Page 57 of Where Light Cannot Follow

But can I walk away? Can I risk what she might do to Virgil if I refuse?

"I—"

"Do not agree to anything she asks.”

Virgil's voice cuts through the clearing. I sense him before I see him, that particular quality of presence he carries, warm and uncertain all at once. He steps up beside me, and something in my chest loosens.

He's the only one here who admits his limitations. His doubts. Everyone else in this realm wears their confidence like armor. Virgil wears his uncertainty like an offering.

"Virgil." Constance's smile turns sharp. “How nice to see you once more.”

I turn toward him, relief flooding through me faster than I’d like to admit. “Your conversation ran long.”

“I apologize.” His eyes sweep over me, searching for damage, then flick to Constance. Whatever he finds in her expression makes his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. “It was a matter of some delicacy. I came as quickly as I could.”

Constance says nothing. She simply watches us, the way Virgil positions himself slightly in front of me, the way my shoulders loosen at his arrival, the way we orient toward each other like compass needles finding north.

I see her cataloging it. Filing it away. She smiles, slow and knowing, and I understand that she's already calculating how to use what she's just learned.

Virgil ignores her entirely. "We should be going."

I shrug and attempt to appear unaffected. I hope my mask holds better than my confidence in it. “It would seem I've run out of time."

"A pity." She withdraws her cigarette case again, the silver catching what little light exists here. She doesn't light one—just holds it, turning it over in her fingers like a talisman. "Just remember, Mr. Dante, when you've caught a god's attention, you don't outrun it. You only delay the meeting."

"I'll keep that in mind." I hold her gaze a moment longer than necessary.

"Until we meet again, Mr. Dante." She inclines her head, a mockery of courtesy. "Virgil."

She turns and walks into the fog, her silhouette swallowed by the murk within moments. The click of her heels against stone fades to silence.

I stand there, watching the space where she disappeared.

"Dante." Virgil's voice is quiet. Careful. "What did she say to you?"

I turn to him, to his golden curls and ancient eyes, to the worry he's trying so hard to hide.

"Nothing I believed," I say. "Come on. We should keep moving."

It's not the whole truth. But it's not a lie either.

And right now, with the fog closing in around us and the memory of Constance's warning echoing in my skull, it's the best I can offer.

23

VIRGIL

We walk in silence for a time, only Dante's feet quietly crunching dried leaves that have swept over the faint path, his watch ticking into the realm's stillness like a heartbeat neither of us possesses.

Finally, I find my voice. "So. You know, then. That he is looking for you."

"I've been informed," he says, voice carefully flat. Then he steps closer to me. Something about the gesture feels almost protective.

"You're bound to this path now, regardless of what we do." I frown at the realization settling into my bones. If Satan searches for him, separation offers no safety. Dante would be more vulnerable without me, not less. It cuts into me, knowing I've drawn the old god's dark attention toward this man. Some naive, hopeful part of me—one that should have shuttered centuries ago—still wonders if we might cross his territory without notice.

But I know we shall not.

A wheel has been set into motion, and there is nothing left for us but to follow it to its conclusion.