Page 60 of Henrikk’s Secret

The taste of Asher’s blood was tantalising, but that was not the only reason why he’d bitten him.

The act of feeding activated a telepathic connection between vampire and prey, but Henrikk had never used it, not even to extract information. His thoughts were private, and nothing less than a solid mental block would do to ensure that he kept others out.

Dargotika had been the only exception, the one creature powerful enough to invade his mind without permission.

Henrikk had spent so much mental energy trying to keep others out. Now, he wanted to lay his soul bare to the love of his life.

Tentatively, he opened his mind, and let a bewildered Asher in.

“Why do I get the feeling that this is a trap?” Asher asked internally, his voice echoing in Henrikk’s mind.

“It’s not, I assure you.”

“Well, forgive me for not trusting your motives,” Asher said.

“You’re not the one who needs forgiving.”

Henrikk knew that Asher felt his sincerity, and was met with the general’s empathy.

“Give yourself time,” Asher said. “You cannot dwell on your past mistakes forever.”

“Just tonight then. I thought we might take a trip down memory lane to one of my greatest regrets.”

He sensed Asher’s hesitation. “This isn’t the wizard’s caravan, is it?”

“No, but that very same night.”

Henrikk stopped feeding, but he kept his mouth pressed against Asher’s neck, licking him gently, tasting salt. Their lingering touch kept their minds connected, and Henrikk wrapped his arms around Asher, whose hands covered his.

“I’m not sure I want to return to that night,” Asher said.

“Trust me?”

It was a big ask. He’d done little to earn Asher’s trust. Perhaps Asher felt his hesitance because he agreed.

Henrikk focused, conjuring up memories of the past.

Slowly, the dark island dissolved around them, replaced with a new scene. It was a brighter evening, and they were standing in a field full of painted caravans and bright lanterns. Merry music filled the air. There were people milling about, laughing, and enjoying the festivities. The scent of toffee and greasy foods drifted their way.

Asher inhaled deeply, a carefree grin on his face. “The spit roast. I’d forgotten about that.”

His grin faltered when Henrikk took his hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Afraid someone will see us holding hands?” Henrikk asked, starting to pull away.

Asher squeezed his hand, holding it firmly. “No, I just didn’t expect it.”

They walked holding hands through the festival grounds together, unseen by the ghosts of people who were captured in Henrikk’s memory. It felt real, as if they’d travelled back in time, except for the bizarre sensation when two running children bolted through them; giggling and shrieking at the tops of their lungs.

“Where are you leading me?” Asher asked as Henrikk pulled him towards the outskirts of the festival.

“Back to base.”

They climbed a fence and crossed an empty field, the light and noise fading behind them. The next field over was surrounded by makeshift fences and wire, with rows of tents; some aglow with lanterns and others dark.

“And there you are,” Henrikk said, pointing to a soldier passing through the base entrance.

The younger Asher was in his early twenties, looking quite dashing in his uniform. The sentries waved him through, and he strode into the base exuding his usual calm self-assurance.