Page 96 of Where Light Cannot Follow

I step outside into the cold.

The December air cuts through the rips in my clothing, its teeth sinking into my flesh. It's such a shock after spending so long with so little input—no weather, no temperature, no strong sensations. Now everything floods back at once.

The sun blazing off glass towers. The distant wail of a siren fifty-five stories below. The smell of cold stone and winter air and something indefinable. The wind biting my exposed skin.

I stumble back inside. Make a second sweep of the apartment. A third.

The reality settles over me like a shroud.

"No," I gasp.

I collapse into one of the leather chairs, sinking into butter-soft leather that suddenly feels like nothing at all.

This isn't right. I was so careful with my wording. So precise with my terms. I specified the date of my return: the morning after my death, the accident erased. I gave Satan an airtight contract—every clause considered, every loophole closed—and made him repeat it back to me word for word.

“At least forty years of mortal life for both of us. Embodied. No illness, no accidents, no interventions from you or any agent acting on your behalf. Beginning Christmas morning, at dawn, the day after I died, with full continuity of memory and identity for both of us, including every memory of this realm and everything that followed my death, and no alteration to the causal chain of my life or his.”

"Agreed."

"Virgil will be released from any bond, debt, or obligation to you. Immediately and permanently."

"Agreed."

"We will age no more than a single year for every decade that passes. Our bodies will remain capable, healthy, whole."

"Agreed."

“Virgil will wake in my apartment. Beside me. Corporeal. Able to feel. On Christmas morning, at dawn."

The negotiations had continued for well over an hour. Every angle. Every contingency. Every trick I'd ever seen deployed across a boardroom table, anticipated and closed.

Satan had repeated each term back to me, word for word, his smile never wavering. When he finished, he'd extended his hand.

I'd hesitated, but only a beat, before shaking it.

"I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Dante, in a few decades."

"I'm sure you'll find other interests in the meantime."

His smile had sharpened, and became appreciative. "I'm sure I will."

I'd thought I'd won. I'd thought I'd considered every angle.

How is Virgil not here?

How did he manage to slip through my language?

I examine the empty chair and try to find the flaw in my own architecture.

Virgil was right. I should have listened to him. I should have listened from the very beginning, should have walked into that light when he begged me to, should have trusted that he knew that realm and its ruler far better than I ever could.

And what had he said to me when I wandered off the path? That I clearly hadn't overcome my pride.

What a brutal, painful way to learn he was right.

I look at the empty chair to my left. Imagine another man sitting there, early sunlight glistening over golden curls, the easy music of his laughter, our fingers brushing as I hand him a glass of wine. Imagine him saying "What an extraordinary view" for the hundredth time, because this would be our ritual. Our routine. Because giving him this—a world of sensation after two thousand years without—was what I'd traded my soul for.

But I was fooled. Constance had written the terms down, and⁠—