Page 83 of Where Light Cannot Follow

It's a gentleman's lounge, the kind that exists in private clubs where membership costs more than most people's homes. Oversized leather chairs in deep burgundy cluster around a fireplace burning beneath an ornate marble mantel. Heavy velvet curtains frame windows that look out onto manicured gardens bathed in golden twilight. Artwork dominates the walls, massive canvases twice the height of a man, depicting scenes I half-recognize from mythology and history, rendered with unsettling beauty.

Men in impeccably tailored suits stand in small clusters, crystal glasses in hand, speaking in the low, measured tones of people accustomed to being listened to.

One turns toward me and offers his hand with a polished, restrained smile. "Mr. Dante, is it?"

I accept the handshake, hoping desperately it's the right move. "That's right."

"I'm Adrian Holt, and this is Harrison Locke.” He gestures to a man wearing a beautifully crafted suit in softer lines than I'd choose—dove gray, almost fluid in its construction. I recognize the elegance and quality regardless. Italian, certainly. Possibly bespoke.

I shake his hand as well. "A pleasure to meet you both."

"We were just discussing the expansion of the upper territories," Holt offers, as if that means anything to me. "Would you care for a drink while we wait for dinner?"

"I prefer to drink after a meal, but thank you."

Locke grins. "We're alike in that regard. You've recently joined us, is that right?"

"That's correct."

"What's new in the mortal world, then? What region do you hail from?"

Before I can consider whether answering will provide too much information, a servant steps into the room, arm pressed formally across his stomach. "Dinner is served."

Holt takes a final swallow of his drink—short, measured—and grins at me. "You arrived just in time, then."

"So it would seem."

I follow the group into the dining room. It's as richly appointed as everything else in this place, with a long table of dark polished wood, candelabras dripping with crystal, and place settings in bone china edged with gold. More artwork lines the walls, and chandeliers cast everything in warm, honeyed light that feels designed to make guests forget where they actually are.

Constance moves among the group but positions herself near the head of the table rather than taking a seat. There are a few women present, but the gathering skews heavily male, mostly middle-aged, all discussing topics that surprise me: acquisitions, territorial expansion, resource allocation. I don't know what these terms mean within this realm, but I recognize the language intimately.

This is a board meeting dressed as a dinner party.

The conversations hush as a man enters the room.

He's perhaps forty-five, though he could pass for younger or older depending on the light. Dark hair worn neatly, a precisely groomed beard, and a posture that announces deep, unshakeable comfort in his own domain. That ease, paired with the way every person in the room orients toward him identifies him clearly enough.

Behind him, another figure enters, and my heart lifts at the sight of Virgil stepping through the doorway. Unharmed. His eyes skim the crowd until they find me.

He's the only one in the room not wearing some variation of a formal suit. Instead, he wears dark dress trousers and a silk ivory shirt that wraps across his chest, the neckline dipping low enough to reveal his collarbone, secured at the waist in a way that evokes something ancient—almost like a toga reimagined for a modern age. Over it, he wears a tan coat of fine wool, long enough that it nearly sweeps the floor, the lines clean and architectural.

He looks like a living piece of classical statuary moving through the crowd. Both entirely out of place and somehow diminishing the rest of us as he passes through the room.

The first man reaches me before Virgil does.

"Mr. Dante." His voice is warm, cultivated, and resonant. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

I accept his hand and wish I knew what Virgil would have me do. "Thank you for receiving me."

Satan's jaw tightens, barely, almost imperceptibly. Virgil arrives at that moment, positioning himself just behind my shoulder. Our eyes meet, and his lips curve the smallest fraction upward.

He understands the careful vacancy in my response. The absence of flattery. The refusal to offer more than bare courtesy.

"Please, sit beside me." Satan's charm is seamless, radiating assurance, confidence, elegance, erudition. "You're my guest of honor tonight."

"Wherever you'd have us sit," I say, careful to include Virgil, "I'd be glad to."

Satan's gaze flicks to Virgil, then back to me. His smile remains easy. Too easy.