Page 18 of Henrikk’s Secret

They met each other’s gaze and held it a second too long before looking away rapidly.

Disturbing and awkward.

They both seemed to agree that not speaking to each other was best.

But when they both went to exit the office at the same time, they were forced to stop and reevaluate.

Yes, they were the same person. His soul had been examined and recreated by the dragon’s invasive dark magic; the fractured portions re-bonded to his duplicate.

Me. Both of them…Us…Me.

He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. Neither could the other Henrikk, apparently. They shared the same memories, the same thoughts, the same torn arms and wet, ragged clothes. But from this point onwards, their paths would diverge, their lives shaped by the individual decisions they made.

It begged the question: which one of them would now go to Asher, and which one of them would remain hidden in this office?

An argument ensued. His Copy had something of a superiority complex and delusions of grandeur. Henrikk would have knocked him down a peg, to show him who the superior specimen was, but they hadn’t the time.

“You stay,” he ordered his double. He revelled in how quickly the other vampire lowered his head in defeat. It was proof that they were not so similar after all. “And make yourself scarce. I’ll be back shortly. You are to remain hidden until I’ve spoken with Asher.”

Only someone as arrogant as him could be blinded to his own double’s bluff, but blinded he was.

He didn’t even suspect the attack until his double had hit him over the head. Next, he was on the floor, curling up to protect himself as his double delivered another hard kick to his ribs.

“You stay. I will go,” said the Copy, staring down at Henrikk. His face was cast half in shadow, with aristocratic cheekbones, and pointed features angled sharply. His lip curled wickedly, making for an unsettling sight as if a mirror reflection had come to life with a mind of its own. “Find someplace to hide and stay there until I call for you.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut in his wake.

Henrikk (he liked to think of himself as the real Henrikk, though his double clearly thought the same of himself) was stuck here.

He picked himself up off the floor. The agonising wait began—waiting, hoping, praying that Asher was still alive.

The not-knowing ate at his insides.

Please be alive.

Chapter 3

TRUE LOVE’S KISS

Asher

Asher woke but couldn’t move, his body paralysed by an overwhelming slumber. He could not so much as twitch his fingers or wriggle his toes, and his eyelids felt heavy as if they bore the weight of a mountain.

Even his lungs refused to cooperate. He needed more air than what he was getting, but he could not make them draw any more than the passive flow of air that seemed to move of its own accord into his lungs.

That flow of air seemed to come from whatever device was pressed against his face, the stale air moving into his nose and parted lips.

The device, whatever it was, was keeping him alive.

Perhaps it would have been kinder to let him die. The nausea he’d been unaware of was suddenly everywhere, violent waves surging inside him threateningly. He mustn’t throw up, not whilst he was lying on his back. Try as he might, Asher couldn’t summon the will to roll onto his side, but the effort made bile claw up his throat threateningly.

He tried to breathe calming breaths, only to face the sharp reminder that he couldn’t breathe unassisted, a distressing experience that ignited panic.

Something—or someone—squeezed his hand. “Can you hear me, Asher?”

His heart lifted a little at Melody’s voice before plummeting.

Yes, he wanted to say. What are you doing here? What happened?