Page 82 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"But this one," he presses. "This soul, in particular, has captured you?"

"I suppose he's sparked an interest."

Satan's smile slides into place, the kind that gets men elected, that promises worlds they never intend to deliver.

“I imagine his mind must be fascinating, then. So why don't we keep him?"

"He doesn't wish to stay," I say simply.

"If that remains the case after my offer, then he is free to go. You know I'm no brute, Virgil." Tug. His voice is measured but my name in his mouth pulls tight against whatever tether binds me to him. "In that vein, I'm here to warn you. Speak during this dinner, and I will remove your voice." He pauses for emphasis. "And perhaps I may forget to return it when this is all over. I do have a great deal on my mind.” He regards me with calculated interest. "Are we understood?"

I freeze.

How many millions of times have I thought that I am nothing but words?

If he takes that from me...

I swallow, struggling to produce the very thing he threatens to steal.

"Yes, my Lord."

My answer emerges calm. Certain.

He chuckles, believing he's found my weakness.

Or so he thinks.

For if it comes to Dante's salvation, I will sacrifice whatever I must to grant him that. My voice certainly included. I've already given up so much more than sound. What is silence compared to watching him get swallowed by hell? Ensnared in my same mistakes?

"Then let's go to dinner," Satan says, standing smoothly from his chair. "I think formal attire suits the occasion tonight. Would you agree?"

"I always appreciate an opportunity to dress well."

He smiles at this, a genuine flicker of amusement, which somehow makes it worse.

Then he leads the way out of the office, and I follow in his wake, voiceless already in every way that matters.

30

DANTE

I follow Constance with dread sinking through me like a stone through dark water.

Virgil leaving my side feels like everything that could go wrong in this realm has. Yet here I am, walking through an immaculate palace with servants lined against the walls in rigid silence and Constance's heels clicking brightly ahead of me like a metronome counting down to something I can't see.

She stops and turns. "A word of advice, Mr. Dante, this is a formal dinner. You may wish to change."

A part of me, the old, apparently not entirely dead part, wants to shrug: actually, I’ve decided I don’t have time for this dinner after all. But I've learned well from my guide. I won't embarrass him. I fear I already erred in showing my attachment earlier, stepping in front of him like some protective fool. If composure is what this situation requires, then that's an easy gift for me to offer.

"Thank you for the information."

Constance pauses before a gilt-framed mirror, and I take the opportunity to shift my appearance, using the reflection to appraise myself. Neat, styled hair. A charcoal gray suit—Brioni, single-breasted, the cut slim but not aggressive. The kind that signals authority without demanding to be the one in charge. A crisp white shirt, no tie. Polished Oxford shoes in cordovan leather. And my Breitling, its steady tick a familiar comfort against my wrist.

Constance skims those hungry eyes over me, gives the smallest smirk of approval, and walks on. She stops at a doorway and gestures for me to enter.

Virgil never told me not to follow directions. He said to be mindful of names, of vows, and specifically of making any deals with the ruler of this place.

I step into the room.