Devil at the Crossroads

by Cornelia Grey

  He snuck out and nearly ran down the corridor. He had no clue where it led; he couldn’t remember arriving there, couldn’t even remember in which fucking town he was. He wandered through a maze of cramped hallways, his steps muffled by the garish purple-green carpet. Reality seemed so distant—as if he were suspended in a strange, empty bubble-world somewhere, as if a spell had made everyone else in the world fall asleep just so he could have this moment, this chance to escape. A glass bottle he inadvertently kicked rolled on the carpet and smashed against the baseboard. Logan felt so lost his head was spinning, and gratitude exploded in his chest when he turned a sharp corner and found an emergency door, right there in front of him, filling the end of the corridor.

  He needed out. Now.

  He slammed down the bar and shouldered the door open, stumbling out into cool darkness. It was nighttime, and he was in the middle of an endless, empty parking lot. There were hot dog wrappers, and crushed plastic glasses, and fluttering tickets. One lonely streetlamp cast a white pool of light on the blacktop; all the others were shattered. Logan craned his head back, breathing in the cold air, letting it fill his chest, clear his head. God. It felt like he was really breathing for the first time in weeks.

  He set off, determinedly headed for wherever, as long as it was far away from there. He picked one direction and followed the only road—a strip of even blacker pavement slicing through endless dark fields, vanishing into the distance. There was nothing to be seen but earth and thin, sun-roasted bushes and the dots of faraway streetlights. Not a single car passed by—Logan heard the low hum of engines somewhere far away but didn’t catch a glimpse of headlights. Just the road, stretching long and seemingly endless ahead of him.

  It appeared in sight so suddenly, it caught him by surprise. A few hundred yards ahead, a lamppost shed light on a dirt parking lot, and a neon sign flickered above a rickety, wooden building, missing so many letters Logan couldn’t make out a name. A warm glow came from the windows on the ground floor. Logan walked faster.

  The place was completely empty. Ornate glass lamps bolted to the walls shed light on heavy-looking wooden tables, the old-fashioned chairs upturned on top of them. There were wallpapered walls, and a garish carpet with a pattern of flowers and leaves. An old British pub somehow catapulted in the middle of nowhere, beside a deserted highway, open in the dead of the night.

  “We’re closed,” a smoky voice said. Logan’s gaze snapped to the counter, and the slim young man standing behind it. His features were sharp, his skin tanned, and black hair fell over green eyes that, in the dim light, gleamed cold and sharp like cut emeralds. A large, impressively realistic tarantula was tattooed on his biceps.

  Logan could have sworn he hadn’t been there five seconds earlier.

  “Sorry. The door was open, so I just . . .” He gestured toward the door. “I’ll . . . be on my way, then.”

  “Nah,” the man said, reaching to untwist the tip of one of the beer taps, wiping it down with a rag. He nodded toward the corner of the room. “Can’t turn away a wanderer in the middle of the night. Come on in—there’s always time for one last drink.”

  Logan walked across the room, looking around. There was only one chair down in the entire pub, pushed back invitingly next to a rounded table by the far wall. Behind it, a small brown box poked out. It had a metallic handle on top and a large black circle at the front, and under it was a curious silver knob that looked just like—

  “No way—is that a Pignose?” Logan blurted. He put down the guitar case and knelt to examine the small amplifier. He hadn’t seen one in years, let alone used one; it was always heavy, expensive Marshalls for him now. This looked like an old model, its tan vinyl exterior scratched and worn, the knob rusty. What the hell was it doing there, as if just waiting for him? There was even a jack plugged in, snaking around the little amp like a tail, peeking out with an inviting silver gleam.

  The man behind the bar chuckled. “Why, yes, it is,” he said, his voice still raspy. “Care to take it for a spin as I finish up? It’s too damn quiet in here.”

