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But he didn’t even get to see if it had worked? If she was okay? If the battle was won? He’d finally decided to become something other than a selfish asshole, and his prize was a light show and a headache without a head?

Fanculo.Screw that.

He couldn’t turn to find the source of the sound, but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t behind him. Or in front. If there was such a thing as direction in this place. The sound was inside him. Maybe the light was, too. Or, it would have been, if there was anyhimto be inside.

The sound wasn’t music. There was no word for it. It hadmeaning, though. It was a language, sort of, or maybe itwaslanguage in its purest form. Miseria ladra, his head would have throbbed if he had one.

Death was supposed to be a relief, an end to mortal suffering.

This was bullshit.

Maybe if he had an eternity to listen, he’d understand what the light was trying to tell him, but death hadn’t blessed him with patience.

I don’t speak colors or music.He aimed the thought at the brightest part of the glowing whatever-the-hell-it-was.Pick a language I know or cut it out. I’ve had a long day.

The thing… laughed? Silently. A bubble of affectionate amusement, popping inside him.

Dante sent a mental scowl.Please tell me we’re not doing this for eternity.

Something tingled. His… fingers? They materialized in front of his face. His face! He had a face. And a body.Thank Dea.

Literally.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, to test out his voice. It sounded the same. “Dea?”

The bubble of mirth returned, warmer and brighter, but also not quite a confirmation. At least this time the sensation was in his chest, because he had one. Clothes, too, which were unnecessary, but appreciated. Gods probably didn’t give a shit about nudity, but it was a hard habit to shake.

“So… youareDea? Or you aren’t?”

Correct.

He knew that feeling. Didn’t answer the question though. It was Deaandnot Dea. Fun game. “Listen, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful here, but can you tell me if it worked? Is she going to be okay?”

The light wavered, almost but not quite fully taking form, flickering like a candle in an open window.

A mirage of a woman, tall and thin, with light brown hair and the same dark eyes he saw every time he looked in the mirror.

“Mama?”

His mother—or the goddess who looked like his mother—reached out a hand to him, her eyes somehow full of love and regret at the same time.

Nothing could have stopped Dante from reaching back.

His hand found only warmth where hers should have been. The light moved up his arm, tingling over his skin, soaking through to heat him from the inside. The first tide of emotion—pride, love, reassurance—was as welcoming as a hearth fire after a freezing rain, and he could have basked in it forever.

But warmth became heat—scorching, crackling, igniting—tinged with profound regret that there wasn’t time to do it anyother way. This was the fastest way to show him what he needed to know. And there was no time to wait.

His mother smiled, but it was the saddest thing he’d ever seen.

She vanished, and his mind exploded.

A voracious, murky ocean swallowing the shore, battering the city walls, belching forth scaly, fanged creatures with claws like scythes. Ash clouds choking the skies above rivers of blood, and people, everywhere, burning and burning and burning.

One, darkness made flesh, led the attack, battling an army of—

Recognition jolted through him, and a scream tore from his throat as the inferno consumed him.

Fifty-Five