Page 38 of Where Light Cannot Follow

I skim my gaze down his pristine cable-knit sweater and immaculate white sneakers. "How are you not dripping with this god-awful water?"

Virgil's expression cracks at this. His eyes trace down me, down the white shirt soaked through to show flesh, the ruined suit trousers, the waterlogged leather shoes.

“Don’t you remember? This place isn't real." He looks up at me from beneath those golden curls, a dimpled smirk ghosting across his face. "You're soaked because you believe you are."

"Because I am." The words don't come out as sharp as I intend—more exasperated—and it only makes Virgil's smile brighten. I fling my hands, scattering droplets. "What... what happened?"

That peels the expression away. "You got caught in a loop. Fully. I couldn't reach you."

I stare at the gritty ground beneath my feet, the wilted grass and pebble-pocked mud. "Pride," I whisper. "That was the temptation of pride, wasn't it?"

Virgil doesn't answer, but his silence is answer enough.

I lift my face. "You did reach me, though."

He shakes his head. "I tried, but you were too deep in the loop, too⁠—"

"I knew you were there. It was like someone shouting from beneath the ocean at a great distance, but I turned toward you. I know that's what I felt."

"You... felt... my presence?"

I expect him to be teasing, but he's not. If anything, there's a gravity I've never seen in his countenance before. Something vulnerable and vast.

"I did."

Virgil seems to consider this for a long moment. He swipes at his cheeks and looks about. We're standing on a narrow ridge of land, more mud than firm foothold. Ancient trees with crooked limbs and weeping moss that drips into the water tangle around us. Clouds hang low, blending with the fog. The occasional plop of something sliding into the water echoes through the otherwise silence.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"I'm unsure." Virgil looks up, as though something in that leaden sky might orient him, then gives his head a small shake. "There's nothing for us but to follow this path and hope we encounter some landmark I recognize. We're certain to, with time. I can lead you back to the main route."

"How often do people end up in the swamp?" I ask, and immediately realize I'm not yet past pride being my sticking point.

Virgil freezes mid-step at my words. "Occasionally."

"And you've guided them out of the swamps when it's happened before?"

He's quiet for so long, I somehow feel I've said the wrong thing. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and careful, "No, Dante. I don't usually stay when someone reaches that point."

Before I can ask another question, he walks forward, blending into the mist.

I swallow my questions and follow.

17

VIRGIL

I'm unmoored. Lost.

Physically, yes. Despite scanning the narrow path we walk through this boggy forest, I see nothing familiar.

These swamps stretch on forever, as far as I've been able to discern. I worry I'm leading us deeper into the mire rather than back toward some anchoring landmark. Yet I march on. Ahead, the path continues to widen in small increments at least. Behind us lies the sucking, dark water that almost claimed Dante entirely.

But that's not what has me most unsettled.

It's Dante's words.

I turned toward you. I know that's what I felt.