“I recently found a lead that might help in the search for my brother, William “Wills” Forte. A journal he had written, along with a cassette that was filled with what can only be described as very unusual field recordings.

Kirk Hammett has agreed to quickly transpose the less complex portions of the cassette while keeping the integrity of the original field recordings intact. These you can play or loop alongside the reading of each part, to create the appropriate mood for these journal entries.

We still advise you take precautions before listening to the recordings.” – Abigail Forte

*(Music for PART FOUR)*

(PART ONE)

(PART TWO)

(PART THREE)

PART FOUR : Get Out Of Denver

I was in my bedroom, must have been seven or eight years old. I’d heard a noise from downstairs. It was late. The house was dark. I moved to the window, looked outside. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I remember I was hoping I wouldn’t see anything. I touched the cold glass of the window, and a shiver ran through my entire body. I knew mom was asleep, dad probably was as well. Possibly passed out on the couch downstairs.

That’s when I saw the shape move.

At first, I thought it was a shadow floating down from the trees outside my window, but then realized it was in the reflection; behind me. A black shape almost melting into the darkness behind my bedroom door. A human shape.

It moved, limb-like tendrils swimming down to its sides, the darkness where the head should be tilting slightly, and then a blink, and an unnerving stare from two ovals of starlight where the eyes should have been.

My breath tightened in my throat and the shiver of cold turned to dread. I didn’t want to turn around. I didn’t want to see it there instead of it being just my imagination in the translucent reflection. I didn’t want to close my eyes in case it moved closer.

Then I heard the door down the hall creak open, and seconds later mom walked by on her way to the bathroom. She paused for a second, seeing me through the dim light in front of the window.

“Wills, are you okay son?”

I turned and nodded, “Yeah, mom. Just thought I heard something.”

And the silver eyed shadow was gone.

I wasn’t sure if it was ever there, but it was still months before I could leave my room without running into the hallway.

*****

“Wakey-wakey, sunshine. We’re here.”

“Mom?” I ask, drifting out of a haze.

I’m answered by laughter, “Not even close, mister. You must’ve been having some dream.”

It’s about a seven-hour drive from Omaha to Denver. Evidently, I was asleep for five.

“I can’t tell if I’m dreaming things that never happened or reliving my past.” I mumble, shifting in the seat to look at Octavia.

“Memories.” She says as we pull into a space behind the motel.

I don’t know why these memories have been buried so deep, so long, but they’re coming back now, and I’m not sure if I like it. I don’t have many fond childhood memories, so I’m not looking forward to this.

“It’s the guitar. It’s bringing thoughts and feelings back to you.” Octavia said.

“Great.”

We get our room and find a nearby restaurant. I’m starving, and Octavia nurses a milkshake while I devour a burger.

“When’s the family reunion?” She asks over a casual twirl of her straw.

“Tomorrow.” I pause between mouthfuls, “But then there’s that Harry Velvét guy...”

Octavia’s eyes narrow, “Who?”

I realize I never really told her why we were going to Denver. “The other day I got a call, this guy wants to talk about the guitar, something about buying it for a collector. I figured it would be worth hearing him out. I’m barely managing at this point, so I know one way or another I’m going to need to get away from that thing” I look at the guitar, angled innocently on the chair by the coffee table.

“Okay,” She pauses, thinking something over. She gets the guitar and hands it to me, “I haven’t been completely honest with you...”

“Demons lie?” I snort.

“Not as much as you might think, actually. Humans lie. We just use different parts of the truth. It’s more effective and can also be more damaging. But listen. The guitar itself is not evil. It is a vessel. It holds the essence, the energy, of a powerful demon.”

I look at the guitar in my hands, “Like Mael?”

I’m feeling even more apprehensive about it than before.

“Worse. There is a lot of lore about this particular being. It’s supposedly an Asag, a hideous creature. It was captured and this instrument holds it. Bound by some force that I know nothing about, only that it’s powerful, and it needs the energy of mortal souls to keep the Asag in place.”

“Is that why Mael wants it?” I ask.

