30. Dante
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.
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.
"Constance," he calls.
She produces another chair and positions it at the table.
Everyone finds their seats with the practiced choreography of people who've done this countless times. Virgil doesn’t pull his chair back.
He simply sits, his body passing through the chair’s edge as though it weren’t there.
The cushion shows no indent. The wood makes no creak.
If anyone finds this strange, no one reacts.
The silence that follows feels like the held breath before a blade falls.
Staff appear discreetly, depositing dishes of oil seasoned with herbs and citrus peels alongside loaves of still-steaming bread. Before each of us, they place, as a first course, a small bowl of golden, fragrant broth that catches the candlelight like liquid amber.
Virgil receives a dish as well, but he doesn't look at it. Instead, he gives me a soft nod.
It's safe to eat.
As soon as Satan lifts his spoon, I follow suit, though I have no appetite and even less interest. But I understand how these games are played. I've played them myself, countless times, across tables not so different from this one.
The soup is extraordinary. It’s rich and layered, the depth of flavor suggesting it simmered for days, each ingredient coaxed to its peak before being allowed to meld with the others. I hesitate before swallowing, letting it fill my mouth completely.
I can't help but think Virgil would love it. Under different circumstances. At a different table.
Satan settles back in his chair with the ease of a man who has never once doubted his welcome anywhere. "It's a rare moment when we find a soul who measures up to our standards."
This gathers attention from the dozen guests seated closest to us. A few nod in agreement, murmuring appreciation.
Satan throws his hands up in a gesture of innocence. "You've seen the lower realm. The..." He scowls with theatrical distaste. "...mess it's become. I’m a man of humility, Mr. Dante. I can admit when I've made mistakes in the past. I'm certain your companion has shared details of my origins."
I fight the urge to look at Virgil, to try to read what he might have me say. "I've heard only the most basic details."
"Well, then you know I've acted impulsively. Foolishly, at times. There was an era when I was young and had much to learn. I gathered persons into our ranks who weren't truly worthy of the calling. Those who haunt the lower realms now, whom I'm sure you've encountered."
"A few."
He appraises me carefully, dark eyes missing nothing. "If you'd indulge me for a moment, Mr. Dante, try to forget your experiences in those places. I abandoned them…” He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. "I can't say how many centuries ago now."
Murmurs of more agreement ripple around the table. Virgil remains utterly still, his plate untouched, his presence like a held breath. Strange. Virgil loathes this man and this place. His silence should be cutting, defiant. Instead it feels… restrained.
And I have never liked rooms where one voice controls the entire conversation.