28. Dante
DANTE
I wish I could touch Virgil.
Not for sensual reasons or my own pleasure.
Not that the thought hasn't crossed my mind, especially after seeing him watch me with those hungry, darkened eyes. Realizing there's another side to my patient, gentle guide. A side I wouldn't mind exploring.
But that's not what drives this desire.
Being in this space of his—this beautiful, cultivated, untouched sanctuary—has made me realize something I've sensed but couldn't name.
Virgil is alone.
Utterly, miserably alone.
He is the only one of his kind here who refuses to feed. Who refuses to feel. He walks these paths again and again—a loop of his own making, though he'd never call it that. Helping others. Guiding them through their pain and misery. Watching them step into light he believes he can never reach.
But he never experiences the release he gives them. The joy. The simple pleasures.
If I could touch him, I would wrap my arms around him and hold him until his muscles loosened, until the tension he carries like a second skin finally unwound. Then I'd pull him closer. Let my body say what words can’t. That he is not alone. That he will never be so again.
He's grown somber and quiet as he walks beside me through the cathedral room, past the spiraling bookshelves and flickering candles.
Offering to let him feed on me was the wrong choice.
It had seemed obvious at the time. I can bear pain—I know I can.
And if a moment of my suffering could give him even a few hours of what he's lacked for centuries, I'd bleed that misery gladly.
But the offering wounded him. My error was that I’d offered him sensation when what he needed was witness.
Now we're both quiet. Uncertain. And the truth of what we are—or perhaps what we're becoming—sits between us, pressing into the peace of this room.
He leads me past the desk, through a doorway I hadn't noticed before. We step into a space that's entirely empty. It's like standing on dark air but peaceful. Almost like floating above the world in the velvet quiet of a dreamless sleep.
Here is where I can offer him a gift. One that, I hope, doesn't hurt him. One that shows the care I feel without requiring me to find words for it.
"How do I do it?" I ask.
Virgil's clothing has shifted again. He still wears the cashmere sweater, but it’s now paired with tailored charcoal trousers and a cream scarf draped loosely at his neck.
His sneakers have darkened to a soft gray, still relaxed but more refined.
It suits him perfectly, the way he adorns himself in things he can't feel. Making beauty anyway.
"You simply envision it," he says. "It's a bit like painting, I suppose. Imagine what you want and will it outward. Let it leave your mind and enter this space."
That sounds impossibly abstract. The kind of instruction a meditation retreat would charge thousands for.
But fine. I can do this.
Virgil chuckles. "You seem incredibly enthused."
"I am, in fact."
"Mhmm."
I'm grateful for the easy banter, even knowing it's mortar patching over the crack I created. And perhaps over the words we almost spoke.
I close my eyes. Focus on the image in my mind. The clean lines. The cool surfaces. The way light fell through glass at certain hours.
I gasp when it actually works.
The darkness around us dissolves, and in its place, fourteen-foot ceilings materialize above us.
Wide-plank oak stretches beneath our feet, pale and pristine, not a single scratch or scuff.
Floor-to-ceiling glass panels span the width of two walls, broken only by the floating marble steps that curve upward to the second floor.
We stand in the living room. Two Poltrona Frau leather chairs—tobacco brown, butter-soft—are angled toward the view. And what a view. Manhattan spreads before us like a circuit board come alive, streets like veins of gold, hundreds of buildings glittering in the darkness below.
Beyond, in the dining room, sits a solid marble table with seating for ten. It never hosted more than two. The kitchen is just visible through an archway, defined by pale oak cabinetry, integrated appliances hidden behind seamless panels, and a six-burner range I’ve used perhaps three times.
Virgil’s breath catches. He takes two steps forward, then stops, overwhelmed.
"This is your home?"
"It was," I say. "Yes."
He moves through the space slowly, reverently, his eyes consuming every detail.
I walk alongside him, opening cabinets when his gaze lingers too long on a handle, pulling out drawers to reveal contents I half-remember.
Some spaces are imperfect. I can't recall what filled them.
The cabinet beside the gas fireplace is simply dark inside, undefined.
Virgil doesn't seem to mind. He's like a scholar granted access to a lost library, cataloging everything with breathless precision.
"What's this?" He's noticed a seam in the wall, a subtle gap in the otherwise smooth surface.
"The elevator. Do you know what that is?"
He shakes his head.
I grin and slide my hand over the discreet glass panel beside it. The doors part silently, revealing the brushed steel interior, and we step inside.
Virgil staggers slightly at the reflective surfaces, at our images multiplied infinitely in the mirrored walls.
I watch him take in our reflections as the doors glide closed.
Without thinking, I extend my hand toward him.
He curls his fingers just above mine, and for a moment—in the reflection, at least—it looks as though he's holding my hand.
Something tightens in my chest.
"Does this room serve some purpose?” he asks, still staring at our almost-touching hands in the mirror.
I clear my throat. "Press that button—the one marked L—and you'd descend to the lobby.
That's the receiving area. There's usually someone playing piano, light refreshments, and…” I fight a grimace.
“…residents eager to discuss the weather or politics or whatever triviality passes for conversation among people with too much money and too little purpose. "
Virgil laughs at that. A real laugh, surprised out of him.
"Come," I say. "This isn't what I'm most eager to show you."
