Sampson, Necro, and Floyd tore their attention away from the walls.
“How do you know Abraham?” Sampson asked.
Johnson tilted his head, as if he wasn’t sure if Sampson was serious. “Thought you said you knew the story?” He picked up his guitar, plucking at the strings absentmindedly.
Sampson glanced down at the floor. “People have written songs about it. Books, too.”
The bluesman shrugged off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves. “So what are they singin’ and writin’ about me?”
Floyd walked over and stood next to Sampson, glancing at the bowl of harmonicas. “They say you were an amazing harmonica player.”
Johnson laughed, slipping a hand-rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket. “That’s a real nice way of sayin’ I was a bad guitar player.”
Floyd blushed. “No—”
“It’s all right.” Johnson lit the cigarette. “I know I wasn’t any good. Go on and finish.”
“They say you came down here and disappeared,” Floyd said. “And when you came back, you could play the guitar better than anyone.”
Link jumped in. “Folks say you were the greatest blues guitarist in the history of blues guitarists. And probably the other kinds, too.”
Johnson blew a few smoke rings and looked at Sampson. “And you know how they say I got that way, don’t you?”
Sampson shoved his huge hands into the back pockets of his leather pants. Suddenly, he looked like a guy who was afraid to ask a girl to dance, instead of a powerful Darkborn and the lead guitarist in a Dark Caster band. “You made a deal with the Devil and traded your soul.”
Johnson’s eyes darted to John, then back to Sampson. He stubbed out the cigarette and let his fingers roam over the guitar frets for a moment, filling the room with an angry riff. “I guess that’s what they have to say, isn’t it? The only devil I made a deal with was Abraham Ravenwood. Then again, the man’s no angel.”
Link’s head snapped up. “What? I mean, excuse me, sir?”
No one else said a word.
Sampson’s mouth was hanging open, and Floyd and Necro looked almost as shocked. Liv was scribbling furiously in her journal. Only John took the comment in stride, as if he’d known all along.
“Met that bastard in a juke joint one night. We had a few drinks and talked about music. Lookin’ back, I’m sure runnin’ into him was no accident. He was lookin’ for someone that night. Someone desperate.”
“Incubuses can’t grant wishes.” Link looked at John, hopeful. “Can we?”
“You’re right, son. Abraham brought a Caster to take care of that. A Siren. Said she belonged to him.” Johnson played a few more chords. “But even she couldn’t make me a better guitar player.”
Sampson shook his head. “Let me guess. The Siren gave you a guitar.”
The old man nodded. “Called it a lyre.” He tapped on the bridge of the guitar. “She made it look just like mine, too.”
Liv stopped writing. “I’m a little confused, Mr. Johnson. Abraham Ravenwood was capable of extraordinary things, but stealing a person’s soul wasn’t one of them. Unless there’s something I don’t know.”
“Guess that part just made for a better story,” Johnson said.
“Then what exactly did you trade, if you don’t mind my asking?” Liv’s pencil was poised over a fresh page.
John stood up and walked to the window, and the bluesman’s eyes followed. There was something between the two of them—a secret, Link figured.
Johnson set the guitar down next to him again. “He needed me for experiments.”
“But Abraham loathes Mortals. Why would he experiment on one?”
“Lots of talk about immortality. Abraham said if he could stop a Mortal from aging, he’d be one step closer to figuring out how to do the same thing with Supernaturals.”
Liv gasped. “That’s why you still look so young.”
Link wasn’t good at math, but he knew Johnson had to be around a hundred years old by now. But that wasn’t the part that interested him. “And it’s how you know about the labs.”
Johnson frowned. “Question is, how do you know about the labs? Did your friend John here tell you?”
John walked back toward them. “It’s the reason we’re here, Mr. Johnson. We’re pretty sure Abraham’s great-grandson Silas is running the labs now, and we need to find him. But Abraham screwed with my head, and there are lots of things I don’t remember. Like the location of the labs.”
“You don’t wanna go back there,” Johnson warned.
John shrugged. “You’re right. But I don’t have a choice.”
Link jumped out of his seat. “Silas might have my girl, sir. We think he’s keepin’ her in or near his creepy labs. I know you’re probably gonna tell us it’s dangerous and we shouldn’t go and we’re gonna die, and all that kinda stuff, but I’m still goin’ either way. If there’s any chance she’s alive, I gotta find her. And if you help me, I’ll give you anythin’ you want.”
