He set an easy rhythm, tapping his foot, falling into the comforting twelve-bar progression that felt so natural to his fingers. In the vastness of the night, the notes seemed louder than usual. He struck a string with his right hand, then bent it up on the guitar neck with his left middle finger, and the note morphed and sharpened before ending abruptly. Almost without noticing, Logan started following the familiar rhythm of Hendrix’s “Red House.” He moved his head in time, enjoying the tune, playing with it—building here and adding a pause there, slipping in a minute vibration among the choked notes . . .
“Nice choice,” someone said, and Logan nearly dropped the guitar.
“Fuck.” He looked frantically around, his heart pounding in his chest. The man was right there—standing smack in the middle of the crossroads, in the weak circle of the flashlight, hands loosely slipped in his pockets, looking perfectly at ease with the world. Where the ever-loving fuck had he come from?
As Logan watched, the man’s lips curled in a smirk.
“No need to look so scared, buddy.” His voice was low and raspy, like he’d smoked too many cigarettes. “I do believe you were, after all, waiting for me.”
He strolled toward Logan, who clung to the guitar, uncertain. The man was slender, wearing a pair of ragged jeans—might have been gray, but then again, most things seemed gray in the colorless night—and a visibly worn leather jacket. Everything about him seemed faded—his skin was paler than any Logan had ever seen, and the long hair falling over his shoulders and spilling down his chest looked pure white.
Logan shook his head. He didn’t exactly know who . . . or what . . . he was waiting for, but this certainly wasn’t it. “I don’t think so.” His heart was still beating too fast.
There was something odd about the man. As he came closer, Logan felt the hair on his arms stand on end under his worn jean jacket, as if static electricity was prickling all over his skin, just this side of painful—making him too hot and scraping him with sharp, cold fingers at the same time.
“Really. Because I think you came here tonight especially to see me.” He dropped abruptly to a crouch, arms resting on his knees, and stared Logan right in the face. Logan gasped.
The man’s irises were a vivid, unmistakable red.
“I am Farfarello, from the Malebolge, in the eighth circle of Hell,” the man said. He tipped his chin toward Logan’s Gibson. “Care to hand me that guitar?”
Logan’s hands, however, clamped viselike on the instrument as he found himself frozen in place, staring into those red eyes. It was true, he’d come here especially for this, but . . .
“Hey. You in there?” Farfarello snapped his fingers in front of Logan’s face, jerking him back to reality. “I don’t know about you, man, but I’m freezing my ass off here. I ain’t got all night.”
Logan swallowed, suddenly painfully awkward. He had no idea what to do with his hands, where to look, how to move . . . his entire body felt like a huge, uncomfortable lump he didn’t quite know how to handle. He cleared his throat, focusing on the mole on the stranger’s left temple, half-hidden under his hair. He couldn’t bear to look him directly in the eye. It made . . . something inside him sizzle and clench, like he was being electrocuted, like he was sticking his hand in a rattlesnake’s mouth.
“You . . . are you the devil?” he managed, lifting his eyebrows, trying not to sound too disbelieving. Hell, he may have come for exactly this, but that didn’t mean he’d actually believed it would . . . Damn.
“A devil. I just told you.” Farfarello’s lips curled in a mocking grin. “Why, you seem surprised. What did you expect—some fancy asshole wearing a tux and a top hat, slicked like a snake oil salesman? Maybe with a goatee?” He tapped his chin with a long pale finger. Under the leather jacket, he wore a faded AC/DC shirt. “No, let me guess. You wanted horns, a red tail, and goat legs, correct? Perhaps I should have a glow-in-the-dark trident, too?”
Logan swallowed, his throat parchment-dry. Leave it up to him to piss off the devil. A devil. “Well, I kinda—uh.” He managed a weak nod. “The horns I kinda, uh, expected. And the . . . the goatee.”
Much to his surprise, the man—devil?—threw his head back and gave a hearty laugh, scraped and rough. It reminded Logan of a Janis Joplin song—strangely musical, bright but sad, and it made something tighten in his gut.