“Yes, I think so. But there are those who want the Asag released, and those that want to keep it in the guitar and use its power. I think Mael is determined to keep the disgusting demon in place. Your Harry Velvét on the other hand, I’m not sure about. I don’t know what his intentions are, therefore, you need to be careful. Because your soul, your life hangs in the balance, and my fate, unfortunately, is tied to yours.”

“So,” I’m still trying to figure out how I fit into all of this, “As long as I’m the carrier I’m protected by the guitar. Meanwhile, the guitar is collecting the souls of certain people and basically just feeding on others.”

Octavia nods.

“And so Mael wants to use the power within the guitar for something. Corso ... I have no idea. And Harry Velvét wants to buy the guitar, but we don’t know why or who for. Meanwhile, I’m screwed. I’m tied to a few dead bodies, and there’ll probably be more. And to make things worse, I can’t give the guitar away without losing my soul. What else? Am I missing anything? Any more secrets?”

Octavia sat silent for a couple of long seconds.

“There is!” I accuse, pointing.

“Okay, look.” She holds her hands up, “I’m trying to get my Lillian back, and you’re more important than you realize. I’m just not sure how. You didn’t find this guitar accidentally; the guitar picked you. You were meant to find it. Random people don’t just find something this powerful and then walk around with nothing but an impulse and a craving that won’t go away.”

I give her a wide-eyed stare, “Impulse? Craving? Are you kidding me? I try to give this thing away but then my eyesight goes blurry and I begin to shake, and I feel like I’m being turned inside out. I’ve quit some hard things in my time, but nothing like this.”

I hold the guitar out at arm’s length. “It feels like it knows what I’m thinking, what I’m doing, and then it kills people. This is more than an addiction, it’s a possession. It’s like a goddamn parasite.”

“I get it, but we have to work together on this.” Octavia says, trying to reassure. “I don’t know if it’s fate, destiny, or ancestry, but somehow you are tied to this guitar. It knows who you really are.”

I look at her, trying to process. “Okay, I’m trying hard to roll with the punches here. Maybe if we figure out how to release Lillian, and if I can get a decent amount of money for the guitar, I can say goodbye to all of this. I know from experience the only way I can get out is by going cold turkey, and withdrawals are easier when you can afford them.” I balance the guitar on my knee, “Come with me to meet Harry, and see what you think.”

“When?” She asks.

“Tomorrow.”

“Okay, that’ll work, but tonight I need you to play. It might be a bit of a double-edged sword, but the only way you can learn more about the guitar is to become more connected to it. Learn what it wants, what it needs, and where it wants to go. And I want to see how it works.” She says.

I narrow my eyes, unsure. “What you’re telling me is not making it easier to part with this cursed thing or preventing it from doing more evil.”

“I can’t promise you I’ll stop it from doing whatever it wants to do, but I will make sure no bodies are left behind. I don’t know how much time I have, but three more souls and Lillian’s gone. There’s a rotating count of souls on the body of that guitar, and each one it gets pushes her closer to some final oblivion. You need to stay strong, or you’re going to lose yourself completely.”

I give her a derisive snort, “You don’t care about me.”

Octavia laughs, “No. Not really.” And then her tone gets serious, “But if I lose you, I lose Lillian. Again. I need you, at least until I’ve gotten her out.” Octavia paces across the room. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the whole truth before, but I couldn’t take any chances. Now, I think more demons will be coming out after this thing and I want us to be on the same side. I’m not good, I admit that, but evil isn’t all that bad either.”

Now things were starting to make some crooked sense. If I continued to work with the guitar and keep it satisfied, it wouldn’t pull my soul into its void. And if I stayed alive, Lillian would be held in the limbo of the guitar. Not released, but not yet devoured.

Octavia gives me a cold glare, “Of this round of six, she was the first ... and you are the last.”

*****

I start playing, single chords, but then almost immediately I’m losing the structure and falling into melody. It’s completely different this time, and I have a distant feeling that I’m not supposed to play this way.

Octavia’s not stopping me, she’s just watching. Her eyes wide, her head tilted, listening. I’m listening too. I’ve never played anything like it. I don’t know where it’s coming from. It’s a dark, heavy melody. Thick tones come out of the strings and push down into the depths of my belly, making me feel both excited and upset. My leg moves against the rhythm, a counterpoint beat twisting the slightly uncomfortable melody. I’m not sure how, but I find a vocal to go with it.