  Logan felt a small, childish smile blossom on his face. “I . . . yes. Thank you.” He opened the clasps and pulled out his Gibson, plugging in the jack before sitting on the wooden chair, guitar on his lap. He strummed a few disjointed harmonics, played with a few chords, warming his fingers. The Pignose was tiny but powerful, and the notes echoed pleasantly in the empty room. Logan closed his eyes, folding almost unconsciously over the guitar as his hand mapped familiar paths on the frets. The music floated in the room, filling it, like coils of cigarette smoke, lazy and enticing like molasses with a sharp tang of whiskey. Logan felt it seep into his chest, surround him in the warm embrace of a lover, speaking to him of nights of slow lovemaking and kisses that tasted like cigarettes.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly listened to himself play, the last time it had been like this—just him and the music and nothing else for miles around inside his head—and the thought hit him like a knee to the stomach. A sudden nostalgia rose up and wrapped around his throat like tentacles, choking him; so he did the only thing he knew how to do and played it out, let it drain through his fingers and evaporate with the notes fading in the air, loosening the pressure enough to breathe.

  He saw it all clearly, now. He’d gambled away his soul and got a handful of dust in return. The hourglass was all out of sand, he had mere weeks left, and only now did he understand what a goddamn fool he’d been. And as he played a melancholic blues, the music changed around him, and something in his chest condensed into a quiet strength he’d never known he had. The fool had reached the end of his rope with all his zany pirouettes and somersaults; he’d showed himself off to the world like the idiotic buffoon he was, and now—all that was left to do was accept that fact and see his role to the end.

  The blues was quiet and strong, like gentle hands roughened up by years of work and sunlight, a rounded voice husky with too many cigarettes. It filled him with peace, with the calm knowledge that he’d be ready for whatever fate awaited him. He’d face death as a silent man who straightens out his dusty jacket, puts back on his too-worn hat, and stands tall, owning up to his mistakes and wasted life without shame, without pride. It was all that he could do.

  The last notes were still heavy in the air, fading smooth like a rattlesnake in the warm sand, when Logan surfaced, blinking at the dark wood around him, the dusty lamplight. His fingers slipped to a stop on the strings, closing with a chord that sounded like a smirk, a nod—like a tipped hat and a last old-fashioned tango step before heading off to the firing squad.

  He leaned back against the chair, light-headed and disoriented. And yet somehow the knot in the pit of his stomach was gone, dissolved, replaced by a pleasant weariness throughout his entire body, a low-brimming, steady confidence that hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t even realized how tense his muscles had been until now; he stretched his neck back, feeling the lingering soreness, rolled his shoulders, and his lips relaxed in an almost smile. God, it was better than a thousand people cheering, better than all the booze and pills and girls from his mashed-up memories of his last years. How had he ever forgotten this? He rested his hands protectively on the ever-so-slightly convex body of the guitar. He was so grateful this old friend hadn’t abandoned him, that he’d found a way back and not lost himself completely. And, even if it was too late, at least he could face the devil with a scrap of dignity. That was good enough for him.

  “Nice,” the voice rasped, snapping Logan out of his headspace. The barman had pulled down a chair at the other corner of the room and was comfortably seated, one leg resting over the other, arms loosely folded. He was staring at Logan with his head cocked to the side and what looked like the hint of a smirk on his face. There was something familiar in that expression. “Much better than the jerk I saw on stage last night.”

  Heat rushed to Logan’s face. Burning with shame, he tried to decipher the guy’s expression. Did he know who L
ogan was? Was he making some sly . . . but no. Looked like he was blessedly oblivious, and Logan realized with a start that it was all he wished: after years spent chasing fame, he was desperately hoping that the man wouldn’t recognize him. He hadn’t realized just how disgusted with himself he was, just how deep and visceral the shame was, and it slammed into him like a fucking train. He swallowed and wiped a nervous hand over his mouth. “Were you . . . were you at the concert?”

  The man stood up and strolled behind the counter, bending to grab a glass. “Yeah. You?”

  Logan’s hand clenched on the guitar. “No.” He watched the bartender fill a pint of dark beer nearly to the top, then place it on the counter to settle. “How was it?”