“Oh, please.” Farfarello waved his hand. “That look’s been démodé for a century at least. Can’t say I regret the loss—feel much more comfortable now. I hated having to wear those stupid costumes for work every day. Made me feel like a clown, you know?”
Logan nodded on cue, a little stunned. Hell if he could even begin to process what the dude—devil, oh my God—was saying. No. He most assuredly did not know.
“But enough chitchat,” Farfarello said, patting his thighs before moving to the side and sitting on the second tire, stretching his legs. He was wearing ruined brown leather boots. “I do believe we’re here to do business. So, tell me . . . What is it you want?”
Logan’s hand tightened on the guitar. What the hell. Maybe he was hallucinating this handsome devil in a leather jacket offering to make his every wish come true; maybe he’d been smoking some bad shit, and he’d wake up in the morning, having passed out in his own vomit at the crossroads; maybe he was sitting there, in the middle of the night, talking to a tree. But he might as well go for broke.
It wasn’t like he had much to lose.
“Yes. I—um. I want to make . . . a deal.” He scraped his fingers on the edge of the guitar, picking at a small splinter there, the consequence of a too-lively concert a few months back. Farfarello simply looked at him intently and nodded, gesturing for him to carry on. “The . . . the usual, I guess. I want to become a great bluesman, and in exchange . . . in exchange you’ll get, well. Me? When the time is up.”
“When the time is up.” Farfarello hummed, thoughtful. “And how long will that be?”
Logan clenched his fingers, nervous. He didn’t—he wasn’t sure of the specifics. And he couldn’t seem to look the devil in the eye without feeling like he was falling—like a black hole was pulling him forward, inward, dragging him toward destruction . . .
“I, um, don’t know.” His fingers began to tremble. “Isn’t there a . . . some sort of standard?”
Farfarello laughed again, that raspy, bittersweet laughter. Its echo sounded like faraway screaming. “Oh, Logan. There is nothing standard about this.” He winked when Logan jolted in reaction. “Yes, I know your name. Don’t tell me that out of this entire situation, that is what you find surprising.”
Logan had to concede the point.
“But I see you struggling, my friend, so I will gladly come to the rescue. Perhaps we should pick something classic to make you feel more at ease. The number of the beast, yes?” He waited for Logan to nod before continuing. “Always loved that song. Inaccurate, but very folkloric indeed. Let’s see . . . six hundred and sixty-six years is out of the question, and I regret to say you won’t live another sixty-six years. So we could settle on six, if that’s all right with you.”
Logan’s hands were outright shaking now. He clutched the guitar harder to try to still them.
Six years. That wasn’t much . . . almost nothing at all. But he’d get what he wanted; he wouldn’t wither and die in this rotten place, wouldn’t see his life slowly fade into the coal dust. He wouldn’t grow old and bitter thinking of what might have been. If he refused this deal now . . . he’d have to live with it for the rest of his life, the burning knowledge that he could have had more, could have had . . . everything, and instead, he’d been a coward. He couldn’t back out now. What was it again—live fast, die young, right? Better than fifty years of agony, for sure.
“I’m in,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady. He cleared his throat. “But I want the whole deal.” What the hell. He’d just signed away his soul. Now he really had nothing left to lose. The knowledge emboldened him. He hadn’t realized how fear had
been holding him back, and now . . . there was nothing to fear anymore. “I want everything—I want to be the greatest in the world, adored by the public. I want fame and glory and money. Lots of money.”
He eased back a little, surer of himself now, like he should have been all along. Farfarello’s posture, however, seemed to have become somewhat stiffer. He was still staring at Logan with those unflinching red eyes, cold and calculating.
“I thought you wanted to play the blues,” the devil said, tapping a finger on his knee. Tap. Tap. It was a faint sound, and yet it had an echo, a . . . something that made Logan think of claws and sharp teeth and ripped flesh.
“Yeah. That—that too, of course.” Logan swallowed. “I want you to make me into a great blues guitarist. And also, you know. Famous and stuff.”
“And stuff,” drawled Farfarello. His teeth gleamed, capturing shards of the waning torchlight. When he looked away, Logan felt as if someone had just stopped compressing his chest. He could breathe and move again, no longer pinned in place by those damned red eyes.
