Page 54 of Where Light Cannot Follow

No, because I remember the first and only time I fed. I remember the soul's face as I tore into him, the confusion, the betrayal, the way he looked at me like I was hell embodied. I remember how the pleasure crashed through me, wave after wave, and how afterward I wept on and off for six days straight, unable to stop, drowning in sensation after so long without it.

I remember vowing never again, and meaning it with every shred of what remained of me.

If I did this thing—even to a monster, even to someone who deserved it—I would become a monster myself. And then what would I be to Dante? What kind of guide? What kind of... whatever I might be becoming to him?

I shake my head.

"It's generous of you to concern yourself with one such as I, Malrec, but as I said, the one I guided has fled. I shall remove myself as well, lest I bring his attention upon you all."

"So generous of you, Malrec, to offer help to our dear Virgil.” Serina sneers. “What a gentleman you've become."

He growls again, but this one is laced with something other than malice.

I don't offer farewells as I move past the fire.

"He’s still looking for you," Malrec calls to my back. "And Constance assists him."

I keep walking, but it takes all of my centuries of control to do so. As soon as I'm past their line of sight, I stop and close my eyes.

For a moment, I simply stand there, breathing air I don't need, feeling nothing because I have surrendered the ability to feel.

Then I open my eyes and continue up the ridge to find Dante. But when I reach the tree where we should meet, Dante isn’t there.

22

DANTE

I keep my hands tucked in my pockets, my eyes downcast, my form pressed into the shadows as I navigate my way across the ridge.

I understand, logically, that Virgil is a demon himself. He isn't in danger walking down into that valley to speak with four of his kind standing around a fire.

But something coils tight in my chest as I watch him go.

The demons around the fire laugh too brightly, shriek, and tease one another with performative abandon. They remind me of freshmen at their first fraternity party—three drinks past their limit and entirely unaware of how obvious their loss of control appears to anyone watching. Sloppy. Unguarded.

I force my feet forward. Virgil said he'd continue on with me if I followed his rules. Rules are a framework I comprehend. And I need Virgil to walk with me. I need Virgil free from this place. So I move through the darkness, step by careful step, until I reach the ragged tree he'd described. It’s a gnarled thing, half-collapsed against the ground, its trunk split and weeping some dark substance. Rotted fruit litters the brown-dead grass at its base, filling the air with the cloying sweetness of decay.

I glance back toward the fire. Virgil stands among them now, hands tucked behind his back, his posture composed, his attention fixed on the demon who violated me. Even from this distance, I can read the tension in Virgil’s shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression. But he was right. He’s captured their attention entirely.

"Mr. Dante." A voice purrs my name from the darkness. Rich and unhurried.

I flinch and turn toward the sound. A woman stands beneath the tree, half-hidden in shadow. Dark curls fall in waves past her shoulders. Her makeup is immaculate—sharp winged liner, and lips painted the color of arterial blood. She withdraws a slim silver cigarette case from the pocket of her coat, extracts a cigarette with manicured fingers, and lights it with a practiced flick. The flame briefly illuminates her face before she inhales, then turns toward the dim orange glow from the valley below.

I have to fight to keep my expression neutral.

It's Constance. But not the Constance I met before—not the drowned and desperate creature with matted hair and wild eyes. This Constance wears a double-breasted blazer beneath a camel cashmere coat, tailored trousers with a precise break at the ankle, and heels with red-lacquered soles. She looks like she just stepped out of a corner office on the forty-seventh floor, someone who signs termination letters before lunch and doesn’t think about them after.

She takes another drag and smiles at me in a way that’s bold, unhurried, utterly in command. It's like watching someone remove a mask, except I'm beginning to suspect the drowned woman was the performance, and this is the closest thing to her true face I'll ever see.

"Constance." I resist the urge to look back, to check if Virgil is moving this way yet.

Her smile sharpens with pleasure. "Forgive my appearance at our initial meeting, Mr. Dante." She gives her wrist an elegant flick, ash drifting to the cracked soil at her feet. "I find it necessary to remind Virgil of our acquaintanceship from time to time. Keep him humble."

"Strange," I say, keeping my voice slow, unbothered. I'm buying time. Virgil should arrive any moment. "He's seemed the humblest of anyone I've met here so far."

She chuckles, smoke curling from her nostrils. Above us, the sky pulses with that sickly orange glow, and somewhere in the distance, something shrieks—whether in pain or pleasure, I can't tell.

"Well," she says, "I suppose this isn't a realm renowned for its humility." She taps ash from her cigarette and regards me with frank appraisal. "I have a matter I wish to discuss with you. Take a walk with me?"