I don’t recognize my own voice. Mournful and hoarse, pushing out sounds without words, feeling as if it’s coming out of a deep part of my soul I’d never managed to tap into before.

*****

“Wills! Wake up!” I hear a voice, familiar.

“C’mon,” I’m being shaken. “Now!”

And then I’m back, whisked like a fast fog through a wind tunnel, and shot into my body, then a feeling of content. I fall backwards, hitting a wall behind me. Completely disoriented and feeling heavier than I’ve ever felt before. As if gravity is angry and taking it out on me. My throat is dry, my fingers are bleeding, but it doesn’t matter. Octavia is standing in front of me.

“That was ... amazing.” I whisper. I don’t care about the blood on my hands or the scratching of my throat. I don’t care that my head feels like it’s going to explode, and my vision is blurred. I want that.

Again.

“Things got pretty intense there, Wills. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to bring you back.” Octavia says, almost approvingly.

I look around, confused by my surroundings. It was a room, long and narrow. It was dark, and uncomfortably warm. We’re at the back near a small stage and a solid black door with a circular window and a red ‘private’ sign underneath. There’s a row of wooden tables and a bar with a few spilt drinks and a broken mirror.

It smelled like old cigarettes and stale beer.

“Where are we?”

“Some dive bar,” Octavia answered, “In the bad part of town, as far as I can tell.

“What happened?

She eyed me curiously, “You can’t remember anything?”

I shook my head, staring at my hands, “Is it...”

“Your blood?” Octavia glanced at the black door. “No.”

I look at her, and then move, pushing the door open and stepping through into a small hallway. An office to the left, door ajar, and a steel security door leading into the alleyway.

I head towards the office door. Octavia follows.

“You don’t have to go in there.”

I turn and look at her, “Yes I do.”

I move into the dark room. I search for the light switch, and finding it, I wish I hadn’t.

Four bodies. The closest ones were the worst. A young man, maybe early twenties. His outfit was a uniform of some sort, though it was hard to tell through the blood covering the black jacket. His arms were pointing in directions they shouldn’t be pointing, almost wrapped backwards around his neck, while his legs were twisted underneath him, as if they’d been snapped back at the hip.

The other was older, but just as bloody and contorted. He wore a suit, the kind a cool jazz musician would wear, black slacks, black shiny shoes, black suit jacket and black skinny tie over a crisp white shirt. Only the white shirt was covered in blood and his face was stuck in some horrible transformation.

His eyes were solid black, and his mouth was twisted into a grotesque grin.

I knew Octavia was behind me; her breathing was getting faster. She was hungry, but I knew that was something I didn’t need to see. I could barely even look at what was in front of me. I took a step forward, forcing myself closer, and focused on the other two bodies. They were nowhere near as disfigured as the first corpse and looked almost peaceful. If it wasn’t for the ghastly color of their skin, I would’ve thought they were sleeping. Then I noticed something else.

“Please Octavia, give me a second. There’s something off about this. Something’s not right.”

“Hurry.” Her voice is strained. I guess I should be glad that she’s been exercising her will power on this journey.

I move towards the two pale figures sprawled on the ground, trying to not breathe in the stench. I concentrated on the fact that they no longer looked like real people, like living people. There was nothing about them that said they had ever been alive, so I imagined them as some strange lifelike mannequins.

The color of their flesh was unnerving, but if I pretended it was a bad paint job it helped a bit. No pink, so they went with a horrible sick-stained ivory touched with patches of purple and blue. Like bruised silicone. The eyes were open but glazed over. A thin film of milky white settling over the pupils.

The man was lain out straight on his back, arms by his side, as if someone had gently lowered him down to rest. His companion, possibly a wife or lover, was in almost the same position. Arms straight, but her head was tilted to the side, facing the man, her lips slightly apart. As if she had died while telling him a secret.

That’s what it was. Something about her mouth. Not a natural position. I kneel, trying to ignore Octavia’s attempts to hurry me, and exhale slowly. Moving without allowing myself to think about what I was doing. A month ago, I would have been either running away as fast as I could or cowering in a corner and trying to not throw up. Amazing how one can get used to the horrific.

