Page 43 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"Constance." Virgil's voice is oil on a stubborn pan, lotion on cracked flesh.

"No!" She smiles until her gums show. "No, tell him how you dragged me out here and abandoned me. Tell him how you left me so others like you—other demons—could tear me apart. Tell him the damned truth, Virgil. Tell him how you can feed on him." Her eyes are both dark and bright, illuminated by a malicious flame. It reminds me of the deranged Christmas tree in my first loop here. "Tell him how you can feed on his soul to feel again. How if you rake your claws into his pain, you get pleasure."

"Enough," I intone with the kind of voice that has ended hostile negotiations and silenced boardrooms.

The woman quiets for a moment, then looks me dead in the eye. "You'll notice he hasn't denied any of it."

She's right. I have noticed that.

I've also noticed a few other things. Like how Virgil has bowed his head, curled his shoulders. How he hasn't denied her accusations, but he also hasn’t confirmed them. How he first offered for her to come with us.

Maybe I'm a fool. But I'm very good at reading people. And Virgil isn't wearing the kind of guilt that tells of wrongdoing—he's wearing the other kind. The kind that says he wishes he could have done more. That he feels her failure is one he owns.

He really is so damned readable.

If he stood as a representative in my boardroom, I'd rake him over the coals.

But he is not the object of my ire at this moment.

I turn on the woman. "What loop did you get caught in?"

"That doesn't matter," she spits back. "He led me astray! He said he'd stay by my side, that he'd help! But he abandoned me⁠—"

"No," I snap. "You stayed. He didn't lead you astray. He walked with you until you turned away from him yourself.” My nose flares. “I know that road. He nearly left me as well, didn't you, Virgil?"

It's the wrong question. His eyes dart to me, and there's something there.

And I realize it then.

His answer is no.

He wasn't going to leave me.

But—

“Believe whatever you wish.” The woman sniffs. "It's all right. I don't need a guide anymore." She hisses this at Virgil. "I've learned how to barter in this place. How to survive." Then she looks at me again. "When you realize you've made a mistake, you can come find me. I know the truth of this place. Everything he tells you is laced with lies."

She saunters off, and my fists curl as I watch her go.

When she's gone, I stomp a foot and turn to Virgil. "What loop did she get caught in?"

He stares off into the distance, his gaze unfocused, like he's hearing something else entirely. "Vanity," he answers. "She longed to have meaning. To feel beautiful and important." Then, softer, "She was broken too, Dante. Your judgment of her is perhaps unfair."

"Why?" I shout. "She tells nothing but lies about you, blames you for her own decisions. I'm assuming you didn't shove her into the water?"

"Of course not."

"Did you fight for her?"

"As much as I could." He looks up, and his gaze is haunted. I want to wrap myself around this man, shield him, dare anyone to use their vicious tongues and scorching eyes to harm him again.

“Clearly she dragged herself out of her swamp⁠—"

"But she's still stuck. Yes, I know." Virgil looks immeasurably sad about this. Then, with a sigh, he turns back to me. "Not everything she said was a lie, though."

I stare at him, running through all the nonsense she'd bitterly spat at us both.

Virgil lifts his hand. It's the closest he's gotten to me thus far. His fingers are beautiful. Long and elegant, slight calluses where someone might grip a stylus. "Take my hand."