Johnson rose from the chair and took out his wallet. He opened it and pulled out a faded photograph of a girl with a mane of wild blond hair. “I was in love with a Caster girl myself once. I should’ve stayed back home with her and settled for bein’ a first-rate harmonica player and a second-rate guitarist. But things don’t always turn out the way you plan.” His eyes lingered on the photo for a moment before he glanced back at Link. “She probably thinks I’m dead.”
“You never went back for her?” Necro asked.
The bluesman sighed. “After I paid my debt in the labs, Abraham sent me here. Another one of his Casters made sure I could never leave the crossroads. Guess the debt wasn’t paid after all. But I’ve kept track of her.”
“How?” The Keeper in Liv perked up.
Johnson bent down and scratched the dog’s head. “Deuce here helps me.”
The dog opened one eye lazily.
“He’s a Caster dog?” Link asked. “Like Boo Radley.” Ethan had told him all about the way Casters could see the world through the eyes of their Caster animals. Lena’s Uncle Macon had used his wolf dog, Boo Radley, to spy on Lena all the time.
Liv inspected the Lab more closely. “But you’re not a Caster. How is that possible?”
“It’s one of those Caster spells,” the bluesman answered. “The lady Caster who trapped me here said she was leavin’ me a little gift. She didn’t like Abraham much.”
“It sucks you can’t leave,” Necro said sadly.
“Anything’s better than bein’ back in the labs,” Johnson said.
Link cleared his throat. “Will you tell us how to find them, sir?”
Johnson shuddered. “I wouldn’t wish that place on my worst enemy. I didn’t make a deal with the Devil, but Abraham Ravenwood is as close as they come.”
“Was,” Link said. “He’s dead. John and I killed him.”
The bluesman walked over to Link and gestured at the sheet of paper Link had been writing on. “You a songwriter, son?”
Link shrugged. “I used to be. But I haven’t been able to write since I lost Ridley. That’s her name.”
“Mind if I take a look?” the bluesman asked.
Link hesitated, then handed him the page reluctantly. He didn’t like the idea of one of the greatest blues musicians in history reading his crappy songs.
But it’s worth it if he helps us find Rid.
Johnson’s eyes scanned the page.
“I told you the songs are real bad, sir.” Link hung his head. “They don’t even rhyme. Deep down, I always knew I wasn’t the best songwriter, but I didn’t think I sucked. Guess I was kiddin’ myself.”
John and Liv, and even Floyd and Necro, were in shock. It was more than they’d ever heard Link admit. From the moment he formed his first band, Who Shot Lincoln, and right on up to the Holy Rollers and Sirensong—Link had told everyone that he was destined to be a rock god. But he didn’t care anymore about saving face—or about the band, or his career, or anything.
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If I don’t get Ridley back, none of it matters.
The bluesman looked up. “Songs aren’t supposed to rhyme, son. They’re supposed to make you feel. That’s what music’s about. All those words and notes are just a different way to tell someone you love them, or your heart’s broken, or you’re mad enough to kill somebody.”
Link nodded, but he wasn’t sure he understood.
“Isn’t that how it feels when you sing it?” Johnson asked.
“I haven’t actually gotten around to that part.”
Johnson handed the paper back to him. “Then let’s hear it.”
It was one of those go-big-or-go-home moments, and as much as he didn’t want to make a fool of himself, there was nothing Wesley Lincoln hated more than going home, and not just because of his mother.
I’m no quitter. If Robert Johnson wants to hear a song, I’ll sing him one, even if it sucks worse than my mom’s peach cobbler.
Like so many other times, Wesley Lincoln—tragically average Mortal basketball player, cheerleader kryptonite, and perpetual Pinewood Derby loser—had no choice but to man up.
Here goes nothin’. Link cleared his throat. This is for you, Rid. All my songs are for you.
He focused on the paper in his shaking hands and started to sing:
“Blond hair and mile-long legs,
Bad attitude wearin’ a borrowed smile.
Never thought I had a chance with the Siren in you.
“But you took my hand, listened to my songs,
Hopped in my car and showed me the way outta here.
Now you’re gone and all I can think about is …
“Half past the time I lost you
And all the things I should’ve said.
If I could just go back, I’d say it all,