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John Faustus calls me, and I appear.
Around me is his dark study, illuminated only by a few candles, all arranged in a circle around me.
But Faustus isn't looking at me, and is shivering ever so slightly.
Oh, is he afraid of me already? How splendidly sweet of him.
But it's only natural, for I never come alone – rather with an entourage of lightning and thunder, some falling stars, if you are lucky, and yes, this little mortal is lucky. After all, I've watched him grow from an insolent youth into the man of sin he is on this pivotal day; you can't blame me for becoming a little fond of him over the years, can you?
Like of a pet. Witless, perhaps, but well-trained.
His eyes are still shut in fear, so I take mercy on him and change my shape into something I have already worn once.
"You may look at me now."
He warily opens his eyes and there's surprise in them, painful recognition, rather, of a love broken and hardly forgotten.
"You..." he whispers.
"Of course it's me," I reply with a smile, the gentlest I can muster, yet still undeniably vicious. "I've always been me. The devil you called for."
It's absolutely not the answer he wanted to hear. So fun.
But I make the features of my face smoothly flow into something not as familiar and loved – not a boy named Wagner young Faustus was ready to die for – only so he won't cry. As much as I enjoy his sorry state, it's wasting my time. This is not the reason I came here.
Faustus finally finds his bearings and wipes off the tears.
"You called for me," I remind him.
"Yes," he says quickly. "I wish to make a deal."
"What price do you have in mind? If it's a contract you're after."
"My soul," he says simply.
I feel some respect for him. Such determination only proves that I made no mistake in choosing him as my unaware protégé.
Then he states the conditions and I wince from time to time, just for the sake of my reputation. What a devil would I be, after all, if I agreed to every demand a mortal made? He doesn't concede, however, which is also worthy of respect.
One of these conditions is an all-powerful servant (that would be me). I am fully ready for twenty-four years of amusement. It will be simple. I watched and guided him long enough to know for certain that he will consume every fact known to humanity and immediately dismiss it, forego dignity for his own entertainment, content with playing pranks on others; will drink and gobble all day long; and will lust for me, fall in love with me, no matter what face I don: will it be Wagner's, or a modest friar's, or Mephistophilis's himself, the one as fast as a thought, a faithful servant and a treacherous devil, all at once. It's never easy to tell with this sort of deals who is the master over whom.
I pity him, though, just a trifle. I ought to give him a chance, if only for the old time's sake.
"I must first get the approval of my Radiant Lord," I say when all demands are on the table. "I will return the very next midnight, whether you call upon me or not. I suggest you spend this day and the rest of the night considering if you are indeed ready for what you wish for."
Faustus nods, and before I disappear back to Hell, I make my face Wagner's again, just to enjoy the shudder of his pain.
I don't actually need any approval from my master, only to let him know I will be indisposed for other tasks like this for a while. And as promised, I'm back at Faustus's study.
He's waiting for me, staring at the summoning circle, words of the spell ready to slip from his lips in case I lied. I take offence at that. Even though I am a devil, I have honour and would never lie – if I gave my word, that is. I reserve the right to lie in any other situation.
This time, my arrival is less pompous. After all, I don't want to scare Faustus off, and yesterday's show of power was quite enough.
I nod at his silent question, and he unfolds the contract, drawn in impeccable handwriting and the most expensive ink he could find in Wittenberg.
He dips his quill into the inkwell.
"Oh, no, no," I say. "Blood."
His face twitches, "Of course."
I procure a dagger out of air and hold it out for him.
"Don't be afraid," I say gently. "It won't hurt."
It really doesn't. As I said, I have a soft spot for him.
He slices his left arm from the ink-stained wrist to that delicate bit of skin in the crease of his elbow. His blood stays viscous, however, in the basin of the cut. It means he hesitates. I can't allow that. I pick up a candle.
"This won't hurt either," I tell him and bring the flame to his skin.
