shadows, or the building collapsed in a conveniently cinematic explosion. He waited for something—anything.
But nothing happened. Just moonlight falling through splintered planks and shattered glass.
He snorted softly. "Too easy," he muttered, before forcing the thought away. He knew better than to tempt the universe.
He turned toward the door, took in one last look at the ghost town, and instinctively reached for his phone then remembered. Dead. No victory photo tonight. With a sigh, he started the trek back toward the airport.
✥✥✥✥✥✥✥
Svalbard greeted him with claws of cold that cut straight through his sweat-soaked clothes. He almost welcomed it, until he remembered he'd been stupid enough to not buy a coat. Within minutes his teeth chattered. The snow was merciless after a week of desert heat, and he longed for the steaming bubble bath hopefully waiting at home and the thick, sweet hot chocolate
Invisible beneath his Shadow Cloak, Mike trudged toward his house, radiating just enough fear to keep passersby unconsciously stepping aside and also made him impossible to follow or track. It worked like it always did—he left gaps in crowds without anyone realizing why. As he neared his home, an isolated 2 story bungalow in the polar wilderness, he lifted the shadow coating.
"Powder!" he called once the familiar shapes of the coastline appeared.
A white blur came bounding from the darkness. Powder collided into his legs, yelping with joy. Mike laughed, scooping the polar bear cub into his arms. Powder wriggled, licking at his face, leaving his cheeks wetter than the snow did. He had found Powder one night while ice skating, a lost and terrified cub, and had never been able to let him go.
When he stepped through the door, he was immediately greeted by one of his father's shadow clones, a figure of shifting darkness with a rigid posture. It was the Hardworking Personality clone.
"Mission report," it said, without preamble, its voice flat and toneless.
Alex set Powder down, who immediately began running around and knocking over furniture with a series of delighted grunts.. "Can't it wait, Hugh? Or at least wait for me to take a bath? And maybe a good night's sleep in my bed which I have missed dearly for the last week?" he asked, a tired edge to his voice.
Just then, another clone, Rex the Authoritative Personality, manifested from the shadows. "The mission is of the utmost importance," it stated, its voice a sharp command. "Report now."
Alex sighed. "Do you guys ever sleep?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sleep deprived."
"Clones do not need to sleep, nor do they need to eat. The Gluttony clone eats for him, and The Lazy one sleeps for him."
Mike rolled his eyes. "Figures." He unhooked his sling bag and tossed it. The second clone snatched it midair, then hurried down toward the basement with the prize, boots thudding.
The hardworking clone lingered, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Mike ignored him, dragging himself upstairs toward the bathroom. He was already imagining the bath, the steam, the warmth seeping into his bones. Powder padded after him, carrying—Mike froze—his last hidden can of Spam in its jaws.
"Seriously?" Mike groaned. "I leave you alone one week—one week—and you raid the stash?"
He continued up the stairs muttering how he now had to go grocery shopping in the freezing weather.
Powder wagged its stubby tail, completely unapologetic.
By the time he slid into hot water, muscles finally uncoiling, he nearly dozed off. Flickers of a silver-haired woman drifted in his mind, her face always blurred, untouchable. He wondered, as he often did, who this mysterious woman was.
When he finally stumbled into his room, towel-dried and half-asleep, he found a note waiting on his desk beside the glow of his laptop.
A new mission.
And five words that froze him harder than the Arctic air ever could:
Your sister is alive.