There’s something between her lips, and as I try to pull it gently out my fingers touch the dead woman’s teeth and evidently, I’m still not used to everything.

I recoil as if the skeleton was going to reanimate and attack; biting jaws encased in dead flesh. Octavia laughs, distracted from her hunger by my fear, and I almost retch, breathing in the foul stench emanating from the bodies. It was like someone had set rotting eggs on fire.

I give it a couple of seconds and try again, noticing how there’s no blood. Not around the bodies or even within the bodies. Empty skin. Holding my breath, I reach between her cold lips and pull out a gold-colored piece of plastic. It catches between her teeth, snagging on dead gums, and I retch.

“What is it?” Octavia whispers, startling me with her unexpected nearness.

It takes me a second to focus, fighting back the urge to just run through the back door and lose myself in the night. It’s a guitar pick, and I recognize it.

My heart’s pounding. I feel dizzy. I move back against the wall, slide down to the floor. I’m holding the pick so tightly my fingers are turning white. “It’s a vintage D’Andrea tortoise shell guitar pick from the 60’s. I only know one person who had a pick like this.”

Octavia kneels in front of me, curious. “Who?”

“Cristopher.”

“It was a lucky charm. He never used it, but he always had it with him.” I hold it up to the light, between thumb and index finger, letting the familiar glow move through the mottled design. “Look, there’s no fuckin’ way this is happening, and it ain’t no coincidence. How did this get here? Did I do all of this?” I give Octavia a worried look.

“No.” She pointed back at the doorway we came through. “You performed for someone else, but he’s gone now.” She looked at the guitar.

I knew what she meant.

“When we arrived, the place was empty except for an older man on the stage, playing some jazzy guitar.” She continued. “I followed you in, and he didn’t give either of us a second glance, but as soon as he saw your guitar, he was paying attention. I think he was about to plead his case or something, I don’t know, but you just started playing. I can’t find the words to describe what it sounded like, but it was dark and seductive. I could feel it doing things deep inside the core of my being. It was beautiful and horrible at the same time. I saw one of the strings unwind itself and then a thick twisted shadow grew out of the guitar and moved along the string, pulling it towards the man on the stage.”

“Then what?” I asked.

Octavia looked at me, “The pain ... I can’t even tell you. The sound was searingly loud in my head, so strong I doubled over. My eyes were closed tight, my hands over my ears. I’ve never felt that sort of pain before. I felt ... human. When the sound stopped, you were lying on the stage, the man was gone, the guitar was whole. These others were already dead. I didn’t find them until after. And then, the smell.”

I felt sick. “It must have been Mael or Corso. Did they kill these people, and why did they plant the pick?”

Octavia moves past me, towards the bodies. “I don’t think it was them. This is someone, something, worse. This is darker, more violent. Corso is a trickster, and Mael, well, I hate to say it, but he has more class. This is a message, a warning.”

“But from who?” I ask, but Octavia shoots me a look, and I know the time for questions is over.

I leave the room and head for the door, not listening to the visceral sounds of feeding. I sit on the stage for a second, and then fall back, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to think or feel anything for a second. The guitar loose across my chest. Then I noticed something odd. The guitar feels a little heavier, and the body feels cleaner, smoother than before.

I looked down, and in shock, realized there was another silhouette burned into the wood below the bridge.

A couple of minutes later Octavia comes springing out, “Should we go out for dessert?”

“What? How can you act so cavalier?” I ask

“Wills. I am demon. I’m not like you, and I don’t want to be like you. Deal with it however you want, but things are most likely going to get worse...” Octavia stops mid-sentence, her head swivels towards the back door. 

“What is it?” I ask.

“Another. Get behind the bar. Don’t speak.” She doesn’t look at me, just points behind her. I do as I’m told.

I smell it before I see it.

It smells like rotting meat on warm metal. Thick and acidic and chokingly stagnant. I crouch down, clutching my belly with one hand while covering my mouth and holding my nose with the other. Peering over the edge of the bar I can see Octavia standing ready.

Then I see the darkness.

It pours through the closed door like molasses through a sieve, and the stench gets worse.

