Loophole
“I guess he’s just fashionably late. Sorry. Look, I’ll have the Ahi Tuna,” and here he paused to scratch his arm, uncomfortable in the navy blazer and dress shirt he had worn for the occasion, “and a rum and coke. Thanks.”
The server nodded politely and turned away. Christ, thought Mitchell, why are these assholes always so cavalier about these things? Simon said I was the most promising sorcerer he’d ever seen, more power than a cupful of primordial soup, and here I am waiting on this mysterious Mephistopheles. I’m no fool, damnit, I’ve heard the names of all the big players. Catharine Shear, The Harashenzi, but I’ve never heard of Nigel… Mitchel drew a business card from the pocket of his coat and stared at it momentarily. Nigel Waterson. Attorney-at-law. Doesn’t sound like much. Wish he’d hurry up.
Mitchell took another sip of his cappuccino and sighed. Pointless, he thought. I should have just kept on doing it myself. Like everything else. After all, I’m self-initiated; I secured two souls all by my untutored little self. Man, I wish I’d had a camera when I told Simon my plan. My own mentor standing there slack-jawed at the fact that his apprentice had figured out the secret to immortality. Priceless. “No, no, too dangerous, Scott… too risky. You don’t know what you’re up against…” and blah, blah, blah. Well, sorry, boss, but I’m not going to rest safely under your lame tutelage while the whole of Hell is clamoring for my soul. The soul of a Sorcerer.
Mitchell turned and looked toward the door, then to his watch. 12:56. Four more minutes. The fucker’s gonna be right on time, he thought. How fucking ridiculous. It was Simon who had arranged the whole thing. Simon, thought Mitchell, is weak. Mitchell smiled to himself at that, smiled because he had found the path that would lead him not only to immortality and the maintenance of his soul, but also to a power so great that he would never have to make sacrifices ever again. It was so obvious that he wondered why more mages didn’t do it themselves. Become a Mephistopheles; harvest souls for Hell, Hell leaves yours alone. All the greats knew it, even this… this…
“Mister Mitchell?” The voice came calmly from behind him. The voice was hard to place -British? German? Whatever, it was crisp. Educated. He turned to see a man with blond hair, blue eyes, athletic build. His three piece suit (Really? A vest?) was immaculate. The man spoke again, with no change in tone, his face still frozen in a textbook example of kindness. “My name is Nigel Waterson. I believe we have some things to discuss, yes?” He extended his left hand. Mitchell shook it and raised an eyebrow. Left-handed. How clichéd can you get?
“Yeah. Scott Mitchell. Pleasure. Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” The man placed his briefcase on the banquette beside him and ran a hand through his hair. The server returned with Mitchell’s order, looked to the man and asked,
“Would you like something from the bar, sir?”
“LaCroix. Glass. No ice. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” The server hurried off, brows furrowed in confusion. He knew he’d seen that man before…
Nigel Waterson turned his attention to the young man in the ill-fitting sport coat and dress shirt before him. No tie. Unshaven. Undisciplined. Beautiful. Mitchell cocked his head to one side and said,
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Let’s get down to business, shall we, Mister Mitchell?”
“Call me Scott.”
“Very well, Scott. It seems that you have embarked upon a path that somewhat differs from that of your mentor -and do call me Nigel. Am I correct in this?”
“Well, yeah. I figured out the big secret and I’m not afraid to use it. I’ve already taken two, you know.”
“Yes, so I have heard. We like an entrepreneurial spirit, Mister… Scott, pardon me. It is always nice to see that someone has started training early for the big leagues, as it were.”
“I’ll level with you, Nigel. I know I’ve got what it takes to ‘play in the big leagues,’ so let’s not sit around here playing talent scout and young hopeful, ‘K? If I didn’t have it, you wouldn’t be here. Right?”
“Quite right, Scott. You have the makings of a powerful magician, of that there is no doubt, but as to your qualifications as… shall we say, an account executive, your abilities remain in some degree of shadow. You see, Scott…” who quickly interrupted Waterson, saying,
“My record speaks for itself, Nigel. With no prior education I have secured two souls by signed contract. What else do you need to know?”
Nigel Waterson grinned a little wider and leaned back, accepting his drink from the still-perplexed server with practiced noblesse oblige.
“Ah, yes. Well, you see, Scott, the business isn’t all contracts and deals. Politics and etiquette play a large part in these affairs. With all due respect, what you’ve done is rare, but by no means unique. The business is not merely convincing women to join you in in your practice. On the surface, of course, it is knowing what they want and giving it to them. Below that, it is an affair of such subtlety that the individual must think that any loss -which of necessity there will be- was, in fact, a gain. These days, signed contracts are considered… declasse. It’s a bit of a give away, you understand.”
“Uh-huh. You mean they actually read the fine print and suddenly have an attack of faith or something, right?”
“Precisely. As a magician, you understand the spiritual, but most never come to any sort of real terms with it. Most are shocked out of their desire when it becomes plain to them that there really is such a thing as a soul to be sold, you see. Their desires are, on average, quite small in comparison to their imagined eternity, and so they become lost to us.”
