A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

XVIII. Parasite

"Uhh . . . may I have another five minutes?" Henry fidgeted and let out a yawn. "I shall even restock your supply of Firebeetles . . . later . . ."

But the constant prodding didn't cease, and so Henry begrudgingly turned over, fully expecting to collide with the wall to his left. Instead, a sharp twinge shot through his right hand.

His wince of pain quickly turned to confusion when he found no wall in sight. His gaze remained fixed on the dimly lit ground, and it wasn't long before he became aware of the sound of rushing water nearby. Henry frowned, then he startled as a sudden, resounding clack echoed before him.

Wild static clustered his head and Henry shut his eye tightly, struggling to regain his echolocation. When his surroundings finally came into focus, he was taken aback by the sight of . . .

"Are you hurt?"

Henry stared at the fiery red lobster, stretching an impressive six feet in length, until it dawned on him that his echolocation had detected two of them. He pivoted in alarm, only to come face-to-face with the second pincher just inches away. Its eyes, perched on long stakes, bore down on the boy with an unabashed sense of curiosity.

"Are you hurt?" repeated the first one; its voice was so distorted and low-pitched that Henry couldn't see its sound. Drawing nearer, it emitted the distinctive clacking noise once more.

The boy shook his head, transfixed. "I am well," he mumbled, then suddenly looked up, his eye filled with disbelief as he beheld the breathtaking orange-glowing lake in front of him. And amidst the thunderous cascade of the waterfall, a faint recollection began to surface. The waterfall . . . he blinked. There was something about a . . .

Henry gingerly tried to inch himself forward toward the water but winced as a sharp sting shot through his hand once more. Slowly, he looked down and stared in disbelief at the vivid, crimson web of lines ripping across his skin. The bleeding must have just ceased. His gaze met the spot where he had been lying and found it smeared with blood.

Henry's gaze flicked from his hand to the scenery behind him, and his expression darkened. He had been holding onto . . . onto . . . Memories cut through the fog that clouded his mind and burrowed into his heart like iron nails.

The lake . . . Henry's head jerked up. The . . . waterfall. Summoning his last willpower, he got to his feet and staggered forward. "Death!"

The images received through his echolocation required an infinite moment for his brain to process, to comprehend that his flier was not here.

"Death . . . ?" Henry advanced one more step, then whipped around toward the pinchers, his feet nearly slipping on his own trail of water and blood. "The flier," he urged them. His hand moved aimlessly toward the lake as he fought to control his frantically pounding heart. "There was a flier here . . . Where is he?"

If I survived the waterfall, then surely he did too, thought Henry, swallowing hard. His gaze fixed on the pair of pinchers who exchanged silent communication. Then again . . . he had not exactly come out unscathed. The boy cast his eye down at his soaked attire, finally registering the severity of his state. His legs trembled under his weight, and every part of his body was consumed by an intense ache.

They had both fallen . . . Henry heaved. Fallen down the waterfall. But why? A cloudy veil obscured his memory.

"Which flier?" asked one of the pinchers.

"What do you mean, which flier?" There could only be one flier here, thought Henry, barely keeping himself standing. "Black, with a white face," he mumbled, "and a scar here." His trembling hand traced the space where his right eye had once been, moving down to his cheek. "He was here, no? He must be!"