Devil at the Crossroads

by Cornelia Grey

  He brandished a brand-new glossy magazine, sending a mound of paper cascading to the floor. Whatever it was, Logan was sure it had most certainly not been there when he’d sifted through the years-old newspapers earlier tonight.

  “What a coincidence. Rings any bells?” Farfarello casually lifted the magazine. Logan cringed. Rolling Stone’s latest: his face, complete with makeup and hair highlights, splashed all over the cover, the garish red title announcing: TRAGIC DEATH OF BLUES SUPERSTAR.

  Logan groaned. “Oh, God. I need to sit down for this shit.”

  He pushed himself off the door and wobbled uncertainly toward the bed, snatching the whiskey bottle along the way before flopping heavily on the green bedspread. As Farfarello busied himself opening the magazine and riffling through the pages, Logan unscrewed the cap and tossed it over his shoulder, then took a long swig. He was nowhere near drunk enough to have this conversation.

  “So . . .” Farfarello rested the magazine on his leg and scanned a page, perfectly at ease. “A great bluesman dying dreadfully young and in mysterious circumstances—that still stirs up quite the ruckus.” He tapped a finger on the page. “Died at twenty-seven, too. How lovely, keeping up with tradition and all. Oh, the media must be having a field day. Of course, he was no Hendrix, but I guess he was the next best thing.”

  “He sure was,” Logan replied, bracing his hands on the mattress and craning his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. Fuck. Did they really have to do this?

  “Real tragic, too. Says here that they suspect an overdose. Not that I’m surprised. That guy was drinking way too much and taking too much shit. A real jackass, if you ask me.” Farfarello paused. When he spoke again, his voice held something of the hissing of a snake. “A crap musician, too. Too busy spending money and chasing after anything with holes to care about the music. A real shame, though. A long time ago, I heard this guy play, and he was . . .” He paused again. “He was good. I wonder what the fuck happened to him.”

  Ouch. That was low. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but still, it hurt like a motherfucking kick in the balls. Logan sighed and leaned back on his elbows, looking at Farfarello with tired eyes. He was worn out and exhausted. But yeah . . . he deserved it. To be shamed out loud, for once, and not just in his head. To have it thrown right in his face just what a fucking idiot he’d been.

  Maybe this was a little taste of his future. Maybe Hell would be reliving his failure, over and over and over again, for the rest of eternity. The thought nearly brought tears to his eyes, and he swallowed down the knot in his throat. But he didn’t look away. He was determined not to be a coward. If this was his punishment . . . he’d take it, as long as he had a scrap of sanity left.

  Farfarello didn’t insist, though, and when he spoke again, the bitter edge was gone from his voice. “So, faking your death. Quite the feat you pulled off. Must have been hard to convince the money men—after all, who’d let their goose with the golden eggs go? Bet they were hoping to squeeze you for every last penny, till you dropped dead on stage. It is their specialty, after all.”

  “Yeah, well.” Logan’s lips curled in a sneer. “They were pretty eager to agree when I offered to sign over all future profits for all my material. Check out the sales chart and see how my records skyrocketed after my tragic death. They had plenty of time to plan it and make it as dramatic and profitable as possible. There’s merchandise ready for the next two years at least.”

  “Gotta wonder, though, why even go through all that trouble.” Farfarello nonchalantly flipped through the pages. “Could have just pulled a Jim Morrison, you know. Run away. Disappeared. Let rumors spread for the next five decades about how you relocated to a monastery in Tibet, or were kidnapped by Martians, or some shit.”

  “A Jim Morrison? But didn’t he . . .” Logan shook his head. Not the time. “Never mind. I guess—guess I could have waited a few weeks. Woulda had their dead bluesman anyway, complete with mauled body and all. But I . . .” He wiped his hand over his mouth. “Just . . . I wanted to end things. On my terms, you know. And I didn’t want them to look for me. Didn’t want to have to hide. Had enough on my mind as it was, these past few weeks.”

  Farfarello looked supremely uninterested, engrossed in the magazine. “Oh, look, finally a Zeppelin reunion. Jimmy has got to get me tickets . . . What? Ah, yes. I know all about that. Thought it was a good idea too. So I lent a helping hand, made sure the producers’ protests were suddenly forgotten when it was time to sign the papers. They became quite agreeable after that. Didn’t even take that long.”