“But I pulled it off, anway.”
“That you did, and quite well. Yet, as I said, you are on the path of the Sorcerer, not the Mephistopheles. There is a cosmic gulf between the two, and I simply do not..”
“Look, Nigel. I know all that, just like I know I’ve figured out that this -what you do, what I’ve done- is the loophole in the Infernal Law. I don’t have time to discuss what I ought to be doing. I’m going to do this, whether you think I’m qualified or not. If you don’t teach me, I’ll find another. The Harashenzi, maybe. I’ve heard great things about them.”
Nigel laughed, “Scott, please. The Harashenzi would eat you alive; they’re not philanthropists. Believe me. I understand, and I have every intention of aiding you in this; I always live up to my end of the bargain. I merely wanted to point out that you will have to make a firm decision to leave your old studies and devote yourself completely to what I have to offer.”
“I think I’ve done that already. I mean…”
“What I mean to say is that the business is not merely something on the side. It is not a second job. You have to want this, Scott. You have to want it so much that you will let nothing get in your way when everything -everything- will try. If you go on signing over others on your own, they are going to find out. They will do everything in their power to end both the practice and the practitioner. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Good. This may well be the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership, Scott; however, I do have certain requirements, as any mentor does of a student. I expect that these will be met. I have not taken an apprentice in over three… well, a very long time, Scott. Point being that I am, to say the least, a bit cautious about whom I choose for such a position.”
“Who was your last student? Anyone I’d know of?”
“Catharine Shear.”
“Bullshit. You’re serious? You taught her?”
“Yes. I take it you are now pleased with Simon’s choice?”
“Hell, yeah. Color me impressed, Nigel. What’s the scoop on student-teacher relations?”
“First, you do as I say. Period. I want no dissension. If you are not prepared to do what it takes to become an effective harvester, then I’ve no need of you. Second, all of your physical possessions, property and et cetera become my own for the duration of your study. Third, you leave behind the Sorcerer’s path completely. You leave Simon’s care and fall entirely under my wing; that wing is long, Scott. It is broad. I cannot begin this sort of thing and have you run back to daddy when things get too much too handle. I understand you’re self-initiated. True?”
“Um… yeah. Why?”
“Then you should have little trouble returning to your prior course of study when your education with me is complete. Now, do you think you can accept the terms of my gracious offer? Or have I made another mistake in thinking you might be more clever than the others?”
“I can live with that, Nigel. I think…”
“You don’t have to answer right away, Scott. I’ll understand if you want to think it over, of course. A deal of this sort doesn’t come along every day, and…”
“No. No need, Nigel. Yes, I agree. No problem. I’ll call Simon now and tell him the good news.”
“Well, if you’re quite certain, Scott, then that’s good enough for me. You have my card, I believe. Meet me at my office in an hour. Good day.”
Exactly one hour later, Scott Mitchell was shown into the office. Nigel Waterson seemed as equally at ease here as he had at the restaurant, sitting behind a large mahogany desk which lay like a sarcophagus between them. Around the room, Mitchell saw nothing but testaments to Waterson’s profession: folders stacked neatly upon the desk, rows of casebooks. A brass scale sat slightly unbalanced on a table by the door. The room was dim, but not dark, its furnishings old, but by no means ancient. Mitchell once again wondered, who is this man?
“Scott, I’d like to show you something.” Here, Nigel drew forth a large leather-bound book form a drawer of his desk. “This is my little black book, as it were. In it are all of my accounts, present and past. Secured and loose. Some are contract -our much-discussed signatures- while some are verbal assent. Some are merely assent by desire, which is difficult, but possible. You’ll see. I don’t keep computer files because I don’t have to. There aren’t that many accounts to warrant the use of such a thing.”
“How many? Overall?”
“Oh, roughly two-thousand, three hundred and six.”
Scott cocked his head to one side. That was all? Surely there had to be more, didn’t there? This guy’s supposed to have taught Shear, for heaven’s sake…
“Um… I don’t mean to be rude, but…”
“Yes, Scott, that is all. I am a bit of a specialist, you see. I deal in quality, not quantity. I work for a different, ah, department than do the individuals of which you know.”
“Which one?”
“Samael. I don’t care for Belial, to be honest. The creature has no style. Lust and perversion are tools, Scott, not ends in themselves. The end of our game is death, the total security of the pacts. We all have our talents; mine lies in drawing out the corruption already present within the client, in whatever form is necessary. It feels better to do things this way. You’ll see.”
“So, where do we start?”
“Contracts. We begin with what you have already learned. Only when you have mastered the old stand-by will we move on to other examples of negotiation. I have a task already chosen for you, Scott. Consider it your first exam.”
“’K. What is it?”
“I have here the names of four individuals. Three are female, one male. So, unless you plan to radically alter your sexual bent in the next few minutes, I would advise you to try a different method on the one. Use that clever mind of yours; impress me. By the time you’re finished, I want them all signed over. On paper, in blood -the whole nine yards, Scott. Pass or fail. Think you’re ready?”
“No problem. Gimme the names.”