A thick viscous fluid starts to pool on the ground, bubbling like boiling tar, and then it starts to take shape. It grows, a thin stalagmite of oozing murk. It wavers a little, but then stops, motionless and about seven feet high.

“Ekimmu, I see you.” I hear Octavia whisper.

The shape shudders, and a wave of silence pushes out and moves through the bar like an inside out thunderclap. I’m almost knocked over by the blast of pure silence. It’s like all of the sounds in the world have been blotted out, and then slowly I hear a note in my head. A high E, pure and strong, grounding me, and then the silence is gone, and I can hear my breathing, my heartbeat, a truck driving past the bar outside.

The dark fluid takes on a slightly humanoid shape, and slowly a face takes shape. A mouth thin and almost as wide as its head. No teeth, just an empty hole dripping its own thick ooze. And eyes that open white, blank, unblinking.

I gasp, I can’t help it, and that gasp almost ends me.

The thing is suddenly upon me; a thick mess that’s as fast as mercury and as black and cold as the emptiness of outer space.

From human shape to snake, it wraps and coils around me. Tendrils spreading across my flesh, burning like ice. It curls around my neck, squeezing. Pulling at my arms, my hands, and I realize I’m not the primary focus. It pushes, sticky and burning against my skin. It doesn’t want me. I know what it’s after, and I’m just in the way.

I start to see spots around the edges of my vision, it’s getting harder to breathe, it’s all fading to black. And then I feel it loosen its grip, and I’m choking, falling backwards. I become aware of the thing being pulled off me from behind, slowly stretching and ripping soundlessly. As my vision clears, I see Octavia digging her heels into the ground, a tortured expression on her face, her hands in the thick of the creature, pulling it from inside itself.

She’s muttering words I don’t recognize, possibly an incantation in some strange language. Her eyes are closed, but there’s an intense reddish glow around them, as if her eyelids were holding back flames.

The thing shifts, completely releasing me, and twists around and seems to be turning inside out while focusing its attack on Octavia. The liquid tendrils thin and sharp like a million razors. while they only wrap around my arms, they slice into hers, and while I don’t see any blood, I hear her let out a hellish wail.

It's horrible.

She turns to me, “Get out, now” Octavia yells in between breaths of incessant chanting.

I run out the front door on to the sidewalk. I turn around and as the door to the club closes, I can see Octavia start to open her eyes. The reddish glow is now a pulsating white hot burn, too bright to look at, and I know I’m probably not far enough away to be safe yet.

I turn and run across the street. Thankfully there are no pedestrians and no traffic, as I only make it halfway before I feel at my back a brilliant white burst of energy and heat. I’m lifted and thrown like a rag doll being kicked in the back by a fiery boot. Hitting the asphalt I roll, scraping my skin, arms to back, until I stop against a streetlight.

The bar across the street is completely destroyed. Windows shattered with smoke billowing out over licking fingers of flame. The businesses on either side getting scorched and blackened. The front door hangs off its hinges, but everything inside is obscured by the thick plumes climbing up into the night.

I see the guitar in the gutter, seemingly untouched, and notice Octavia’s red coupe parked a few feet away. Managing to get up, every bone and muscle in my body hurting, I grab the guitar. As I move towards the car, I see the smoke in the doorway shift. Octavia walks out slowly. She seems to be in a daze, unsteady and looking around. Wisps of smoke rise from her shoulders.

I attempt a painful wave, and she sees me. She takes a few steps towards me, and then collapses. I rush over to help but she pushes me away.

“I’m fine. Give me a second.” She attempts a smile, “You should see the other demon.”

I help her up, ignoring her protests, and lead her to the car. “We should go, I hear sirens.” And before she could protest, I added “And I’m driving.”

We drove mostly in silence. Not surprisingly, Octavia’s wounds had healed as if they’d never been there, yet I could tell she was still hurting. I definitely was.

When we got back to the motel room, I asked her what that thing was.

“Ekimmu. A species of demon. They’re not usually that violent, or that solid, but it revealed itself for a reason. It came to try and collect something you had.”

“The guitar?”

