Lucille slunk through the room, as if she felt right at home.
Sampson, Floyd, and Necro studied the yellowed newspaper clippings framed on the walls alongside old photographs and the broken-off neck of a guitar.
Johnson sat down in a sagging upholstered armchair beside a whirling fan and set his guitar on the floor next to him. The Lab curled up at his feet. “Go ahead and sit down,” he said. “I don’t get many visitors.”
Liv and John sat down on the sofa across from him. Link took a seat at an old pine table in the corner. He noticed a pencil sticking out of a mug, and without thinking, he pulled out the piece of paper he’d been writing songs on. He knew the lyrics sucked, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from writing ever since Rid disappeared.
The bluesman leaned forward in his chair and looked John in the eye. “Things must be pretty bad if you came lookin’ for me.”
“It has to do with Abraham Ravenwood.”
“His grandson, Silas, actually,” Liv added.
The moment John spoke Abraham’s name, the bluesman stiffened, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “Haven’t heard that name in a long time, and I would’ve been fine never hearin’ it again.”
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.”