We leave the elevator and cross back through the living room. I open the balcony doors, tall glass panels that slide soundlessly into hidden pockets, and we step outside.
Manhattan settles into night around us.
The sky above is velvet dark, a single line of fading crimson bleeding along the horizon where the sun has just surrendered.
A million lights glitter below and around us, as though we've fallen into a galaxy. Cars stream through the streets like blood cells through arteries, and people, as miniature as ants from this height, hustle along sidewalks I’ll never walk again.
I never realized how magical this view was. How fortunate I was to stand here night after night and feel nothing but impatience for the next market opening.
What a waste. What an obscene, unforgivable waste.
Virgil walks to the glass railing and stands as close to the edge as he can. His lips part. His eyes glisten, though no tears fall. He simply stands and absorbs it, saving a thousand memories in this single moment. A thousand fragments of wonder to carry back into the dark.
He'd said the hot spring was all he had to give me.
This is all I have to give him. A place with a view I knew would fascinate him. A world he's only glimpsed through borrowed eyes.
"Thank you, Dante," Virgil whispers without looking away from the glittering, breathing thing Manhattan becomes at night. "This is extraordinary. I've never seen anything like it."
"You're welcome," I say. It feels insufficient, but it's all I have.
We stand there together in silence, shoulder to shoulder at the railing, watching the city pulse beneath us. The wind doesn't touch us. I haven't thought to conjure it. But somehow the stillness feels right. Sacred, almost. Like we've stepped outside of time itself.
I don't know how long we remain there. Minutes. Hours. It doesn't matter. For once in my existence, I'm not counting.
Eventually, Virgil sighs. The sound carries something heavy in it—reluctance, resignation, the weight of what still lies ahead.
"We should go," he says quietly. "We've lingered too long already. The mountain awaits, and I fear our absence has been noted."
I nod, though I don't move. Not yet.
"Virgil."
He turns to me, those ancient eyes catching the reflected light of a thousand windows.
"Thank you," I say. "For everything."
He smiles. It’s soft, sad, impossibly tender.
"The gratitude is mine, Dante. More than you know."
We turn from the view together, leaving Manhattan frozen in its eternal night.
I follow Virgil back through the apartment, past the table that never hosted a real dinner party, past the kitchen I barely used, past the leather chairs angled toward a view I never truly saw.
We pass through the empty dark of the creation space, then back into Virgil's sanctuary—the cathedral ceilings and spiraling bookshelves, the steaming springs and flickering candles, the cerulean-blue tiles bright beneath my feet one last time.
I want to linger. I want to sit beside the water and listen to Virgil talk about philosophy, about poetry, about nothing at all.
But we've borrowed too much time already.
Virgil steps toward the weathered door. Hesitates.
"Whatever waits on the other side," he says quietly, "stay close to me."
I nod then open the door.
The air shifts immediately. It’s colder, thicker, carrying the ashen taste of the realm we'd briefly escaped. We step through onto the dead grass, and the door swings shut behind us with a soft click of finality.
Constance stands ten feet away.
She's dressed immaculately, as before, the camel coat, the red-soled heels, every detail polished to cruel perfection. Her arms are crossed, her posture relaxed, as though she's been waiting for a table at a restaurant rather than hunting us across hell.
"Well," she says, a smile playing at her crimson lips. "That took quite a long time. I was beginning to worry you'd gotten lost in there."
Virgil steps slightly in front of me. "Constance."
"Virgil." She tilts her head, mock-sympathetic. "You look tired. All that restraint must be exhausting."
“Unless you have a desire to join us on our journey, I believe we have nothing left to discuss.”
“We do not, it’s true.” Her gaze slides past him, landing on me with unsettling precision. "But he does."
I feel the weight of her attention like a hand pressing against my chest.
"I made no vow," I say. "I owe him nothing."
“That’s true,” she agrees pleasantly. "But you did commit verbally, at least, to a conversation. And he's grown impatient waiting for it." She pauses, letting the words settle. "He sent me personally to escort you. A courtesy, really. He could have sent others."
The implication hangs in the air. Others who would be less courteous. Others who wouldn't bother with conversation at all.
"And if we refuse?" Virgil's voice is steady, but I hear the tension beneath it.
Constance's smile widens. "Then I'm afraid we'll have to insist. And Virgil…” Her eyes flick to him with something almost like pity. "You know better than anyone what happens to those who keep him waiting."
Virgil is silent. His jaw tightens.
She's not bluffing. Whatever leverage she holds, whatever threat lurks beneath her polished surface, it's enough to make Virgil hesitate. And if Virgil hesitates, we're out of options.
“Of course,” I say, stepping forward. "I'll have the conversation."
"Dante—" Virgil starts.
"It's all right." I meet his eyes, willing him to understand. "I was considering one. Let me see it through."
His expression fractures. Fear, frustration, something deeper he won't let himself name, twisting his features. But he doesn't argue. He knows, as I do, that we've run out of road.
Constance watches this exchange with evident satisfaction. Then she turns, gesturing for us to follow.
"This way, gentlemen. He's waiting."
She begins to walk, and we fall into step behind her, Virgil close at my side, his presence the only warmth in this frozen world.
Ahead, the path curves toward a darkness deeper than any we've crossed.
And somewhere in that darkness, a god waits to make his offer.