  Logan’s brow furrowed. “You . . . you mean you made it happen? What did you do?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” Farfarello shrugged. “It was all you and your clever plan, big guy. I just . . . gave ’em a little nudge in the right direction, is all. A hellhound in the shower. A horse head between the covers, that one always works. A demonic apparition or two . . . nothing I haven’t done before.”

  “Nothing you haven’t—” Logan felt his temper beginning to rise. “So what, you were spying on me all along? I thought—the deal was you’d come back after six years. And instead you were . . . hanging around, meddling with my life?”

  Farfarello folded the magazine and threw it on the table, pointing his scorching red gaze at Logan. “No need to get heated up. I like to keep an eye on my protégés. And mark my word—you needed all the help I could give you. I seem to recall a certain night, a few weeks ago, in a pub in the middle of nowhere, with a providential Pignose . . .”

  Logan swallowed. Touché. “I . . . thought that was you. I’m not an idiot. But I thought . . . I thought that was it. Just that time. And instead, you . . . you’re telling me you were there all along.”

  “Duh. Where else would I be?” Farfarello rolled his eyes. “I was there that night, and a hundred other times you won’t remember, and another hundred you never even noticed.”

  “But why?” Logan shook his head, frowning. What was he not getting? “You just had to show up in six years’ time and collect your due. Why would you go through all that trouble? Why follow me around?”

  “Man, you really are slow.” Farfarello leaned forward to rest his arms on his legs. “Let me break it down for you. We made a deal, you and I, and I take my word very seriously. What did you think, that I’d just strum a few chords on the guitar and bam, your future would be magically decided? Who do you think I am, Merlin? It took a whole fucking lot of hard work to make things go the way they did, let me tell you. I busted my ass for six years to give you what you wanted.”

  “Yeah, and what brilliant results.” Logan snorted, shaking his head. A smile stretched on his lips—not bitter or resentful, but rather the smile of the fool who’s learned to appreciate life’s twisted sense of humor, who tips his hat to the world after being sorely defeated. If Farfarello’s intention had been to break him beyond repair and teach him a lifetime’s worth of lessons in humility . . . Logan had to give it to the guy: he’d spectacularly succeeded.

  “Are you kidding me? I think the results were nothing short of awesome.” Farfarello spread his arms. “Complete success. You got exactly what you wanted. I don’t mean to brag, but I did a wonderful job. I suppose you could say I’m a bit like that Michelangelo guy.”

  “Yeah. I suppose I could.” Logan smiled a little sadly to himself. Here he was, on his last day on Earth, complimenting a devil for ruining his life, just to make him smile. What had his life come to? When he’d imagined over and over what his last night would be like . . . it had never been like this. “So, there we go, now. Six years are up, and you’ve earned your end of the deal. Let’s get it over with. Take my soul. With whatever . . . means you deem necessary.”

  He hoped it wouldn’t involve tearing him apart and scattering his bloody entrails all over the room—but, if the Faust stories he’d read were any indication, he wasn’t in luck. He’d spent the last few months collecting versions of the story, and the older the story, the wor
se his end promised to be. He swallowed. Surely there was only so long a body could survive such atrocious torment. With a little luck, he’d die before the serious stuff began.

  Hah. A whole lot of good that would do him. His soul would just get to Hell sooner, nice and ready for an eternity of torture and damnation. Fucking good deal he’d made.

  He lifted his eyes to Farfarello, who chuckled and shook his head. “Soul? Who said anything about a soul? The contract said, and I quote: 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.” Farfarello paused. “I hear no talk of soul.”

  Logan stared at him blankly as Farfarello got up and stretched leisurely, his white hair spilling over his chest. “Think I’d go through all that trouble for one measly soul? Do you really think we need to do that in order to fill Hell up? We got more souls than we know what to do with. We have endless halls, wider than most seas, full of rows and rows and rows of shelves and manila folders, full of souls. Bureaucrats are condemned to care for that endless archive, sorting all the new souls that come by the thousands. It’s an eternity chained to a gray desk, without windows or solitaire. And the coffee machine is forever broken.”

