Page 98 of Where Light Cannot Follow

Virgil would approve, at least.

But as I sit in my pristine apartment, surrounded by everything I once thought I wanted, I have never felt so hollowed out. So utterly alone.

I stare at the empty chair beside me and wait for a dawn that has already come.

35

DANTE

A low, distant hum breaks into my reverie. A barely audible thump has me catching my breath. I stand just as the soft chime of my elevator sounds through the apartment.

The doors slide open.

And Virgil steps out, his eyes wary, his hands clutching a small white box.

It's Virgil, but he appears different from how I've ever seen him before. There's color in his cheeks—actual color, a flush of pink beneath the tan. His golden curls are slightly mussed, his cream scarf askew at his throat.

He looks human.

"Oh," he says, seeing me. "You were asleep."

"I was," I whisper, too shocked to say more.

"I had forgotten how... insistent mortal hunger is." He chuckles awkwardly, the sound unfamiliar coming from him. "Your kitchen is lovely, but it lacks an icebox altogether."

I laugh too, and I'm not certain if it's from humor or because I'm on the verge of bursting into tears. "It's there. I suppose I didn’t show you, but it's designed to look like the cabinetry."

"Ah. That explains it." Virgil hefts the box. "I remembered you mentioning that the lobby had refreshments—and they do, as it happens. These pastries smell heavenly, though I believe I gave the concierge quite a start, coming out of your private elevator vestibule unannounced."

I'm just staring at him, and he's babbling, which is out of character for both of us. I manage to find words. "I imagine you certainly did.”

"Yes, well." Virgil looks down at the box, which he's clutching like he's forgotten how to hold things. Like he needs to anchor himself to something, and the poor pastry box has become his lifeline. "I returned to the elevator only to realize there was no clearly defined button to return to the apartment. I thought it might be awkward to ask—that perhaps they wouldn't grant me admittance—and it took me some time to realize the button was discreetly hidden behind that small panel, and⁠—"

"Virgil." I walk toward him slowly, tears falling unashamedly down my cheeks. "You're here."

He clutches the box harder. "I am." The cardboard crumples slightly under his grip. "But why am I here, Dante?"

I cross the remaining distance between us, close enough that I could nearly touch him. He holds the box like a talisman, a shield to keep the world at bay. But I can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell something pleasant rising from his hair—something floral and green, like crushed herbs in a garden. It shouldn't surprise me that this poet, that my poet, would smell of growing things.

There's lint on his cashmere sweater. A glistening of sugar at the corner of his lips. He's already eaten at least one bite of pastry. I can't blame him.

I clear my throat. "I made a deal with him."

"No." He scarcely breathes the word. "No, Dante, please tell me you didn't."

"I did. There was no other way…”

"You've damned yourself? What did he promise you? What did you surrender your soul for?" Color floods his cheeks as his voice rises, and I'm so fascinated by it—by the warmth spreading across his skin, the way his chest moves with actual breath—that I barely hear the words at first.

"A life." He's breathing heavily now, shoulders rising and falling. The air between us smells of cardamom and powdered sugar. "A life full of memories to carry into the dark."

"No," he breathes again. "Oh, Dante. Please tell me it wasn't for my sake you did this. What happened? Why did you not step into the light?"

"Do you think—" And now my voice is rising too, heat rushing to my own cheeks, my heart pounding like it wants to escape my chest. "Do you think for even a moment I would walk into a light that refused to accept you?"

The flush drains from his face. "You damned yourself because of me?"

"I negotiated⁠—"