Page 52 of Where Light Cannot Follow

Something cracks within my chest—a fissure in stone I thought had long since hardened beyond breaking. Hopelessness, yes, but threaded through with something else. Something warmer. No soul has ever cared for my well-being like this. Not in two thousand years. They accept my guidance, offer gratitude, and occasionally shed tears at our parting. But none have ever refused to leave me. None has ever placed themselves between me and harm.

I don't know what to do with such a gift.

Things have changed so rapidly. The Devil searches for me. Constance has gone silent and schemes in her quiet. The darkness thickens surrounding us.

But if he says he won't go without me, I must accept his word. Michael Dante isn't a man who retreats from a position or abandons a commitment once he's made it.

Curse the gods, how have I led him so astray? But if we make it through the swamps and to the other side, if we cross the river, pass unnoticed through Satan's realm—well, then, perhaps we could reach the mountain.

"Very well," I say at last. "But if you stay with me, you remember this is my realm, not yours. You've mastered boardrooms. I've mastered hell. And if I tell you to do something, you do so without question."

"Done."

I blink at him. Here was a man who didn't trust me enough when we met to ask for simple directions, and now he agrees to follow my commands without question. Were I still mortal, I'm certain my head would ache from the contradiction.

I cannot find words. Humorous, that they should fail me now after all these centuries. So instead, I simply continue walking, Dante at my side.

We travel the path in near silence. My own mind is deafeningly quiet, but even Dante's steps are hushed, as if he's willing himself to move softly, remembering that everything about his existence here is purely of his own mental making.

Well. Almost everything.

The swamp slowly gives way as we walk, the sucking mud hardening to cracked earth, the skeletal trees thinning until they disappear entirely. A ridge rises in the distance, dark against the darker sky, and beyond it a faint orange glow pulses like a dying heartbeat.

Voices draw me short. Dante's breath stills. His shoulders drop slightly, deliberately, as though he's decided to cede the weight of navigation.

He's truly letting me lead.

I'm uncertain what to do with that. I'm fairly certain this man hasn't allowed another to lead beyond pure necessity in decades, perhaps in all his adult life. There is some part of me, deeply buried beneath shame, that blooms at him choosing me. How long has it been since another soul looked upon mine and truly saw? So long that this feeling is like nectar I haven't tasted in such an age, I'd forgotten its flavor.

I gesture for Dante to stay, then creep forward, keeping to the shadows and other invisible things of this world—things like me.

Malrec stands with three other demons before a fire taller than all of them, tossing objects into the flames, their teeth reflecting the orange light. There's a franticness to their laughter, a brightness to their voices. They've all recently glutted themselves on feeding and now swim in heightened sensation.

That doesn't make them less dangerous.

Often at this stage, a demon becomes nearly insatiable. Beyond reason.

I step back to Dante and whisper so low I wonder if he can hear me at all. "I'm going to descend there and speak with them. Distract them. You will walk above the ridge, in the shadows. If you hear anything alarming, go still. Find cover. Do not respond, no matter what. Meet me beneath the tree on the far side.”

Dante's eyes scrape over my face, but he only nods.

His acquiescence almost makes me want to scream. Who is this man? How has he transformed so rapidly?

But if we can pass through here... then perhaps...

I walk down the path into the shallow valley below the ridge. The four demons turn to regard me.

Malrec looks up first. "Ah, Virgil. Come to join us for once?"

"Passing through," I say, bored, but I stop before the fire.

The others lean in, roll their hands through the flames, a reminder to me that they can feel its warmth, smell the charcoal scent of whatever flesh they roast on a spit above it. Fat drips and sizzles. Sparks spiral upward.

Serina—a demon who perished somewhere in the Byzantine court, all sharp cheekbones and sharper tongue—smiles and steps closer. "Where's your pet?" A glance at Malrec. "We were all just hearing of him."

"Wandered off again.” I shrug. "You know how souls are."

Malrec takes a long swallow from a tarnished goblet, wine lingering messily on his lips. He licks them slowly, deliberately. "Perhaps I gave him more than he could stomach. Shame. He tasted exquisite."