Page 41 of The Shadow Sanctum

A rocky ledge juts from the hillside, maybe twenty yards away. I can’t even tell if it’s the shelter we need, but it’s something to go toward, and it pushes me onto my feet.

“Come on, you useless bastard.” I grip Angel under the arms and drag him toward the closest thing to shelter we’ve seen. He’s dead weight, his soaked clothes adding to the struggle. My shoes slip in the muddy slush, but I don’t stop until we’re beneath the ledge. It’s not perfect, but the ground is rocky and dry, and there are several sticks beneath it that could be used for a fire.

It’ll do.

I drop to my knees to inspect Angel, my hands hovering just above his shivering body. His lips have turned blue, and his tanned, Spanish face is turning pale as Luna’s.

The word fuck sails past my lips as I blow out a deep breath, sighed instead of said. I use my own shivering hands to work the zipper of his jacket. When I get it undone, I hurry to strip it off, then the rest of his clothes.

Now for the fire.

I work quickly, yanking the shoelace from my shoe and searching out a sheltered stick that’ll do.

I find one. A curved branch the size of my arm tucked in the crack of the ledge, dragged by an animal building its home. I hurry to retrieve it and thread the shoelace through. My fingers tremble as I knot it tight and fashion a crude bow.

A straight stick serves as the drill I’ll use to spin against a fireboard that I search for next. I hunt through the scattered debris under the ledge until I find a flat slab of pine that’ll work.

Dropping to my knees, I carve a notch into the fireboard with a jagged rock, my movements frantic but precise. My shoulders scream as I brace the board with my knee and press the drill into the notch, gripping the bow and sawing it back and forth.

I can tell I’m being too impatient even as my panicked movement jerks to create a chaotic rhythm that’ll never work. I know from experience.

Wet cotton clings to my bones, and for a moment—just a moment—hopelessness comes over me.

My hands shake too much.

I haven’t made a fire in a year.

Water is dripping onto my fucking equipment.

I’m gonna fail.

Angel’s gonna die.

I’m gonna die.

I close my eyes and let the bow and drill clatter on rock. I take a few deep breaths, pull off my soaked jacket, and throw it to the side. My shirt joins it.

Water dribbles down my forehead from my soaked hair until I comb the wet strand back. Chin tipped backward, I flex my hands and focus on stiffening my shivering muscles, calming my mind.

I’ve hiked Kokoda with no map and no guide.

I’ve done four-hundred sixty miles of continuous mountain ridges on the Baekdu Daegan Trail.

I’ve explored every type of terrain, climate, and ecosystem on nearly every continent.

I know how to make a fucking fire.

As I open my eyes, I set the drill back in place with the bow and get to work.

My eyes hone in on the divot in the bark while I keep my movements quick, smooth, and consistent. I grind and spin, grind and spin.

Smoke curls from the notch.

My pulse kicks up, and I lean closer, eyes locked on the tiny ember forming at the base. Dark powder collects around it, and I take a steady breath, tapping the coal into a nest of shredded birch bark. My hands are shaking as I cup them around the nest to shield it from the wind.

“Come on,” I murmur, voice tight with frustration. I blow slow and steady. The ember glows brighter and catches on the dry fibers with a faint crackle.

Flame.