  “A disgrace, that’s how it was.” The guy’s fingers loosely wrapped around the beer lever. “Wasted money. That asshole could barely hold a guitar up. Drunk off his face, passed out on the stage at some point.” He shook his head, taking back the glass and adding the last inch of beer. “I doubt he even knew what he was playing. Didn’t give a shit about the music, you know? A cryin’ shame.”

  With every word, he shoveled up some more crap from the deep, deep pit of shame where Logan wanted to crawl and die. He opened his mouth to reply, but his lips and tongue had suddenly stopped working. He watched, grateful, as the bartender placed the pint on Logan’s table. The white froth was level with the brim, and a drop had spilled over as he walked, rolling down his fingers in a thick trail. The man put down the glass, then lifted his fingers to his mouth and carefully licked the drop away.

  Logan’s mouth went desert-dry.

  He gulped down half the pint, swallowing heavily, then wiped the leftover foam from his upper lip and considered whether to mimic the man. Instead, he wiped his knuckles on his jeans and went back to rest his fingers on the guitar. It made him feel secure, like he’d ventured into hostile territory and this was his only talisman.

  “What about you, nighttime bluesman?” The bartender leaned casually against the table. “What are you doing, walking around in the middle of the night?”

  Oh, nothing big, I’m just running away from my career. The disastrous last six years. My entire life, and my impending agonizing death. “I just . . . had some thinking to do,” Logan said.

  The man nodded, looking perfectly understanding, as if he might just say, Why sure, I too routinely stroll down deserted highways in the night to ponder my life.

  “And did you? Think?” he asked instead. He was staring straight at Logan, with eyes that reminded Logan of one of those cats that always seem to know more than they’re letting on. When Logan nodded, the man continued. “Care to share, then? What are you thinking now?”

  “I think . . .” Logan paused, tracing minute circles on the guitar with his thumb. He really didn’t know why he should be telling his business to this stranger. But saying it out loud—that would be nice. “I’ve . . . made some mistakes. A lot of ’em, really. And I think . . . I think I’ve had enough. At last.”

  The bartender nodded again, and, if Logan hadn’t known it made absolutely no sense, he’d have sworn the man looked . . . satisfied. “Well. Maybe you’ll have time to set things right.”

  “I . . . don’t think so. But that’s all right.” Strangely relieved, Logan realized he actually meant that. He gestured toward the Pignose. “And this . . . this was nice. It really helped. Thanks.”

  The bartender was smiling openly at him when Logan caught a flash of—of something predatory, like too-sharp teeth. When he blinked, it was gone. He must have been delirious. “You’re welcome,” the man said, then pushed himself off the table and stretched languidly, his T-shirt riding up to expose a sliver of pale stomach. “Well, I’d say my job here is done. Time to pack up for the night.”

  “I—sure. I’ll be on my way in a sec, let you close down. Sorry.” Logan reached to unplug the jack from his guitar. The poor man didn’t need to spend the whole night listening to his existential crisis. But the bartender lifted a hand, stopping him, and gave him another cutting smirk.

  “Take all the time you need,” he said, almost . . . gloating. “I’ve . . . got something to do back there, anyway.”

  He walked round the counter and opened a narrow service door—a storage closet, Logan thought, spotting rows of bottles and boxes—then stepped inside without a backward glance. As he reached to shut the door, the light hit his tattooed biceps in the strangest way. For an instant, it almost looked like the tarantula was moving.

  The door clicked shut, just in time to contain an explosion.

  “Fuck!” Logan yelled, nearly breathless from the shock, his eardrums ringing from the bang. He jumped up and ran toward the closet, still holding the guitar by the neck, adrenaline rushing through him. He clutched the brass handle and yanked the door open. “Fuck, man, are you all ri—”

  The man was gone.

  And Logan just stood in the cramped storage space, holding his guitar, in the changing shadows cast by the dangling lightbulb, smelling old wood and whiskey and dark beer, and a faint, unmistakable trace of sulfur.

