34. Dante
DANTE
I wake with a start, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Smooth, seamless plaster stretches above me, punctuated by recessed lighting I'd had custom-installed three years ago. The automated blinds have opened on their schedule, and the earliest brush of golden sunlight glides along the far wall.
I sit up sharply, disoriented.
I'm wearing a suit. Rumpled. Worn.
And worse than that.
There's a hole torn through one knee, the fabric frayed and filthy.
The jacket's lining hangs in tatters, buttons missing from the shirt, and an entire sleeve half-ripped from the shoulder seam.
My oxfords are scuffed beyond recognition, caked with mud and something darker.
My wool overcoat lies crumpled on the floor beside the bed, one side of it bearing the unmistakable tread marks of tires.
The clothes I died in.
My phone rests on the nightstand. I snatch it from the charger and stare at the screen.
December 25th.
Christmas morning. The day after I died.
I stare numbly at the date for a long moment, then slide the phone into my pocket out of habit. I reach for my watch on the nightstand—then stop.
I leave it where it lies.
My footsteps carry me across the bedroom to where sunlight slowly creeps up the surrounding buildings. Frost laces the window's edges, but the day beyond is bright and clear. No snow. Few cars on the streets below. The city holding its breath for the holiday.
I'm alive. Again.
I made a deal with Satan, and he managed to return me to my life exactly as it was. But—
"Virgil," I call out.
I walk into the bathroom. Undisturbed. Marble countertops gleaming, towels precisely folded, everything exactly as the cleaning service left it. I check the guest suite down the hall. Empty.
"Virgil," I call again, louder now.
I descend the floating staircase to the main floor and prowl through the apartment, searching.
The living room with its leather chairs angled toward the view.
The office lined with books I've never read. The dining room with its marble table that never hosted a single party. The kitchen with its gleaming appliances that I’ve barely touched.
"Virgil!" The name echoes off the walls and returns to me unanswered.
Panic ricochets through my chest. I press two fingers to my throat and find my pulse hammering against them—alive, alive, alive—as though my body is trying to convince me of something my mind can't accept.
I walk to the balcony doors, hoping beyond reason despite the floor-to-ceiling glass, even though I can already see the space is empty.
I step outside into the cold.
The December air cuts through the rips in my clothing, its teeth sinking into my flesh. It's such a shock after spending so long with so little input—no weather, no temperature, no strong sensations. Now everything floods back at once.
The sun blazing off glass towers. The distant wail of a siren fifty-five stories below. The smell of cold stone and winter air and something indefinable. The wind biting my exposed skin.
I stumble back inside. Make a second sweep of the apartment. A third.
The reality settles over me like a shroud.
"No," I gasp.
I collapse into one of the leather chairs, sinking into butter-soft leather that suddenly feels like nothing at all.
This isn't right. I was so careful with my wording. So precise with my terms. I specified the date of my return: the morning after my death, the accident erased. I gave Satan an airtight contract—every clause considered, every loophole closed—and made him repeat it back to me word for word.
“At least forty years of mortal life for both of us. Embodied. No illness, no accidents, no interventions from you or any agent acting on your behalf. Beginning Christmas morning, at dawn, the day after I died, with full continuity of memory and identity for both of us, including every memory of this realm and everything that followed my death, and no alteration to the causal chain of my life or his.”
"Agreed."
"Virgil will be released from any bond, debt, or obligation to you. Immediately and permanently."
"Agreed."
"We will age no more than a single year for every decade that passes. Our bodies will remain capable, healthy, whole."
"Agreed."
“Virgil will wake in my apartment. Beside me. Corporeal. Able to feel. On Christmas morning, at dawn."
The negotiations had continued for well over an hour. Every angle. Every contingency. Every trick I'd ever seen deployed across a boardroom table, anticipated and closed.
Satan had repeated each term back to me, word for word, his smile never wavering. When he finished, he'd extended his hand.
I'd hesitated, but only a beat, before shaking it.
"I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Dante, in a few decades."
"I'm sure you'll find other interests in the meantime."
His smile had sharpened, and became appreciative. "I'm sure I will."
I'd thought I'd won. I'd thought I'd considered every angle.
How is Virgil not here?
How did he manage to slip through my language?
I examine the empty chair and try to find the flaw in my own architecture.
Virgil was right. I should have listened to him. I should have listened from the very beginning, should have walked into that light when he begged me to, should have trusted that he knew that realm and its ruler far better than I ever could.
And what had he said to me when I wandered off the path? That I clearly hadn't overcome my pride.
What a brutal, painful way to learn he was right.
I look at the empty chair to my left. Imagine another man sitting there, early sunlight glistening over golden curls, the easy music of his laughter, our fingers brushing as I hand him a glass of wine.
Imagine him saying "What an extraordinary view" for the hundredth time, because this would be our ritual.
Our routine. Because giving him this—a world of sensation after two thousand years without—was what I'd traded my soul for.
But I was fooled. Constance had written the terms down, and—
Constance.
My mind catches on the name.
Because she reminds me of Ms. Hernandez. And it's Christmas morning. The morning I told my assistant she had to be at work or face termination, the morning her mother was dying, and I couldn't spare an ounce of—
I wipe tears from my face with the back of my hand and pull out my phone. Find her number. Press call.
"Mr. Dante, I swear I'm on the way—the train was delayed and I—"
"Go home, Ms. Hernandez. Please."
Silence on the line.
"Oh, please, Mr. Dante. I need this job. I swear to you, I was at the platform on time, but there was a signal failure and—"
She keeps talking, but my mind fills with static.
Not only did I fail to rescue Virgil, fail to give him another chance at collecting memories, one more taste of life before we faced the weight of my choices, but I have returned to the existence of a man I no longer recognize.
A man who treated those he saw as beneath him with derision and cruelty.
"Ms. Hernandez, please." My voice cracks, thick with tears I don't bother hiding. "You're not fired. I want you to spend Christmas with your mother. In fact, take off through the New Year. We'll figure everything out after that."
Another beat of hesitation. "I'm not fired?"
"No," I manage.
"Mr. Dante, if this is some roundabout way of letting me go, I swear to god—"
"I died last night."
Silence.
"There was a car accident. But I was... brought back."
"Oh my god." Her voice shifts, concern flooding where fear had been. "Are you—I mean, are you all right, Mr. Dante?"
No. I'm fairly certain I'm not.
I sink lower in the chair and watch the sun continuing its slow climb over Manhattan.
"Physically, I'm fine. But it gave me an opportunity to consider my life.
To see it clearly, perhaps for the first time.
" I swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Ms. Hernandez.
For the lack of humanity I've shown you.
For treating you as though your life mattered less than my convenience. And I'm—"
My voice breaks, because I suddenly imagine Virgil's bright eyes, his quiet pride, the way he'd look at me if he could see this moment.
"I'm grateful for the opportunity to say as much. Please, spend the holiday with your mother. Your position is secure—I'll have legal send you documentation today if that would help."
"Do you..." She hesitates. "Do you need anything, Mr. Dante? Is there someone I can call for you?"
The only thing I need is the one thing I apparently cannot have.
"No. But thank you for asking."
"All right. Well, then... Merry Christmas, Mr. Dante."
"Merry Christmas, Ms. Hernandez. Please give my regards to your mother."
"I will. Thank you."
The call ends. I slide the phone back into my pocket.
I know doctors. Specialists. People who owe me favors I've never bothered to collect. Perhaps I can get her mother seen quickly, as soon as the next few days. Perhaps there's still hope for someone.
I will try to do what good I can with this life.
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.