Page 51 of Where Light Cannot Follow

Not anymore.

I follow.

21

VIRGIL

A feeling has swept up within me. I'm fairly certain it's akin to nausea—an uncomfortable churning in my core—though it's been so long since I've experienced such a thing that I cannot be sure.

What I do know is this: I need Dante safe.

He walks alongside me with the measured, certain steps of a man determined. Despite the torture he just endured, he gives scarcely a sign of pain aside from the occasional flinch at the corner of his eye.

He paid that price because of me.

Watching him suffer, watching Malrec rip suffering from him, touch him without his consent... it has undone something within me. Dante tormented, was like watching a man flayed alive. I have witnessed floggings in my mortal life, seen men broken on wheels and stretched on racks. This was worse. Each cry from his throat landed like a lash against my own back.

I've heard millions of souls cry out like that. But never him. Never Dante.

He shouldn’t have experienced such a thing.

And now the shadows darken despite us pressing forward at a pace that's nearly running. The silence continues. Even in my own mind, it's oddly quiet, a stillness I haven't experienced since Constance discovered she could manipulate our bond, haunt me through it.

"Would you do something for me?" I ask.

Dante's face gives another spasm of pain before it smooths back to his typical, composed mask. "That depends on the terms."

I grit my teeth. Why can't he simply leave? Why can't he make a vow to me—somehow I know he'd keep it if he did—and walk away from here before I have to witness him harmed again? Before he witnesses the same done to me? For if Satan seeks me, it's not to cast dice and share a cup of wine. It's to remind me, as he does every few centuries, exactly who holds my leash.

"You are the most frustrating soul I've ever guided," I say, and there's an edge to my voice I hardly recognize.

This causes Dante to smile. "I aim to be remarkable. Pleased to know I continue."

"It's evident you never fully passed through pride."

He only chuckles at this. "It's evident that you rarely lose your composure. I find it fascinating, I must say."

"Leave." I stop and stare at him, hoping my eyes can accomplish the begging my voice attempts. "Please. Leave this place. Go away from here."

"No." He says it with no heat, no emotion. It's the decision he's made, and he won't retreat from it.

A lonely, leafless tree creaks in some unfelt breeze. Motion. Someone draws near.

"You've witnessed the stakes, Dante," I beg, unashamed now. "You could be lost forever, and I couldn't bear that. I've lost souls before. It is breaking me still."

This seems to give him pause. He tilts his head. "I want you to come with me."

"I want you to live."

This pulls another rueful chuckle from him. "Virgil, you're forgetting a few key details. Starting with the fact that we're both dead."

I want to smile, to join him in this dark jest, but I cannot. "There is death, and then there is death. I am damned, Dante, but you can reach the light."

"I damned myself as well. Not in vow, perhaps, but in my choices." He seems to consider this. "I believe I'm here to undo that damnation—yours as much as mine. It's a sense I have in my gut, and I've always trusted my gut."

It's a pity I'm incapable of touching him, as I'd very much like to seize him by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattle. How can he have just endured the torment of a demon and still walk alongside me, still take such foolish risks? This isn't a man who favors uncertainty. He favors sure investments, calculated returns. Now he speaks in fantastical terms about impossible redemptions. I wonder if Malrec damaged him more than it seemed.

"Virgil, enough," Dante says in that voice that brooks no argument. "Whatever surrender you're seeking in me, you won't find it. I've made up my mind, and you made me a vow. You said you wouldn't leave me as long as I wanted you by my side. So which way do we go?"