“So . . . we have a deal?” Logan prodded carefully.
Farfarello shrugged. “Sure. I will give you everything you’ve asked for,” he said, turning back to stare at Logan. Farfarello’s voice seemed very far away, echoing in hollow, rocky gorges, holding endless fires and screams, screams. “I will give you fame and riches, and I will make you into a great bluesman. And at the stroke of midnight, six years from now, I will come for you. You will be mine, then, for me to do with as I please.” He was silent, letting his words sink in. His eyes were scorching, like the fiery pits of Hell, making Logan burn inside his skin. “To seal this deal, offer me your hand.”
Logan could barely breathe as he obeyed, lifting his hand from the guitar. It seemed heavy as stone, and it took all his strength to lift it and inch it forward—he was sweating, his lungs burning, as if he were breathing scorching air. He extended his hand, unsteady, shaking with the effort to hold it up, feeling Farfarello’s eyes carve a charred path inside him—
“Ah!” Logan yanked his arm back, the weight suddenly lifted. Almost too quick to see, Farfarello had lashed out and scratched a thin, bleeding line into his palm. Logan clutched his hand to his chest, hot blood dripping down his skin. When he lowered his eyes, he realized it was dripping on the guitar, leaving invisible traces on the wine-colored wood, smearing on the strings.
“Hand me your guitar,” said Farfarello, and Logan obeyed, lifting it with care in both hands, wincing at the searing pain, watching his blood stain the pale wood of the neck. Farfarello took the instrument just as carefully and placed it in his lap, pausing to admire it, caressing its smooth curves with light fingers. The nail of his index finger was stained with Logan’s blood. “Yes,” he murmured, low, resting his fingertips on the strings. “This is a beautiful guitar. It will serve you well, when the time is right, if you know to look for it.”
Logan didn’t understand. He was dizzy, exhausted, as if something had been torn from his very core, leaving him hollow and weak, ready to crumple in on himself. Farfarello’s white hair spilled over the guitar, and he pushed it back behind his shoulders, leaving a smudge of Logan’s blood on his temple, just above his mole. Except it wasn’t a mole, Logan realized.
It was a tiny black spider, inked just beside his left eye.
Farfarello started playing then, and Logan couldn’t pay attention to anything else. The guitar hummed and came to life in long, sinuous notes. It shouldn’t have been possible without an amplifier, and yet melodic chords echoed in the vast silent night, drawn out, excruciating. Each note sank deep in Logan’s chest, leaving scratches and torn flesh, down to his very bones. He felt exhausted, hopelessly lost, as if someone had kicked him in the stomach repeatedly, crushed his ribs and bruised his lungs and left him facedown on the dry, red earth, soaking up his sweat and blood and spit.
But there was more, underneath, as Farfarello’s fingers moved, slow and steady, without an instant’s hesitation. A calm, secure strength, like a rope thrown to a man sinking in a vast, bottomless sea, and Logan clung to it, wound it around his wrist and held on, swept by a bone deep acceptance. He would hold on, resilient. He would ride it all out and drag himself upright again . . . or he wouldn’t, and he would exhale his last breath facedown in the water, and that would be okay, too. The music floated in the night, bringing nostalgia and peace and pain and quiet dignity, and Logan was struck silent, awed, unable to do anything but feel, giving himself over to the blues.
One last, drawn-out chord trembled in the air, a single heavy spider thread, until it faded into silence, leaving behind an emptiness like Logan had never known.
Shaken and shattered beyond repair, he was still trying to pull himself together when Farfarello bent his head, as if bidding the guitar farewell. After a moment of perfect stillness, he sighed deeply and straightened his shoulders, looking tired and worn and much older than his youthful features would suggest.
Without a word, he handed Logan the guitar, waiting patiently as Logan forced his shaky hands to cooperate and take it back, clinging to it like an anchor. Farfarello slipped off the tire and crouched in front of Logan again, so close Logan could feel the heat radiating from his body.