“Maybe, but I think it was the pick. There’s an energy connected to it, and if that was connected to Cristopher, it might have drawn the Ekimmu out. Maybe the guitar intensifies the energy.” She explained, “Ekimmu was created from one of the demon tribes of Mesopotamia, it takes its form from spirits created from improper burials. Was there a problem with your friend’s burial?”

A chill and a tightness came over me from unwanted memories. “Yeah, kind of. It was closed casket, as they couldn’t really make him look as good as his family wanted him to look. He wasn’t in good shape when they found him. It was bad. So that, and I know he would’ve preferred cremation.”

I clenched my fist tight, hit by a vision of Cristopher’s coffin being lowered into the cold dirt, knowing he didn’t want to be buried, feeling like I was suffocating for him.

Octavia lay back on the bed, “Sorry to hear that. As if we don’t have enough to worry about, we’re going to need to figure out how to deal with that pick. Between the pick and the guitar, you’re becoming a regular demon beacon.”

“Yeah, tomorrow. I’m exhausted.” I say, sitting on the couch.

There’s silence. I look up at Octavia.

I had never wondered if demons slept or not, but now I knew the answer. She was out.

“Thanks for saving my life.” I whispered, and then followed her into slumber.

*****

We both woke early, but still aching after the previous night. Octavia went to see if she could figure out why there had been a Mesopotamian demon at a dive bar, and I went to meet my sister at the Market in Larimer Square.

“Wills!” I recognized her voice immediately

“Abbie!” It had been too long, and I didn’t realize how much I’d missed her.

Coffee, small talk, and silent stares of quiet reconnection.

“How’s the family?” I ask.

Abbie nods, “Good. Danny’s home, looking after mom and the kid. But I have to tell you, I needed to come to see you. This is big.”

I look at her, surprised, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I hoped that it would have never come to this, and that we’d never have to have this talk." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small bag. It fits in the palm of her hand, made from old leather, and tied with a thin black cord. She hands it to me.

“What’s this?”

“Mom made it, probably right after you left. I was maybe one or two years old at the time. It’s a gris-gris bag. You need to keep this with you now. In your left pocket if possible.”

“Did you come out just to give me this?” I ask, feeling the weight of the bag in my hand.

“No. It’s because of the four things, remember? What did you find, Wills? Was it the guitar?”

I feel like I’ve been punched. I fall back in the chair and stare across the table at my sister. After the shock fades, I ask, “How do you know about the guitar?”

Abbie sits silent for a moment, cradling her coffee in both hands, staring into the steam. Then she looks up. "He came back, after you left. I was maybe twelve years old. He had a guitar, a small one.”

I almost interrupt her, but instead let her finish her story. I hadn’t thought about my father in a long time.

“Mom wouldn’t let him in. He didn’t care at first, said he was just protecting us. Every day, from sunup to sundown, with maybe a break somewhere in between for food, he’d sit on the porch and play songs on the guitar. Mostly sounded like old blues songs.” She paused, looked up at me.

“So how long did he stay?” I asked.

“A couple of weeks. It was fine at first, he wasn’t doing anything other than playing. I sat on the steps a few times, talking to him. He was mostly nice, asked a lot about you though.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, how you were doing, where you were. I knew you were in New York, I think, other than that I couldn’t tell him, anything. And mom didn’t tell him anything. She kept track of you, though. I know you don’t know this, but she was proud of you. She still is...” She trailed off as someone came by collecting empty cups. I thought I saw a bit of blue hair peeking out underneath a black beret as he walked by, but he was gone in the crowd before I could be sure. Was that Corso again?

Probably not I thought.

“Tell me more.” I said quietly.

“After the first week it started getting bad.” Abbie said. “I don’t think he was drinking, but he acted like he was. During the day it was okay, but at night he started playing just noise. Weird notes that didn’t sound like anything, and then yelling and chanting words over it. Like nothing I’d ever heard. Not sure how to describe it. Weird sounds that shouldn’t be coming from a guitar, y’know?”

I nodded, “Actually, yeah. I do know.”