He looks at me desperately, while his warmed-up blood pours onto the page, like he expects a soothing embrace. I contemplate whether I should give him that, but I'm not his servant yet, so I must remain professional.
Faustus quickly puts his signature on the mess that has now become of the parchment, and the deal is done.
Soon, he will burn in Hell – so very soon, years are like seconds to me. I'd like them to last, though.
"Do you want anything of me now?" I ask, sliding into the cozy costume of my new position.
He would blush if he wasn't shaking from the loss of blood.
"No," he mutters through his white lips. "Not yet."
"Then I bid you good night. I shall return in the morning."
I make the candles flare in an effigy of Hell, but soft and warming, sear Faustus's cut with the candle that is still in my hand, and let my new master fall into sleep.
Then, I leave him – for the last time in twenty-four years to come.
"Greetings to you, master," I say from behind his shoulder, my face next to his, and he starts, spilling his wine all over his doublet, the scarlet stain blooming on his chest like a rose, or a pool of blood, or a blotch of red ink. It's no matter, it's gone by a snap of my fingers, but the comical effect of this? Mmm.
"Is our contract active now?" he asks, uncertain.
"Yes, my sweet Faustus," I say — sweet like a lump of sugar on the tongue, stolen by a child from the kitchen, his first sin. "My wish is your command."
I hear his breath hitching in his throat before he feels it himself. He mumbles something, and I can't help but laugh.
"Oh, I beg you, master. Don't ask me for a wife."
He flushes, and I wonder how his face would look if one of these capillaries burst.
"I can give you him," I finally manage to suppress the laughter and change my face again into the mask of Wagner. Thankfully, it's pretty enough for this routine not to bore me.
All colour instantly leaves Faustus's cheeks. He's almost as pale as yesterday.
"Would it please h— you, though?" he asks, a picture of kindness, and I immediately doubt my skill as a corrupter. How did I manage to miss love, and this innocent and pure? Apparently, lust alone isn't entirely overwhelming. Noted.
"I only care for what pleases you, my Faustus. I don't matter."
These words are merely yet another string to tie to my puppet.
"No," he says after a minute of consideration, "It's not what I want the most anyway."
"Knowledge," I nod. "Any particular sphere first?"
He shrugs. I would prefer his eyes shining with greed and sick enthusiasm, but he seems to still not recover. I summon more wine (much finer than that diluted whatever he had in his cup before) and a trick.
"There's but a single condition," I say as I offer him the drink. "I understand that the contract requires to be none whatsoever, but I am not the being that banished me once," I let the bitterness of the centuries drip off my tongue, since I can't even say his name, "and I'm not truly omnipotent – there, again, is a single limitation."
The good old curiosity, the curse of those like him, appears on his face. Finally.
"What is it?"
"You must not inquire me about the workings of Heaven. Apart from it – anything."
He showers me with questions and I answer all of them. He asks me for books and I give them to him. He demands I teach him things, and I do, laughing at how he abandons them as soon as he gets bored of acquiring skills, never mastering any in the end.
I lose count of days that pass in such fashion, and when he has exhausted the reserve of his ideas, I quickly offer him a new game.
"Have you considered," I say with honey in my voice, "getting revenge on your sister who laughed at your wish to study? Or at your brother who bullied that poor boy Wagner and you by association? Have you ever thought of vengeance, my master?:
Faustus is older now, and his siblings are as well, so this is a little time-sensitive.
He ponders on it for some time and eventually agrees.
I have him on a chain and it grows shorter and shorter every day, link by link.
"Are you always with me?" he asks one day while he lies in the arms of me-Wagner. "Even in my sleep?"
"Yes, my sweet Faustus," is my answer, because it's true. "I'm in that emptiness in your chest where your soul should be."
Should. What a strange choice of a word. I scold myself for it.
"Is he there too?"
"My lord Lucifer? Why, yes. Of course."
Faustus shivers and I pull him close, as lightning and thunder and rain are raging outside.