  Farfarello stepped closer to the bed, picking up the whiskey bottle from the bedside table. He took a swig, and a drop of amber liquid rolled past the corner of his mouth, down his chin. “Nah. Souls ain’t worth shit anymore, Logan. I didn’t do all this for a soul.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, settling his eyes on Logan. There was something unmistakably predatory about that gaze, and it sent a minute shiver down Logan’s back.

  “So why—” he started, then choked on the words. He swallowed, licked his parchment dry lips. Farfarello handed him the bottle, and Logan gulped down a mouthful, grateful for the bitter burn in his throat. “If it’s not my soul you want . . . why’d you do it?”

  “Oh, Logan. You walk me into the best lines.” Farfarello laughed his low, raucous laugh. He stepped forward and bent, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of Logan, leaning down until their faces were scant inches apart. “I did it for you, Logan. It’s you I wanted. Not your soul. Ever since that first night, when I saw you sitting there, playing the blues. When I saw the way your fingers moved on the strings, the way you held her . . . I knew I had to have you. Do you remember?”

  Logan was breathless, his head spinning. God, he remembered that night like it had been branded into his brain, the edges still sizzling and smoking. He remembered Farfarello, looking rumpled and gorgeous just like he did now, and those red eyes that seemed always about to consume him . . .

  “Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes on Farfarello’s lips as they curled in the faintest smirk, so close to him.

  “I have wanted you . . . for six long years,” Farfarello whispered. “Countless times I watched you, I passed you by—just a moment, just an instant, in a crowded room, in a dirty alley, in a smoky hotel. I was so close to you I could smell your skin. So many times, you looked right at me and didn’t recognize me. So many times I stood silently and looked at you, desired you . . .”

  Logan had to hold back a moan. He hadn’t known—for all that time, he hadn’t known he was wanted so passionately, and the knowledge stirred something at once pleasurable and agonizing in his stomach. He wondered how many times he’d crossed paths with Farfarello without even noticing, how many times he’d looked straight at him and not known. He wondered if this had become a game for Farfarello—waiting around for him, trying to spot him, catch a glimpse of him. He wanted to know all of it. He wanted Farfarello to tell him about every single time, what he’d seen, what he’d been thinking. He wanted . . .

  “I remember one night,” Farfarello purred, leaning to nuzzle lightly at the corner of Logan’s jaw, making him shiver. “You took a redhead to your trailer, a pretty little thing in a leather skirt. She had a tattoo of a spider on her thigh, remember? You played around it with your tongue, couldn’t get enough of it.”

  Logan jolted, half-intoxicated by Farfarello’s scent of leather and cigarette smoke and those too-close red eyes. In the past six years, he had been with too many women to count, let alone remember. Hell, he’d barely even been conscious for most of them. But he definitely remembered that one. She’d had fiery red hair, and a ripped Led Zeppelin top that showed way too much, and plump cheeks, and full, soft thighs. He’d gotten as far as her spider tattoo—a minute, detailed tarantula on the inside of her thigh—before presumably passing out drunk. He’d woken up alone the next morning, with a screaming headache and smelling like tequila. He’d never seen her again.

  “You—you were spying on me in my bed?” Farfarello’s heat seeped across the inches that separated them. “That . . . you dirty bastard. Didn’t know devils were such perverts.”

  Farfarello laughed, then, a hoarse sound that made Logan’s skin prickle. “Oh, Logan . . . I wasn’t spying on you. I was right there with you—in bed, with your tongue on my thigh.”

  His words shocked Logan like an electric current, making him jerk back instinctively. He was stopped by Farfarello’s hand, fisted in his hair, holding him still. Farfarello leaned closer, his hot breath brushing Logan’s ear as he spoke, sending goose bumps down his neck. “You have no idea what I wanted to do to you that night. How wet I was . . . just how tempted I was to push your face between my legs and have you sink your tongue in my cunt. How much I wanted to take your cock out and ride you until you fucking begged me.”

  Logan bit back a moan. God, he was hard, his head trapped in Farfarello’s grip, Farfarello’s low, dirty words shooting down his spine. “So why . . . didn’t you?”