  He didn’t fall asleep, not really. He just lay silent on his stomach, head on the pillow, eyes half-closed, his hand resting on Farfarello’s stomach. He let himself doze, in that half-wake where thoughts melt and unravel in strange formations, just a little too far to really notice. All he could focus on was the white of Farfarello’s hair, what his fingers felt as he moved them over Farfarello’s skin, each time he brushed over a scar—a ridge, or a jagged line, or a small, circular mark. He didn’t know how long he lay there, suspended, warm and tired, his muscles aching pleasantly. It was Farfarello who shook him out of it; he’d been lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, and he rolled onto his side to face Logan. Logan’s hand rested easily on Farfarello’s waist, over his sharp hipbone. Farfarello looked at him in silence. His red eyes didn’t seem to be flaring and screaming now. They were subdued and warm and—almost comforting, like embers at the bottom of a fireplace, thawing the chill from Logan’s bones after a lifetime of cold winds.

  The lines at the corners of those eyes crinkled as Farfarello’s lips curled in the shadow of a smile, as if he were reading Logan’s mind. Maybe he was. He reached over and put his hand on Logan’s cheek. “Time is almost up.”

  Logan swallowed, nodding, as a weight settled in the pit of his stomach. Of course. He hadn’t really believed it would be so simple—couldn’t believe that the punishment for his arrogance and idiocy would be this, that when the devil came to collect he would get away with a hot fuck. Or maybe he just hadn’t thought at all, lost in Farfarello’s body, his voice, his touch.

  But time was almost up, and so he would do as he’d decided and go with dignity. It had been a much better farewell to life than he’d hoped for.

  When Farfarello pulled back and sat up, craning his head to comb his fingers through his tangled hair, Logan took one last moment to savor the warm comfort of the bed, the worn covers tucked around him. Regret curled in his chest. He wished he could have longer—have the whole night, maybe, to enjoy the laziness with Farfarello by his side until dawn. But he’d been given enough. He was all out of favors.

  So he took a deep breath and pushed himself up, goose bumps breaking out on his sleep-warm skin touched by the cool air, hands resting on the covers over his lap. Who’d have imagined that he would die buck naked. He figured no one would mind. And just how stupid was that, to worry about modesty when he was about to be dragged to Hell for an eternity of torture? Surely, when facing death one should have deeper and more profound thoughts, rather than worrying about Satan seeing his junk. Fuck. Dying, that was still—that still scared him. Fuck. His hands were shaking, so he fisted them into the blanket. He cleared his throat.

  “Will it hurt?”

  Farfarello barely glanced at him, too focused on a particularly obstinate tangle in his hair to have been paying attention. He frowned, his eyes inquisitive.

  Logan swallowed again, but his mouth had go
ne dry. It was all so mundane to Farfarello. There Logan was, facing the greatest human fear, gritting his teeth to try to maintain a scrap of composure and die somewhat honorably—he was making the greatest effort of his life—and Farfarello was combing his fucking hair. A goddamn tangle bothered him more than the fact that he was about to take a human life. Logan wondered how many times he’d done it. He decided he didn’t want to know.

  “I just . . . would appreciate if—if you could . . . make it quick,” he managed to say, tearing the words one by one from his throat. That did attract a modicum of Farfarello’s attention, for he stopped fussing with his hair and turned to look at him, head tilted to the side. Damn him, he had to know what Logan was talking about. Surely plenty of men asked for favors like that, in such situations. Maybe Farfarello was only playing dumb; maybe he just wanted Logan to say it out loud. So he swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and did it, like a man clicking in the ammunition for his own execution. “Show some mercy, please. When you kill me.”

  For a split second, Farfarello looked surprised . . . then he went back to his hair, trying to pry the tangle in the glossy white strands with his fingers. He shook his head, muttering, “I thought we’d already been over this.”

  It was Logan’s turn to be taken aback. He blinked, trying to remember. There seemed to be something wrong with his brain tonight; it was wrapped in spiderwebs, and he couldn’t quite think clearly. When the silence stretched, Farfarello looked away from his hair again and, seeing Logan’s face, turned around altogether, giving him his full attention.

  “Oh, Logan. Haven’t you been listening to me? I told you before—I did not come here tonight to take your soul. Or your life.”