Page 7 of Henrikk’s Game

An unsettling dread crept in, coiling around his heart like a serpent.

With his back pressed to the tree trunk, he could not see the door through the foliage. It would have been simple to lean forward and swing his head around the gnarled trunk to see, but something held him in place. He dared not move. Instead, he remained perfectly still, his breathing shallow.

The Garden Room was deserted. It had to be. Whoever had opened the door had clearly changed his or her mind about entering, or Asher would have at least heard footsteps.

The silence became deafening in his ears, growing more tense and oppressive with each passing second.

Sitting in the shadows of the bay laurel, Asher became certain that he was not alone.

He could sense another’s presence, a chilling awareness sending shivers down his spine.

Clack.

The single sharp sound came from the direction of the door. It made Asher tense, his fingers tightening around the plate so hard it broke in two with a tiny click.

Shit.

He stared at the two porcelain halves, knowing he should set them down as quietly as possible but not daring to do even that.

Clack.

Another sharp sound rang out. This time, he recognised it as a slow, deliberate footstep.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

The sound was growing louder.

Asher held his breath, questioning why he was hiding like a mouse.

You are not the cat.

With a surge of apprehension, Asher realised who the mysterious newcomer was. Realised that Henrikk had lied when he’d said in his letter that he’d been called away.

The footsteps drew steadily closer to his side of the room.

“Oh, little mouse…” Henrikk sang, his aristocratic voice deceptively inviting. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

A sheen of sweat dampened Asher’s forehead. Slowly, carefully, he set the broken plate down on the soil without making a sound. He let out a silent exhale.

He drew the hand-axe silently, but the blade clinked against the metal of his sword scabbard.

Shit.

He should have practised drawing his weapons back in his room.

A haunting cackle echoed in the cavernous room. Asher could imagine Henrikk pivoting to face in his direction.

“Are you there, General?” Henrikk called softly.

Asher didn’t respond, his grip tightening on the hand-axe.

Henrikk’s footsteps drew closer.

Clack. Clack. Clack.