Page 42 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"Romeo and Juliet."

“I know it. But it's in no way a romance. Mind, I'm just an author of antiquity speaking of work far past my time, but Juliet was a child by any era's standard. I thought it was more a commentary on the destructive nature of foolish feuding between different groups—and perhaps how intense love and intense hate are both equally capable of harm."

This catches me entirely unprepared. He's right, of course. Juliet was—what? Thirteen? Fourteen? I can't recall; it's been so long since I last read it. But that feels correct. A child, caught between forces of intensity, desperate enough to escape that she'd start down a path ending in her own death. I wonder how I ever saw it as a romance.

"Who was your favorite author?" Virgil asks. Then, with a chuckle, "Before, I mean. When you read literature."

"Tolkien, probably."

"Tolkien, now that's a name I don't know. You'll have to tell me⁠—"

"Virgil!" a voice growls like a lioness whose lair we've stumbled into, cutting through his words like a blade.

A woman emerges from behind a tree. She's small, slim, and fine-boned, but emanates so much fury it makes her seem larger. Her eyes are wide and glittering, fixed on Virgil like he's prey she'd like to tear apart. She wears a high-collared blouse with frills at the neck, but with a man's jacket over top, broadening her shoulders, her entire figure like some avenging specter.

"Constance," Virgil says in a voice I've yet to hear from him. It's the sound of the last peal of a bell in a church scheduled for demolition.

She smiles, and she's all teeth—all pale flesh and bones sharp and defined. Her dark curls are matted to her skull, like they dried damp and never recovered.

"You sanctimonious liar!" She speaks at a normal volume, but it carries like she's screaming, drowning out the cries of those around us. "You faithless coward!"

Virgil shrinks at her accusations, his shoulders slumping. "Constance, I can still help you. Come with us and⁠—"

"Help me?" She laughs a sharp, broken sound. "You already taught me what your help costs."

Virgil's eyes grow glassy. He parts his lips like he might speak, then gives his head a shake.

"Oh yes, you bloody coward. Look away. You always did prefer absence to consequence."

I can't take another moment of her abuse, or the way it's causing Virgil, the man who smirks and jokes in hell, who sees beauty past all the pain and misery he's immersed in, to wilt.

"Who are you?" I demand, stepping in front of Virgil.

She looks me up and down and wrinkles her nose. "Let me guess. You're following that lout as your 'guide.' He's promised you the entire moon and the sea with it. He'll help you get through hell and make it to your ascension. To all the bright glory and hope that awaits you. Is that right?"

"Not quite." After all, Virgil never promised ascension.

She sneers. "He's lying to you, you ought to know. Already dragged you out into the swamps, I see."

"We're out here because of my choices, actually."

She laughs again, and there's no humor in it. "Or he wants you to think as much." Then her smile goes cruel, revealing straight, perfect teeth beneath her ragged exterior. "You know he's looking for you, don't you, Virgil? Came here asking for you by name."

Virgil closes his eyes for a moment and whispers, "I'm sure that is true."

She turns back to me. "Has this bloody bastard told you the truth of himself yet? Has he told you what he is?" Before I can consider a response, she lifts her chin and all but growls: "He's a demon."

"That's untrue," I shout.

"Ask him, then." She points an accusing finger at Virgil. "Ask him if I lie."

I look at Virgil. He meets my gaze but offers no answer.

My stomach sinks.

A wind, ripping and merciless, rattles the half-dead limbs above us.

"Tell him what you did to me," she shrieks.