Abbie gave me a curious look, then continued. “So mom asked him nicely to leave, and when he refused, she called the police on him, but he walked away before they arrived. Haven’t seen him since. After you called though, I knew something bad was happening with the four things, and if it was the crossroads, it had to be the guitar. Dad said it was the only thing left that connected him to his destiny, his future, and his past. He went on and on about it that last night. I mean, I hope I’m wrong?”

I stared at my sister, not quite believing the story, but how else could she know. There’s no way it was anything else. I realized I had my dad’s guitar.

“The guitar is in my room at the motel.” I said quietly. “I don’t know its whole story, but it’s not a good one. If it’s connected to dad, you should probably leave now. I don’t want you to get involved in this.”

“Wills, I’m here. I brought you some protection, and I’m goddamn family. I’m a part of this.”

I pause, knowing I can’t really stop her, but she needs to know the whole truth. At least as much as I’ve got. I also know I need to meet up with Harry Velvét, and I’m not sure where Octavia is. “I really don’t know if you being involved is a good idea, but we can talk about it later tonight.”

*****

After promising I’d keep the gris-gris bag with me and dropping Abigail off at her hotel, I continued in the taxi to the address Harry had given me.

“Your sister seems nice.” The driver said, peering in the rearview mirror. And there it was again. This time for sure. Blue hair.

“Corso!”

“At your service. Thought you’d make me at the café, but I guess you were a little distracted.” He cranes his neck up and makes sure I can see his grin in the mirror.

“What do you want? I don’t have the guitar.”

“I should hope not.” He winks. “That would be an amateur move. I just want to make sure you get to your destination okay. No troubles, y’know?”

“Are you working for Harry Velvét?” I ask, suspicious.

“Me work for Harry? Are you kidding? No pun intended, but hell no. He should be working for me. I mean, he has in the past, but right now, no. I’m in business for myself, an independent demon, just making sure things go how I want them to go.

“And how, exactly, do you want them to go?”

“Look, it’s like this  if Mael doesn’t get the guitar, and I get another chance to impress your friendly neighborhood Succubus, then I’ll be good.” Corso twists the wheel, directing the cab around a tight corner, and blares the horn at an elderly couple crossing in front of him, “Man, I hate the living.” He mutters.

I jump on a hunch, “Did you know my dad?”

Corso doesn’t answer. He hits the gas, swerves around another corner, then slams the brakes hard, sliding perfectly into a space between two parked cars. He turns to face me, leaning back slightly, “Yeah. I mean, I knew of him. You want to hear the real guitar story? Pretty sure Octavia doesn’t know any of this.”

“Definitely.”

“Okay, so listen. One thing your guitar loves, more than eating up souls, is eating up an entire lineage of souls. I mean like kids to parents to grandparents and beyond. That thing in there feeds off the destruction of bloodlines. So your father inherited that instrument from your grandfather, and when you left, that thing got a little angry. Thought it had lost you. That’s what pushed your pops to crazy. He had to get the guitar to you, or he was going to suffer some bad juju. The guitar, or the thing inside it, loves to make deals, bargains. It was a trade, your soul for his, but of course, none of the souls that thing gives back are whole. They are all damaged and corrupted, which just helps spread that particular little demon seed.”

I stare at Corso, mind being blown. “How do you know this?”

He laughs, “Well, partly because it takes a demon to know a demon, right?” Another wink, “But I’ve been following this guitar for a while. Your friend Mael, he’s been a problem for me for eons, and your father was going to help me get him gone.”

“You were working with my dad?” I asked, incredulous.

“No, not exactly. I was kind of dropping hints here and there, but I couldn’t make myself known. He was working on a song, a melody that would manage to push Mael back into the hell hole he crawled out of. There’s a certain pattern of notes and chords, and it needs to be combined with a certain way of playing, and your dad almost had it, when he snapped. It’s something I like to call the Maelstrum.” Corso stopped, looked at me to see if I got it, then laughed again, “I thought it was funny. Anyhow, don’t know what happened after that. Demons can hide from demons easily, and that guitar pulled your old man away from me. I lost the trail, everything, until you picked it up. Some things are meant to be, and while the powers that be aren’t really letting me mess with you, I can still make sure that Mael doesn’t get his hands on the guitar. And one way is the Velvét way.”

