After that, she surrendered to the pain and the fire, and listened to the voice singing “Mockingbird” in her head.
Only when the bird sang, it sang her to sleep with a boy’s sweet, off-key voice.
That boy must really love me, she thought.
I only wish I could remember his name.
CHAPTER 11: LINK
Wasted Years
I think this is it,” Sampson called out, pulling Link out of his thoughts.
When Link looked up, Sampson was standing in front of a wall of green hedge.
Another dead end.
Before Link had a chance to complain, Sampson reached into the hedge and pushed, and it opened up onto what looked like a small-town Southern street, back when Link’s grandma was a kid and Gatlin only had one traffic light.
Another Caster door.
Figures.
As Link stepped through the Caster door and back into the Mortal world, he realized the door was cut into a huge Spanish moss–covered oak. On the other side, there was nothing around but more towering oaks and a broken-down house at the edge of a deserted intersection.
“Looks like we found it,” John said.
“Where are we?” As far as Link could tell, there was nothing to find.
John pointed up at the white signs at the intersection that read 61 and 49, and Liv checked her selenometer as if they weren’t standing in the middle of nowhere.
“Are those numbers supposed to mean something to us?” Floyd asked.
“We’re at the intersection of Highways 61 and 49 in Clarksdale, Mississippi,” John said.
Sampson shook his head. “I feel like an idiot. Any guitar player worth his strings knows about this place. It’s where Robert Johnson made a deal with the Devil.”
Floyd’s eyes widened. “Seriously? We’re at the crossroads?”
John nodded. “The one and only.”
Liv glanced at John. “I’m assuming this is an American thing.”
He put his arm around her. “Yeah, sorry. It’s an old rock and roll myth—at least as far as Mortals are concerned. In the 1930s, a blues musician named Robert Johnson disappeared for a couple of weeks. According to the story, he brought his guitar right here to this crossroads—”
Link jumped in. “Then he traded his soul to become the most famous blues guitarist in history.”
Sampson tugged on his leather pants, which weren’t the best choice in the Mississippi heat. “Totally a fair trade, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thought the same thing myself,” a man’s voice called out from behind them.
Link wheeled around.
A young man wearing a wrinkled white shirt, a black jacket, and a Panama hat stood on the side of the road with a three-legged black Labrador. There was a weariness in the man’s eyes of someone much older. A battered guitar hung from a strap slung around his back.
Lucille and the black Lab circled each other until the dog gave up and flopped down in the dust.
“Holy crap.” It was the only thing Link could think of to say.
“I say that myself all the time, son,” the young man said, which was weird since he didn’t look that much older than the rest of them. He noticed John and tipped his hat to him. “Haven’t seen you since you were a boy.”
John shoved his hands in his pockets. “So you remember me, Mr. Johnson?”
“I think we’ve both seen enough to get past all that Mr. Johnson nonsense. Especially since I never did catch your name.”
John held out his hand. “It’s John Breed, sir.”
The bluesman stared down at John’s hand. “I don’t shake hands anymore. Can’t be too careful. But it’s nice to meet you all the same, John.”
Sampson inched forward. He actually looked nervous, which was completely out of character. “So the story’s true, then?”
Johnson looked up at Sampson and whistled. “Kids sure have gotten taller since my day.”
“Sampson’s a bit … different,” Liv said.
“You a Caster?” Johnson asked.
“You know about us?” Necro sounded shocked.
Johnson took a closer look at Necro’s blue hair and piercings. “Of course I do.” He glanced up at the midday Mississippi sun and walked toward a small house sitting alongside the road like a tornado had dropped it there. “Let’s go inside. It’s gettin’ hot out here.”
Link scanned the area, but there were no other homes anywhere in sight. The bluesman climbed the rickety porch steps and opened the screen door, the three-legged dog hobbling behind him. “Come on in. Make yourselves at home.”
The house was small inside, but it was crammed full of stuff. The front door spilled them into a living room full of threadbare armchairs and mismatched picture frames on the walls. It reminded Link of the Sisters’ house back in Gatlin. Ethan’s three great-great-aunts had lived together for as long as he could remember with just about everything they’d ever owned—at least until Abraham Ravenwood burned the place down.
When Link and Ethan were young, they’d stop by the Sisters’ after school and load up on sour lemon candies and buttercreams that were probably older than Ethan and Link combined. The Sisters’ house looked like a museum, because the three old ladies never threw anything away. If they couldn’t display it on the walls, they settled for any flat surface.
Johnson’s place was no different. But instead of tiny spoon collections, broken china, and old photo albums, his place was decorated with blues relics and memorabilia—like a bowl of old harmonicas on the coffee table next to a collection of broken guitar strings in a jar. Link couldn’t help but think about how disappointed the Sisters would be if Johnson invited them over without having a single dish of candy on the table.