Scott Mitchell wheeled and dealed. He lied, cheated and stole. He seduced. He hustled. He back-stabbed. He used magic, intimidation, bribery. He used the internet. He used the Yellow Pages. By the end of three months, he had garnered his four souls. On paper. Signed in blood. He had passed.
It was a Thursday night, as he sat toasting himself with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and watching TV, that Nigel Waterson met him to gauge his success. The triple knock at the door came at eight o’clock. Exactly. Mitchell invited him in, offered him a drink. Declining the drink, Nigel sat himself in an arm-chair that had been a gift to Mitchell from his father. Mitchell felt it was strangely appropriate.
“I understand you have completed your assignment, Scott.”
Mitchell drew the four pages from beneath the latest copy of Penthouse and placed them on the coffee table before Waterson.
“Yup. All four. Right here.”
Nigel picked them up and began reading, carefully. He examined every one as if looking for mistakes, occasionally nodding or tightening his mouth as he read over some particular turn of phrase that he seemed to like. When he lay them back on the table, his usual good-natured smile returned.
“Well, now that we’ve gotten through the usual terms, I think it’s time we had a talk, Scott.”
“OK, what’s on your mind?”
“Well, you are -not to put too fine a point on it. I wasn’t lying when I told you that you had great promise as a Sorcerer. In fact, you were the most promising talent we’d seen in many years. That your mind seized upon the idea of harvesting souls to avoid damnation was clever, to be sure. There is little doubt that, had you continued on your course of study with Simon, you would have found other and more effective ways to elude the flames of perdition for some time.”
“Nigel, I don’t see where this is going…”
“Momentarily, Scott. I wasn’t lying when I told you that I had some doubts as to your ability to become a successful Mephistopheles, either. Now, however, those doubts are replaced by the concrete realization that you are worthless to me.”
“Nigel…”
“Do be silent, Scott. It is rude to interrupt and you do it all too often. I had hoped that by taking you into my service we might be able to turn you around. I had thought that with all that power flowing through your veins you would make, at least, a decent errand boy. It seems I was wrong. I do not like to be wrong, Scott. You have done nothing but use the business as an attempt to deceive the very lords of deception themselves.”
“Nigel, that’s not true…”
“Be silent, child. Hell is not pleased, Scott. It is most unhappy with the notion that you were very close to becoming another Sorcerer whose ability mocked the whole of damnation by enslaving it without ever becoming a slave yourself. Whereas I serve, you serve only yourself. This will not do. So it is that I have decided to hand you over to my employer.”
“Nigel, this is crazy! It’s not like that!”
“It is. Your soul is ours.”
“Fuck you! I never signed a contract, you don’t own me!”
“But you did enter into a contract with me, Scott, that day in the restaurant. You were all too willing to sign away your life.”
“I didn’t! I only agreed to become your student!”
“You knew your soul was damned long before we met; the soul of a Sorcerer. You left the protection of your mentor and the moment his Aegis was lifted you fell under mine. That wing of mine, Scott, long and broad. It is now lifted. Someone will be ‘round to collect you shortly.”
Scott Mitchell looked about frantically, his eyes catching glimpses of hungry things wringing their hands in the shadows. With a muttered incantation, they withdrew.
“You see?” he laughed a little crazily in his drunkenness, “You can’t have me. I’m still a magician!”
“Everything you have is mine, Scott.”
“Not me! Not my soul! Fuck you! Fuck all of you!” He turned and bolted out the door without looking back for pursuit. Nigel Waterson sat in the arm chair and poured himself a drink, face now devoid of emotion. Michell ran down the street toward anything, anywhere. As the car ran up onto the sidewalk to strike him, he had a moment to appreciate the irony of it. The demons could never take him, but an accident -even a planned one- could.
Waterson sipped at his drink and glanced at his watch. Eight-seventeen. Exactly. He smiled then, as if someone had split the flesh of his face with a scalpel to reveal the gleaming bone beneath. Picking up the bottle, he stood, paused to pluck a piece of lint from his overcoat, and walked to the end of the street. Mitchell’s body lay halfway beneath the vehicle; the driver still sat behind the wheel, face in his hands. The car was still running. Nigel placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Mister Keller? You may relax now. Your service is at its end. Please consider our contract hereby dissolved.” The man raised his head, tried to speak, and began weeping. Waterson looked at the bottle in his hand, nodded his head, and tossed it to his despairing former client. “Celebrate, Mister Keller. It’s over.”
The man smiled weakly and sat back in his seat. He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull from the bottle. All he could manage to say, over and over as the sirens came closer, was,
“It’s over. It’s all over.”
Later on that evening, Nigel Waterson sat in his office building hurling darts lazily at a bulletin board. When the phone rang, he answered with his usual pleasant demanor.
“Hello, yes? Yes, it’s done. Your contract is at its end. Yes, we’re even. Have a pleasant evening, Simon.”
He sat back and whispered, “That’s seven more years you owe me, Samael. I wonder how many more I can mange this year?” He began laughing softly as the last dart missed the board completely, impaling a cockroach crawling slowly across the wall.