  “Because,” Farfarello purred, “I am self-centered. I wanted you to know it was me when you fucked me. It just wouldn’t be as fun otherwise. I wanted you to be very clear about who was making you moan, scream, and beg . . . I wanted you to think about me the entire time, every second your cock was in me. I wanted you to come with your world narrowed down to nothing but me.” He leaned to brush his teeth against Logan’s skin, just an instant. Logan gasped. “What can I say. I’m a romantic.”

  Logan closed his eyes. God, he felt like he was drowning—he could barely scrape together enough brain cells to keep on breathing, but he had to say something. “So,” he rasped, too far gone to be ashamed of how broken he sounded, and all because of Farfarello’s voice. “What are you—man, or, ah . . . woman?”

  “Don’t be so limited,” Farfarello tutted. “I can be whatever I want. There are so many possibilities, Logan, and I enjoy them all. I’ve felt orgasms you wouldn’t believe. I could never decide which one I prefer. But I know which one you prefer.”

  Logan’s mouth went dry.

  “You like women, I know you do—like to feel the weight of their breasts in your hands, love to sink your cock into a soft, wet cunt. But I know what you like even more.” Farfarello’s murmur was so low, barely audible, shooting straight to Logan’s dick. “I know you’d rather have a cock in your mouth, long and thick, swallowing it until you nearly choke. You’d like me to hold your hair and shove my cock in your mouth right now. I know you’d rather have a taut, muscular man under you; you’d prefer to hear rough, deep moans as you fuck into a tight ass.” The devil trailed his tongue on Logan’s neck. “Go on. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Logan could do nothing but tremble, his achingly hard cock straining against his jeans. Fuck. A few blokes had given him blowjobs, sure—he’d even returned a couple of them. Nothing more than that. And yet . . .

  “I can’t. You’re—you’re right,” he whispered, tearing himself open, offering himself to the devil like an animal exposing his stomach to a lion, ready to be devoured.

  Maybe that would be his punishment, instead. And if it was . . . it was more than welcome.

  Farfarello kissed him, hard and sudden, and Logan just gave himself over. He let Farfarello’s tongue into his mouth, gasped and trembled, completely at his mercy. He clutched Farfarello as i
f he were a lifeline, eyes closed, his entire body igniting where their lips met.

  Just as suddenly, Farfarello tightened his fingers in Logan’s hair and yanked his head back, ripping a moan from him. Farfarello was staring at him like a predator deciding where to land the killing blow.

  Farfarello abruptly let go of him, instead, and backed off the bed, standing up. He grasped the bottom of his shirt and slipped it off, revealing his pale, muscular chest, his sculpted abdomen. Logan’s eyes widened. Farfarello’s skin wasn’t the smooth, porcelain expanse he’d imagined. It was marred by countless scars. Long, thin ones in a sinuous line, as if nails had ripped his skin open down his side, going round to his back, then over his shoulder; rounded marks, like cigarette burns or bullet holes, Logan had no idea; irregular patches of twisted flesh that looked like it had been fucking melted—burns, maybe. His stomach was etched with deep lines, which dipped under the waist of his jeans following a trail of pale hair, shimmering white in the light.

  Burning, all-consuming want slammed into Logan—he wanted to put his mouth on Farfarello’s skin and map every single mark and scar with his tongue, trace them, worship them, follow their winding path until he rested between Farfarello’s legs. The violence of that hunger nearly frightened him. God, maybe this was what perdition felt like—abandoning himself to infernal lust, the need to own, taste, devour.

  He didn’t move, though, trembling with the effort. Rather, he watched avidly as Farfarello kicked off his boots, then slipped the zipper down and opened his jeans. Fuck, he was naked underneath—his half-hard cock surrounded by pale, soft-looking hair, the skin of his muscular legs paler than it had any right to be, also crisscrossed with thick scars. Farfarello let the jeans pool at his feet, remaining naked under Logan’s gaze—not coy, not embarrassed, nothing but completely, utterly confident. God, why wouldn’t he be? He was gorgeous.

  Never taking his eyes off Logan, Farfarello walked to the armchair.