“Wow,” Logan exhaled, still dazed. “Farfarello, I . . . I don’t know wha—”
He was yanked forward, Farfarello’s fingers like a vise on his arm, and his mouth was crushed against Farfarello’s. He gasped, and Farfarello took advantage, trailing his tongue on the inside of Logan’s lips.
Something inside Logan snapped, and he grabbed Farfarello’s head, sank his fingers in his long white hair, and held him close. Farfarello was drawing him in, consuming him, like his goddamned eyes had threatened to do all night—and Logan attacked his mouth with feral want, kissing him hard and deep. Farfarello chuckled and every thought in Logan’s head vanished into flames—he parted his legs and yanked Farfarello close, making him fall to his knees in the dirt. Heat flared between their bodies, flush together, only separated by the guitar poking into Logan’s chest. He licked into Farfarello’s mouth, drawing out the kiss, long and wet and deep, reveling in the devil’s taste—stout beer and cigarettes, and something like blood.
Farfarello was gasping when he pulled back, breaking the kiss. He stared at Logan with those impossible red eyes, his white hair ruffled, his pale skin flushed invitingly, and his lips curled in a teasing smirk. Logan leaned forward to follow him, seeking more, but was pinned in place by a silent, invisible strength—by those unflinching eyes, bright and dancing like flames.
“Remember,” Farfarello breathed, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver through Logan’s body. “In six years on this day, at the stroke of midnight.”
Logan nodded weakly, trapped by those red eyes for one more straining instant before Farfarello blinked, breaking whatever spell he’d cast. Logan bent forward, panting, torn apart and turned on like never in his life. He clung to the guitar as the world seemed to topple and roll around him, making him seasick.
“Fuck,” he rasped, when he could take in a steady breath and not feel like he would die, when the lingering burn of Farfarello’s touch had faded enough to let him think again. He raised his eyes, shaken. “Farfarello . . . that was—”
But Farfarello was gone, leaving behind nothing but a gnarled tree and dust in a patch of tired light.
Logan remained frozen, back pressed against the door.
There, on the velvet armchair, Farfarello was comfortably sprawled, hands dangling from the armrests, one leg resting over the other. He wore a faded Hendrix shirt, the leather jacket casually hooked on the armchair’s corner. Farfarello looked good, still as youthful and ethereal as he had that night. His white hair contrasted starkly with the rich burgundy headrest; his red eyes were still full of fire, and his crooked smirk was still enough to make Logan’s knees go weak.
His hands were shaking. It wasn’t the prospect of being ripped apart by hellhounds, of course. It wasn’t li
ke Logan had been reading every version of the Faust myth he could get his hands on, and having horrible nightmares about devils tearing his body to shreds. Of course not.
Farfarello tilted his head, resting it comfortably against the backrest, and his smirk turned into something closer to a smile.
“Why, this is not the welcome I expected, Logan. I could almost think you aren’t happy to see me.”
Logan let his head thump back against the door. “Why wouldn’t I be? After all, you’re just here to murder me in a horrible way and drag me screaming to an eternity of torture in Hell.”
Farfarello rolled his eyes. “Such a smart-ass, aren’t you. Never know when to just shut the hell up.”
Logan snorted a laugh. “Yeah, well. I’m kinda over worrying about stuff like that.” He was slurring a little. He must have been drunker than he’d realized. The room didn’t seem stable anymore, suddenly pitching and wobbling like an unsteady ship, and Logan had to lean his whole body against the door to hold himself up. Maybe it was Farfarello’s presence, his magnetic eyes, that destabilized him so, pulling him in as if he were being dragged with a rope. Dragged toward the executioner’s chop, probably. He pressed himself harder against the door, eyeing Farfarello with suspicion. “So. Shall we get on with it, or do you have some lame-ass speech you want to give me, first?”
“No speeches, I promise. Cross my heart.” Farfarello turned to shift carelessly through the papers stacked on the small round table, piled around the old-fashioned lamp. “But we could make time for a little casual conversation, yes? Discuss some trivial news story, like good ol’ buddies catching up over a glass of moonshine?”
Devil at the Crossroads Page 2