Your Turn to Suffer Tim Waggoner (online e book reading .TXT) 📖

She turned and entered the tower, the semicircular door flowing closed behind her.

The eyeless man was nowhere in sight.

She expected the inside of the tower to resemble the outside, walls, floors, and ceiling made of the same pearl-like substance, all of it pulsing with burning-coal light. But the interior was made of gray stone blocks, with illumination provided by burning wooden torches, set into rusty iron sconces at periodic intervals. The fire that blazed from the torches seemed perfectly ordinary at first, but it took her only a few moments to realize the flames gave off no heat or smoke. Frowning in puzzlement, she walked up to the closest torch and reached toward the dancing fire burning at its tip. When her fingers were within an inch of the flames – and feeling no warmth at all – the fire bent toward her hand and engulfed the flesh. She screamed as pain erupted in her hand, and she jerked it away from the flames, taking a couple steps back for good measure, as if she feared the fire might stretch out and attempt to burn her once more. It stayed where it was, though she could almost hear the crackling sound of laughter, as if the torch flame was amused by what it had done.

She cradled her injured hand to her abdomen and looked down to examine it. She expected to find her skin red and blistered, but her flesh was smooth and undamaged. But if that was the case, why did her hand hurt so goddamn bad?

“The Flames of the Intercessor burn from the inside out.”

She spun toward the speaker of these words and saw the eyeless man facing her. His tone had been one of amusement and his mouth formed a crooked smile.

An instant ago, the corridor had been empty, with no sign of the man. Now here he was again, as if he’d materialized before her. Who knows? Maybe he had.

“You entered the tower willingly,” the eyeless man said. “That is a point in your favor. Come with me.”

He turned and began moving down the corridor in a strange gliding motion. The hem of his crimson robe extended all the way to the stone floor, concealing his feet. Although given the odd way he moved, and the fact that she heard no sound of shoes touching the floor as he traveled, she wasn’t certain he had feet.

She might’ve shivered at this thought, but her hand hurt too much for her to feel anything else. Still cradling her hand to her abdomen, and no longer caring that she wasn’t concealing her breasts, she followed after the eyeless man.

Chapter Three

She opened her eyes to darkness, instantly alert, but not knowing why. She felt her mattress beneath her, the comforter over her, and she realized she was in her bed, in her apartment. It was night, and she had been sleeping. Dreaming, too. She thought of the drive to the Vermilion Tower, thought of the Nightway, the eyeless man, the fire that burned her from the inside out. It had seemed so real, but now she was awake, and the nightmare was over. She felt too wired to return to sleep right away, but she didn’t care if she’d be up the rest of the night. A little sleep deprivation was a small price to pay to escape that awful—

Her thought was cut off by the sound of a thump coming from somewhere in her apartment. The living room, maybe. She understood that she hadn’t woken because her dream-slash-nightmare had become too disturbing. She’d woken because she’d heard a noise, probably a previous thump. She was a light sleeper, had been since her parents had brought her home from the hospital, at least to hear them tell it. She always woke when Larry got home after a night gig. He was usually drunk, or close to it, and while he wasn’t known for being ninja-quiet in the best of situations, he was even louder when he had alcohol in his system.

Ordinarily, she’d have been irritated by his clumsy noisiness, might’ve called out for him to keep it down. He’d call back, saying Okay, and he’d be quiet for a couple minutes, and then he’d start being noisy again, as if she’d never said anything at all. But tonight she was glad he was home. After the nightmare she’d had, she was grateful that she wasn’t alone in the apartment any longer.

I’ll go out, say hi, see how the gig went, she thought. And if Larry was in a talkative mood, if he wanted to stay up and regale her with stories of how many good-looking men and women had attended the show, and laugh about all the ways he and the band had screwed up their performance, she’d listen to every word, ask questions, encourage him to add more details until the sun came up and her nightmare became a distant – if unpleasant – memory.

She threw off the comforter, moved into a sitting position, then put her feet on the floor and stood. After dreaming of being semi-nude, she was self-conscious about how much of her bare legs were visible below the T-shirt – not to mention that she only had a pair of panties on underneath – but Larry had seen her naked more times than she could count. Since they’d ceased being a couple, he had never tried to make a move on her, not once. She had no reason not to trust him. Still, she was tempted to grab a pair of sweatpants from the dresser and slip them on before leaving her bedroom. She decided against it. Larry knew she didn’t sleep in sweats, and he’d know something was wrong if he saw her in them. She didn’t want to tell him about her dream, wanted to let the memory of it fade in the way dreams did. So, bare-legged and braless, she walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and stepped