Page 53 of Where Light Cannot Follow

The others laugh. I keep calm. Remind myself that they crave my reaction. That it vexes them that I don't partake in their indulgences—don't feed, don't taste imagined food, don't glut myself on conjured wine, don't touch, don't indulge.

I shrug and force myself not to look up at the ridge where I hope Dante has nearly crossed.

Malrec clicks his tongue. "It's a pity Constance has already informed His Darkness about your attachment to that one."

"Constance?" I ask, and the word spills from me, shattering my careful disinterest.

At this, Malrec grins. He pulls a haunch of roasted meat from the fire, and without waiting for it to cool, bites into it. Juices glisten down his chin, dripping onto his cloak until fat stains the fabric. He swallows messily.

"You forget—I saw his mind. That man is attached to you, Virgil. Protective, even." He chews thoughtfully. "Possessive, I'd wager. How delicious."

I must adhere to neutrality. To stillness. "Some souls are."

Kael, who wears layered silks that gleam in the orange glow, snatches the meat from Malrec's hand, tearing into it even as Malrec growls at him. Then he nods at me. "Satan wants him, Virgil. Wants the soul you guide. Now that he knows this one matters to you." A pause, heavy with meaning. “Our master passed through here only moments ago."

I'm quiet for a beat too long. My mind wheels like a mill with no grain to grind. Satan wanting me, wishing to spend a few decades tormenting me and worming into my thoughts? That was one matter. But he wants Dante?

Malrec's eyes are dark, filled with hunger. "There's a solution, you know. You know how you could strengthen yourself. Stand a chance, should it come to that. It’s rumored you’re nearly as strong as him when you’re at your full strength.”

"No." There's no hesitation in me on that point. I will never feed on another soul again. "As I said, the soul I guided fled after Malrec sampled him. Likely frightened off."

Serina tosses a bone across the flames, and Malrec ducks it, growling. She only laughs. "I would flee as well if Malrec put his hands on me."

At this, Malrec steps so close to the flames he's nearly within them, and his voice drops to a purr. "If you let me put my hands on you, I can promise you won’t flee. You’d forget why you ever wanted to, though.”

She only scoffs, but Yuki—silent until now, her plum and gold robes incongruous against the hellfire—addresses me. "If you wish to stand any chance against…” Her voice softens. “Him, then you must strengthen yourself, Virgil."

This snares Malrec's attention. "Yes. We could find an unworthy soul. Some monster who spent his life preying on others. It would be a service for you to end such a one. Then you could fight, if need be.” He tosses a dark glance across the flames to Serina. “Or pursue other pleasures."

I shall always hate myself for this: I pause.

If I fed on a soul or two—truly monstrous ones, those who hunted others, exploited the weak, destroyed the innocent—then I could protect Dante. If Satan tried to take him, I could stand between them. If Dante drowned again, I could offer a hand, pull him free. I could touch him.

I fight a shudder.

"I know a few souls," Malrec whispers, velvet-soft, like forbidden pleasure offered in darkness. "I could lead you to worthy ones. Ones who deserve what you'd do to them."

I don't answer immediately. I should. I should refuse without hesitation, as I have a thousand times before when lesser demons have made lesser offers.

But this isn't a lesser offer. This is Dante.

I think of his hand hovering above mine—the ghost of a touch, the ache of almost. I think of what it would feel like to actually grasp his fingers, to feel the warmth of his skin, to pull him from drowning water with my own two hands instead of screaming uselessly from the shore.

I think of standing between him and Satan. Of being something other than a voice. Of being a shield.

The fire crackles. Serina watches me with knowing eyes. Malrec's smile spreads slow as poison.

"There's one not far from here," he continues, sensing my hesitation. "A man who spent his mortal life selling children to those who would use them. He's been rooted in his pain for three centuries and shows no sign of breaking free. No one would mourn his unmaking, Virgil. No one would even notice."

I can almost taste it. That's the cruelest part. I can almost remember what taste is. The ghost of wine on my tongue. The phantom of bread. The memory of Musa's skin beneath my lips.

I could have that again. I could have touch again.

I could touch Dante.

My hands tremble at my sides. When did they start doing that?

But no.