Red Haven

Chapter Twelve: The Inverted Tower

Walking back home, my head swirled with thoughts, trying to dissect what had happened at Euna's place. Questions battered my mind, spinning endlessly. Why didn't I protest? Why did I let that happen to me? And, most importantly, why did I feel so disgusted with myself?

My thoughts tangled like tape in a jammed reel, looping past encounters with Euna as if scanning a film for missed clues. And sure enough, the red flags had been there all along, waving high and loud. That time, she tried to offend Rajesh's bride before grinding on me in front of everyone at the wedding. Or our first date, when she touched me without warning. Or how she took pleasure in debasing me. It wasn't just teasing. It had always been different, and I had chosen to ignore it. The fault was mine. The shame, mine too. A price paid for being a dipstick, I suppose.

There were two ways to go about it. I could wallow in my shame, complain to my heart's content, and drown in that familiar pool of self-hatred. Or I could've taken initiative for once—sever ties with Euna, retreat before this toxic relationship grew roots, if you could even call it a relationship.

Lost in thought, I barely registered the soft patter of rain—until it grew into a downpour. I shoved my hands into my pockets, shoulders slumping as the cold pierced the bare patches of my skin. I cursed through smoky breath, teeth clenched, whimpers escaping me, shudders rattling through my body.

Then, across the street, a red light flickered.

It was the same entrance to Sorrell's shop.

That made no sense. It should've been on a completely different street, in another neighborhood entirely. Maybe it was a different branch. Curiosity steered my legs off the beaten path, and my hands moved on their own, pushing the door open. Bells rang. Then the door clicked shut behind me.

The same interior greeted me: the jars, the books, the desk, the red light—everything in its place, untouched by time or reality. Except for one thing: a single, flipped card sat in the center of the desk.

I tiptoed toward it.

"Uhm, hello?"

No answer.

I stood by the desk, resting my hands on its surface, leaning in. A strange sense of desolation washed over me. I didn't know whether the lump in my throat came from the urge to cry or from the cold.

"I was expecting you," said a soothing voice—Sorrell's. She emerged from the shadows behind the back room, her pale skin glowing like a beacon, red hair flaring in front of the deep, crimson light, pitless eyes gazing at me without emotion. "Would you like another reading?" she asked, sliding her long fingers across the desk.

"Please," I said quietly, slowly sinking into the chair.

Sorrell sat opposite me. Our eyes locked. I could've sworn I saw a flicker of sympathy in those void-black irises—but maybe I was projecting. After all, how could she read my mind unless I was that transparent?

She offered a faint smile, then slowly flipped the card, never breaking eye contact.

I looked down: a black tower piercing through stormy skies, clouds curling around it, lightning splitting the heavens, the peak fading into mist. "The Tower. Inverted," she whispered, almost in relief. "No voices will take over me this time, it seems." She licked her lips. "You may leave, if you wish. Or I can explain the reading."

"Just like last time?" I asked.

"Just like last time."

"I'll stay."

She seemed pleased with my answer. Rising, she glided around the desk, the red fabric of her dress trailing behind her as she sat in the chair beside me. "Crisis looms on the horizon. You'll resist its arrival. But despite its appearance, the tower is glass. It's built on sand. It must shatter. And though it's fall will hurt, it will bring you relief."

"I have no idea what that means." I gave a bitter chuckle. "Thanks anyway. I appreciate it." I started to stand, but her hand brushed mine. It felt cold, even through her sleeve.

"You met someone," she said.

I frowned, settling back in my chair. "I did. How do you know that?" My eyes narrowed in suspicion, while hers flared. Her calm voice dropped into a sharper, raspier inflection. "You must avoid her. She will return. She'll try to burrow her way back into your life. You have to resist. She is not what you think."

"What does that mean? Are you stalking me?"

"I can never leave here."

I shook my head. "Listen. You need help. I wasn't honest with you before. I pitied you, and that wasn't right. I should've acted. There are people you can talk to—"

"How did you find this shop again?" she interrupted. "It wasn't in the same place, was it?"

My mouth hung open. She was right. But I had no explanation. So I blurted out nonsense—half out of fear, half out of desperation. "It's not hard to open an identical branch. Coincidence. If you were stalking me, it would explain—"

"There are no coincidences, Sam. And I didn't seek you out. You walked through that same door. Twice now." She pointed to the entrance. "You can leave. Or stay. I won't keep you either way."

I scratched the back of my head. "Will you answer if I ask what you are?"

"I won't."

I stood. "I understand." I turned to the door, sweat trickling down my back. "But if you are stalking me, know that I'll take action."

She gave me no reaction. Just a flat, glassy stare.

And so I walked out.

Light flared overhead, revealing more of the space around me. I stood on a grey marble podium, smooth and seamless. The rest of the world was still cloaked in black, a staircase looming at the far end, fading into the void.

"I knew this had to be somewhere," I muttered.

"You are in the Court of Winter," the Voices screeched.

"Oh no. Not another trial."

A cloaked figure approached—white robes billowing as it floated, feet hidden underneath the hem. And above the approaching ghost, a massive orb descended. I could make out the gyrating disks encircling it, and the moment I spotted the eyes on them, my heart almost stopped.

An Ophanim.

Never thought I'd meet one face-to-face.

"You stand accused of being an accomplice to the murder of a god."

"Murder?" I blinked. "Me?"

The figure in white stretched its arms. The rotating disks stopped. Every eye snapped to focus on me, and I recoiled.

"The Spaewife has vanished. Her god sought her out, but found no trace of her spirit. Her worship sustained him. She was the last of her kind. Without her, he faded."

"And that's my problem because...?"

"Insolent mite!" Pain ripped through my spine, dropped me to the floor in agony.

"You dare speak to a servant of the In-Between that way?" the Voices thundered.

I could barely open one eye against the scorching light, blinding and sharp.

"I... don't..."

"You caused her disappearance, didn't you?" the white-cloaked figure demanded. "Tell us what you did."

Darkness tugged at my mind. I felt myself fading. Then the pain stopped, and I gasped, coughing. "You want to know what happened to Sorrell?" I managed to blurt the question out.

"I want to know everything," the figure said. The great orb attached to his back split open, revealing a single colossal eye that blinked down at me.

"That was unnecessary," I muttered, groaning as I sat up. "I was going to talk anyway. I keep telling him that." I motioned to the lights above. "But he loves torture far too much."

The figure gestured at the Voices. The orb's disks reoriented, eyes turning upward towards the same direction.

"We understand, Magnificentia," the Voices murmured. For the first time I could spy a hint of fear in its tone.

"You can speak now, Sam," the cloaked figure ordered.

"With pleasure," I said.