“Aleistar,” breathed Iggy. He had dreamed of the guitar, since that day at the crossroads.

“So, you know who I am,” he stood, spun the guitar by the neck, and then set it against the chair.

“Jimmy Johnson,” he said, and the other smiled.

He bowed, tipped his hat, “I’ve been waiting to meet you for a decade.”

“You’re not real,” Guitarist said though knew the tone of a lie. He looked at a smashed picture, “This is that guy’s house.”

Jimmy laughed, “Yeah, you two are the differences between talent and genius. You can practice and get talent. Genius, brother, is in the blood: it does what talent can never accomplish. That is Valto’s problem, down to the ground.”

“Where is he?” asked Iggy, but his eyes fell to the guitar Aleistar.

Like a skin suit of darkness, Jimmy moved to the left. Caught in a snare of shadow, Valto looked at him. The man’s eyes were wide, color gone, and he could only stare, body under the other’s control. “Just another mediocre artist,” he laughed, shrugged, “who should’ve moved on. I don’t’ make deals with people like him, but by Abaddon, they never get stepping.”

Sweat that broke out over him had turned to ice. Sulfur settled on the tongue. Jimmy smiled at him. “What Deal?” Iggy asked, his heart beat a heavy rhythm; gray gathered at the edges of his vision.

“The one I took,” he looked at him. Darkness gathered to Jimmy, and flames swirled in his eyes. “The one you threw yourself on your knees for and begged for. It’ll take you far away, away from drunken fathers, slut mothers, and a last name like a noose.”

“That wasn’t me,” he shook his head, tightness gripped his chest.

“Oh Valto performed the ritual,” his shoulders raised and dropped again, “but I needed him to get us together. There was never a deal to be made. I heard your call, music of another such as myself. That other fellow,” Jimmy crossed his arms, “his father was right: just a nasty boy with nastier thoughts.

“My friends,” Iggy shook his head, tears spilled.

“A sacrifice, a necessary one,” he picked up Aleistar, “one so we could meet. Valto done the deal, so to speak and you can lay it all on him, if that eases you, brother.”

Iggy stepped back, “I don’t—”

“You called, I came,” Jimmy stepped closer, gathering darkness deepened. “There is a deal to be made, another legend born. Take Aleistar and I’ll take Paganini. You’ll step out of here; they’ll come to find Valto dead. The world will know your genius, just like me.”

“If I say no,” he tried to pull away, but he could only look at the swirl of flame in Jimmy’s eyes.

“Like all true geniuses,” he smiled and sulfur clawed the air, “no one will understand you. Maybe, one day, someone will find your works, and realize your worth well after you’re gone, brother.”

“People still say your name,” he saw the sigils burn on Aleistar, “guitarists say your skill was impossible.”

“Take her,” Jimmy held up the guitar, a wonder of occult and craftsmanship. “Take her by the neck, and she’ll show the world your genius.” He watched the Guitarist’s eyes shift away, “Don’t make your friends sacrifice in vain.”

Iggy’s gaze snapped back, “Their sacrifice…no.”

“No,” he scowled, shook his head. “Trust me, one day, you’ll accept the deal.” Flames swirled in his eyes, darkness swallowed the room. “You’ll watch lesser artists with greater connections get deals,” he picked chords with a laugh. “Only scorn, which will be your reward. Even if you’re found innocent, even if all know, you still will have a stain.” Jimmy played dark notes, “Always to play the villain, they’ll whisper about Nottingham Knob. Or, do you think people will suddenly become tolerant, understanding?”

“Iggy looked into his eyes, “I would rather my friends are alive.” Jimmy struck a sour note with a sneer. “If I took the deal, it wouldn’t be my skill, my genius,” he pointed at Aleistar, “because I would be a lousy cheat!”

Jimmy put his hand across the strings to silence the instrument. In the darkness that hung about him, the screams of the damn rose into a chorus. He stepped towards him, sulfur thickened the air. Nails on his playing hand grew to a point. Swirls of flame opened to swallow up the Guitarist. Iggy recoiled, but he stopped with a laugh. “I have all the time in the world,” Jimmy laughed, and the world returned to its decayed reality. “Give it another decade, brother,” he drew on the hand rolled cigarette, blew out smoke. “If you make it,” he grinned and pointed a finger at the doorway.

Iggy turned to where he gestured. Deputies piled into the room, guns rose. The Guitarist raised his hands in surrender, but Jimmy pointed a finger and said bang. They fired at them. Each swore that the mania musician would die. Iggy and Valto fell. Before he hit the floor, the son of the preacher stared at the hell that waited for him. All the horror of pit twisted his face. Jimmy stood over them, tipped his hat, and walked past the cops, but only Iggy could see him. Page, Mickey, Josh, and Brandon ran through the police to their friend as blood spread from him.

“Dude,” Page squealed, face contorted by terror, but tears filled his eyes at Iggy’s bullet wounds.

“I didn’t do it,” the Guitarist cried. Tears spilled; a weight lifted. “I found him,” he looked at Valto, “It was him.” He felt he world grow distant, “Wait for me, Page. I’m scared man; I’m scared!”

Page touched his hand, “Okay, we’re here. We’re here Iggy!”

“I told Jimmy no,” he grinned, though his smile was marred by blood.

Before Page could speak, the darkness came to swallow Iggy. Somewhere, he could hear Jimmy’s laugh, and the guitar Aleistar. Hand rolled cigarettes left the air thick with tobacco. Steel spurs struck odd chords. Twin whirlwinds of fire converged into one. As the blackness dragged on, the music that always filled Iggy returned. Nothing but song greeted him.

Birds sang in the day’s sun. Lovely song joined the music, and Iggy opened his eyes. The blur faded with each blink, but it was slow to diminish. Sound of machines struck ugly notes. He looked at them.

“Mister Ruffo, Ignazio Ruffo,” a polite voice inquired.

Iggy looked to him, and knew a lawyer when he saw one. Do these guys come out of a factory, he mused. “Yeah, man, I’m him,” he felt pain, though medicine tamped it down. Page loomed in his mind.

“I know, Mister Ruffo,” the man smiled, “I heard you may awaken, so I waited all morning.” He had come that night, but expected him to die, and then to never wake up.

“I didn’t do it,” he said. As if that matters, he thought. Even if I don’t go to jail, someone will hang or shoot me.

“Oh I know,” he said with a smile. Iggy looked at him. “The ghastly man, Valto Miettinen, he had all the evidence in his house. He is a perfect match for the DNA that exonerated you.”

Iggy’s head fell back, tears spilled out, and a sob slipped out. “Don’t play with me, man,” he begged, body shook.

“It is true,” he patted his hand. “I know, after all you have endured, it is hard to believe.”

“So, I’ll be free to go?” he said, but four teenagers stood outside his room.

“Of course,” he picked up a briefcase, opened it, “I’m here to represent you, free of charge. The Sheriff’s deputies shot you, and almost killed you. I ran off Rutger, and the Van Lear family wants to see you receive justice.”

“Alright,” he breathed. The sigil cut into their heads was gone.

“All you have to do is answer some questions,” he looked through some papers. Alice Van Lear insisted he find out all he could about the crossroads, Jimmy, and especially Abaddon, for they had found the Tree of Pain sigil in the house.

“Sure,” mouthed the Guitarist, and his friends waved. They walked away with smiles to fade away. Page was the last to disappear, bounced away into the ether.