Page 27 of Henrikk’s Secret

Asher frowned. “Where?”

“In a large body of water,” Henrikk said distractedly. I could have you hanged as an imposter.

The copy’s lazy smile transformed into something dangerous. We’ll see who wins THAT little game.

Henrikk’s nostrils flared.

The copy smiled.

“Your hands…you’re hurt.” Asher looked between them, their long sleeves failing to hide their coral-cut hands.

“A flesh wound,” Henrikk said, tugging his lacy cuffs lower.

The copy made no attempt to hide his own injuries.

“For fuck’s sake,” Asher said, losing his patience—an occurrence that happened almost never. To be fair, nearly dying took its toll on a person. Henrikk found himself torn between wanting to tell Asher everything and trying to keep a secret for long enough to decide what to do about the copy.

Asher drew his sword.

Henrikk tensed.

The copy scratched his nose and returned to his book.

“Are you two somehow…communicating?” Asher hissed, his sword held vertically with the tip pointed up as though he was about to knight one of them.

Henrikk tried to exchange a glance with the copy, but much to his annoyance, the copy didn’t bother looking his way. A small battle was lost, and Henrikk vowed to ignore the copy.

“Right. One of you is going to tell me what the fuck is going on!” Asher said irritably, aiming the sword at the copy. When the copy carried on reading, Asher aimed it at Henrikk. “You. Start talking. I won’t ask you again. Which of you is the real Henrikk?”

It was a good question. Theoretically, they were one and the same. At least, that had been the case nearly an hour ago, when the dragon’s magic had infested every facet of his soul, just like it had five years ago. That very first taste of Dargotika’s blood had captured him, like hooks sinking deep into flesh. Henrikk had tried to resist its evilness, and maybe someone noble like Asher would have thrown the dragon’s influence off. But Henrikk had never been pure of heart. Like a glass containing impurities exposed to the sun’s glare, his soul had slowly become stained until he was irreversibly corrupted.

Duplication had taken a further toll on his already marred soul. It was a painful process, and Henrikk had blacked out soon after it.

It was worth the pain. The restorative power of the dragon’s blood, however diluted it may have been in Henrikk’s veins, had saved Asher, reversing the poison’s effects.

He focused on Asher’s questioning face and sighed. Telling Asher all of that would be all well and good if it weren’t for the tiny detail of a very large dragon that was too far-fetched to believe. As far as anyone knew, dragons belonged in legends and fairytales.

Henrikk wouldn’t have believed it either, had he not seen the dragon for himself as a young soldier, an event that had changed his life for the worse.

And now, here he was, having made another bargain with the scaly beast. All because he hadn’t the courage to tell Asher how he felt until it was too late.

Get on with it, the copy drawled.

Henrikk went to the edge of the rug, which lay flat on the floor, and began to roll it up—with absolutely no help from the copy.

After a moment’s hesitation, Asher came over and helped him.

“A trapdoor?” Asher asked as it came into view. “What are you hiding down there? Gold?”

“Secrets,” the copy mused, stealing Henrikk’s line, damn him.

Henrikk hauled the trap door open, and Asher gasped as the sunlit depths of the ocean floor came into view below them.

“What the hell?” Asher peered in for a better look. “Is that…” He shook his head in confusion, blinking several times as he inched towards the edge of the opening. “Is that the fucking ocean?” Then he caught himself and laughed. “It’s an illusion, isn’t it? Some sort of magical…”

Do it, said the copy.

Do what? Henrikk retorted, standing beside Asher, paralysed by uncertainty. He had wanted to speak to Asher, to talk things through. To give him a choice.