Page 35 of Where Light Cannot Follow

Dante has transformed.

The man who smiled in the rain is gone. In his place stands someone wearing a new suit. It’s dark, precise, expensive in a way that doesn't announce itself. His shoulders have rolled back, his chin lifted. He glances at his watch, and it's almost as though time obeys him once again. The suit fits him with cruel precision, tailored to his impressive height and broad shoulders. But it's armor. Despite the luxurious material, there's no softness here. No entry point.

Another man steps forward. "Mr. Dante, a pleasure."

"Mr. Harrington."

"Dante," I hiss as I walk up beside him. Then louder, "Dante." Hoping, begging that the tether of the name might draw him back to himself.

He looks over at me, and an expression flickers across his face. His teeth catch on the edge of his bottom lip. "Vir⁠—"

"Mr. Dante, if you'll do the honors."

Another man sits at the table and gestures to a leather portfolio lying before him.

"Dante, don't give in to this," I say. Foolishly, I reach for his arm—and my hands pass through its substance, swinging back toward me helplessly. "Dante, please. You're more than this. Please. Don't stop here."

Dante turns toward me again. His eyes have gone flat, assessing. "Mr. Vernon, is that right?"

"It's Virgil," I say.

He hesitates, then frowns. "I asked you for mineral water ten minutes ago. Why are your hands presently empty?" He turns back to the table before I can respond. "Forgive me the disruption, gentlemen."

"Of course." One of the men waves a dismissive hand. "It's so difficult to find competent assistants these days."

Dante gives a contemptuous huff in reply, paired with an arched eyebrow of agreement.

"Dante," I scream. "Dante, it's me. Virgil. Don't do this. Don't let hell claim you here. Not for this!" My voice cracks with a desperation I haven't felt in centuries. "Dante!"

The meeting proceeds as though a man does not stand shouting on its edges. At some point, I stop screaming and start pacing. Then watching.

Dante sits perfectly upright. He laughs. It’s fake and hollow, but with the appropriate measure of charm folded in. The men praise him, clasp his hand, defer to his judgment.

Here he is safe. Protected. Elevated by the work of his own hands.

Not vulnerable.

Not touchable.

To this version of Dante, Matthew was nothing but a stepping stone. Relationships merely barricades to be demolished. Love a liability to be liquidated.

Time passes, as it’s wont. I’ve long since lost the ability to measure the substance accurately. Hours bleed into days, days into years, until the whole of it becomes one indistinguishable ache.

Given how thoroughly Dante has ceased to register my presence, it becomes easy to study him. He's handsome in that dangerous, armored way he was when I first spotted him walking his empty loop through the conjured streets of Manhattan. His jaw is cut as sharp as a blade. He's Hercules reborn, burning through his labors, chasing eternity, slaughtering everything of meaning along his path.

It strikes me now that perhaps my fascination with him was never solely based on his connection to life, that vitality that still clung to him like warmth from a dying fire. Perhaps it was something baser. More ancient. The pull of physical beauty, yes, but paired with some ineffable spark that drew me to him before I understood his depths. Before I knew him as a man who had suffered greatly and emerged not cruel but cautious. Before I witnessed him weep tears of joy for another's happiness.

Before I realized he was someone I could admire.

Perhaps even something more than that, given time. Given different circumstances. Given anything other than what we are.

But that is a hopeless thought. He is dead. I am worse than dead. We stand in hell, and a loop has swallowed him whole.

The room shudders. Water seeps over my shoes.

"No," I whisper, though I know I speak only to myself now. I've lost him to the fantasy. Endless time has passed.

Another tremor. More water, rising.