Page 20 of Henrikk’s Secret

Without warning, Nathaniel lifted the apparatus from his face.

Melody said nothing, which surprised him given the fierce conversation she’d just had with the old healer.

The flow of air stopped. Seconds ticked by, or perhaps minutes. His lungs began to burn, the urge to breathe petrifying.

Why?

Why had Nathaniel removed the apparatus? Why did Melody allow it? He didn’t understand.

Suddenly, his lungs spasmed, then spluttered into life. A small, weak breath of air flooded into his lungs. He fought for another breath amidst a rush of relief. Somehow, he was still alive.

To his surprise, Nathaniel cursed. “This is taking too long.”

Gentle fingers crept along his throat.

Confusion seized Asher. What was Nathaniel doing?

A sob broke out from several feet away. “I can’t look,” Melody cried.

“Then look away,” Nathaniel snapped, a tremble entering his sharp voice as his fingers tightened painfully on Asher’s throat.

Horror and disbelief roared to life within the confines of his body, hammering against his chest and skull. Every instinct warned him to run, fight, or scream. Excruciatingly, he could not move an inch apart from the paltry efforts of his lungs.

“I’m so sorry, Asher,” Nathaniel said, his hands choking him like a vice, collapsing his windpipe.

Nathaniel, no. What are you doing?!

“You don’t deserve to die,” Nathaniel murmured, “but my father must be stopped. And you enable him without even realising it.” He drew a ragged, shaky breath, speaking out loud as if to justify his actions. “I daresay killing you will kill him.”

No…

Nathaniel fell silent, and Melody’s suppressed sobs filled Asher’s ears as Nathaniel strangled him.

He felt himself slipping away.

Melody gasped, “Someone’s coming. I th-think it’s your father.”

“Shit.”

The suffocating hands disappeared from his throat, a trickle of air working its way back to his aching lungs. The apparatus was pushed roughly over his mouth and nose again, and then the door opened.

The world froze like a glacial plane, and Asher somehow sensed that it was Henrikk striding towards where he lay. His heart fluttered pitifully in his chest.

“Father,” Nathaniel greeted with a measured calm as if nothing were amiss.

Instantly, Asher feared for Henrikk, even as he reassured himself that the prince was unlikely to harm his father. Familial blood ties protected vampires from being murdered by their own kin. If Nathaniel murdered his father, he would be cursed for all eternity, forced to live forever as a soulless wretch of a man. The Living Death, they called it. Few vampires were willing to die for a cause, but no vampire would risk the truly terrible fate of wandering the earth as a hollowed-out, undead creature.

“How is he?” Henrikk asked fiercely, very close now, his hand resting on Asher’s shoulder. The emotion in his voice startled him, and a lump grew in his throat.

“Alive, barely,” stated Nathaniel simply. There was not a hint in his tone to suggest he’d just attempted to murder his father’s general.

“But alive,” Henrikk said, a gentle caress brushing along Asher’s cheek.

A pause.

“Yes,” Nathaniel agreed. “Thank goodness.”

And he did sound relieved. Fate had intervened at the last minute, but had it been to save Asher? Or to save Nathaniel from bloodying his hands?