Corso gets out of the cab and walks to the back of the car, opening the door for me. I step out and look around and start to get the sense that something’s not right. We’re in a fairly desolate, industrial looking part of town, standing in front of a large nondescript brown and white brick walled building. Corso bows, taking his cap off with a flourish, and slips back into the driver’s seat.

“What’s going on?” I ask, noticing the car doors locking.

“Well, my friend, two things you should know about me. One, I really don’t like humans, and two, I am a trickster.” Corso grins, and before I can respond, I watch the Taxi drive away.

As I stand watching the taxi move up the street a car honks behind me. I turn and it’s Octavia.

“So, what’s the story?” She asks, parking and walking towards me.

“What are you doing here? How did you know where I was?”

“You asked me to meet you here.” She said, studying the building with a quizzical look.

“Oh shit.” I pointed up the street, “I bet it was Corso. He just dropped me off. Did he set us up?”

There’s a clank and click behind us and we turn to see the steel door opening into a dark hallway. I instinctively step in front of Octavia to protect her.

“That’s sweet, human,” she whispers. “But maybe I should go first?”

Thankfully, neither of us had to.

“Mr. Forte?” A short but slightly large man with thick round glasses and peppered white hair poked his head around the door. He wore a crisp looking suit with a tightly knotted thin black thin tie around his neck. “Follow me, please.”

“And who are you?” Octavia demanded.

“Ah, of course. I am Detective Donovan Hawkes, and I believe Mr. Forte here might have some knowledge of a recent incident in Chicago, as well as something fairly strange that occurred last night here in Denver.” He stepped into the darkness of the hallway, motioning for us to follow. “I realize this is a little unusual, but these circumstances call for a different approach.”

Octavia and I follow him down the long hallway and turn into an empty office with a desk, a filing cabinet, and a few chairs.

One of the chairs was occupied by a woman, who stood as soon as we entered. She was tall and thin, very pale with long dark hair and a dark shade of lipstick, almost black. A silver chain covered in small charms hangs around her neck. She stretches an arm out awkwardly to shake my hand. “I am Sara Barrow, and I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

Not quite knowing what to say, I introduce myself, “Ah, hello, I’m William, and this is Octavia.” I try to be cool and collected, even though I’m feeling extreme anxiety start building up inside. They know about the fire and the dead bodies, and I’m going to jail.

Sara grasps Octavia’s hand in greeting but drops it almost immediately and takes a few steps backwards.

“You’re one of them.” She whispers, her face turning a little paler than before.

Octavia lets a little wisp of a smile slip, and sits down, “I’d be offended if it wasn’t true.”

The detective motions for me to sit next to Octavia, and he sits across from us. "Sara has been helping me track you down. She is a spiritual cleanser, and is very attuned to the, ah, paranormal?”

Sara mumbles an affirmation as she nervously steps a little closer.

Detective Hawkes continues, “This is something needing a different approach, a little more discretion, so that’s why you’re here and not at a police station. You have a certain artifact, and I was hired to reclaim it. I’m not sure if I believe the stories I’ve heard, but regardless, Sara here has been charged with the task of, well, exorcising it. I also need your help in finding the whereabouts of the other man involved.”

“Corso? Blue hair?” I asked.

“Ah, Corso, no.” The detective slides his satchel around to the front of his body, rummages around. “Although I would like to talk to Corso a little more as well. He’s the one who set up this little meeting. No, the man I’m looking for is someone you’re a little more familiar with.”

“Okay, well, I hope it’s not the antichrist,” I quip.

Detective Hawkes doesn’t laugh. Sara Barrow stands behind him, arms folded in front of her chest, and doesn’t once take her eyes off Octavia. The detective and I might as well have been in a different room. Different city, even.

Hawkes looks up at Sara, then at me, then slides an envelope from the satchel across the table. I pick it up and pull out an 8 by 10 black and white photo.

It’s grainy, as if copied off a security monitor, but I can make out the back door of the jazz club Octavia and I had been at. I can also make out the features of the man caught leaving.

It’s my father.

******

“I appreciate all of the word of comfort and encouragement during these dark times. I am still working through the journals. It’s extremely draining, but we are making progress, I think. More next week.” – Abigail Forte

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PART FIVE

PART SIX