Page 44 of Where Light Cannot Follow

I frown at this request, but it's easy enough to honor. I reach up and grab his hand⁠—

And miss somehow. My fingers fly through his palm, the acceleration overestimating, causing me to flail my arm forward awkwardly.

"You see," he whispers. "You cannot touch me."

"What does that mean?"

He slices his eyes toward me, and they're the darkest they've been since we met. Darker than the bogs. Darker than the endless black skies. "It means I'm a demon, Dante."

"No," I reply, nearly automatically. "This realm is strange, and⁠—"

"The woman in the water could touch you. Even the beings in your visions can offer you a handshake. You can't interact with me because I'm not corporeal."

This realization is like waking from a nightmare, cold sweat peppering my skin, only to see the same shadow from the dream streaking across the wall. "Demons can't interact with the world here?"

"Not unless they feed on some soul’s pain and misery." Virgil turns away from me, his shoulders curving inward.

The truth hits me, and I'm so relieved to have been right that I realize pride is still a millstone slung about my neck. "She's wrong, then. If you choose not to abuse others, then you're no demon, Virgil. A dog can't help that it has teeth, but it chooses whether to bite."

This brings some levity back to his expression. "Ever consider writing? That's a clever sentiment."

“What— I mean, how did this happen to you?"

He releases a sigh and looks up toward the stench-glow sky. When he looks back at me, there's something in his face I haven't seen before. Not shame, exactly. Something older. Like he's about to open a door that's been sealed for a very long time.

19

VIRGIL

I tuck my hands behind my back as I turn and start walking toward the path. After all, if he is actively searching for me, then I must return Dante to his journey and put distance between us. I don't want Dante to brush against any part of my reality. Especially demons—or those who created them.

My shoes bear dark marks on the ivory canvas now. I consider shifting them clean, then don't. Ironically, Dante has mentally changed his own clothing to include a pair of elegant leather sneakers as well, but his remain spotless despite walking over the same boggy ground.

His spirit lifts right as mine begins to sink.

"We have discussed the Aeneid," I say, so quietly I wonder if he can hear me over the shrieking souls drowning in the bog.

But he doesn't hesitate. "Yes." He walks alongside me, and there's something almost protective in the gesture. A shiver slips down my spine, remembering how he'd stood before me against Constance, a shield I neither asked for nor deserved. This isn't how I'd have him discover I'm a demon. Truly, I wouldn't have had him find out at all. Most souls never do.

"When I was a mortal man," I say carefully, "so hungry for my words to matter and mean something, an old god came to me one night."

Dante blinks at this revelation, his brow furrowing. He is—I allow myself to notice, just for a moment, before I bury the thought—truly a beautiful man, even in his own memory of himself. His bone structure is broad in a way that feels substantial, commanding. His lips are full and smooth, his hair dark as a raven's wing, making his eyes seem all the brighter for the contrast. But I shouldn't dwell on such things. Not now. Not ever, really.

"So gods are real?" he asks.

"Were real, at one point." I nod toward a turn in the path. I'm trying not to rush. For one thing, selfishly, perhaps, I don't wish to part from him. But I'm eager to get him out of these swamps and away from any entanglement with others of my ilk, those who have teeth and do bite. That urgency presses against my reluctance, and my feet move faster than my heart would choose.

"The world is full of stories of gods and magic and ancient monsters. They all hold some kernel of truth, some seed from which the tale first sprouted. But a trickster god managed to destroy the others. Or rather, he destroyed the tree that grew immortal fruit. He'd found a way to survive without it on his own."

"The gods are dead, then?"

"Most of them, yes."

Dante frowns at this but nods. He understands a world where one being would destroy others for his own gain. That is the air he has always breathed, the waters he has always known.

A creature made of bones and bits of rotting flesh waddles into our path. Dante regards it for a moment, a pause so brief I might have imagined it, before continuing to walk. He's already adapted to this wretched place. To hell. Most souls take far longer to stop flinching at every horror. But then, Dante has spent a lifetime training himself not to flinch.

I continue, "But the singular god who would not die harmed one aspect of his plan. You see, he gloated before the other gods, letting them know it was he who had tricked them, who had killed them. He forgot they still possessed their powers until their final breath. The most powerful of those ancient, dying gods cursed him so that he and the rest of the world would forget his name."