I’d noticed the misspelling on the contract before I signed it. The Devil smiled, holding up a comically-large quill pen as the paper hovered in the air over my bed, and I stared at him, pokerfaced.
Funny, I thought, I wouldn’t have taken the Prince of Hell for being dyslexic. But I wasn’t about to point out the mistake - it couldn’t have been a more perfect loophole.
I signed my name at the bottom - the ink was deep red, and a sharp pain in my fingertip told me it wasn’t ink at all. It hadn’t even finished drying before I felt the change taking place - my skin tightening and smoothing, the aches of age fading, my scalp sprouting new hair.
“The contract is sealed. Eternal youth and vigor in exchange for your soul and eternal service.” The contracted rolled itself up and disappeared in a burst of red flames, and for the first time in years, I was able to jump out of bed, to walk without pain in my joints. I hurried to the nearest mirror, turning my face this way and that, admiring the way my cheeks filled out again with strong, white teeth.
Such plans I had, and thanks to single, misplaced letter ’n’, I was beholden to no one for it.
And then he added, “And your ride should be arriving any moment.”
“Of course — you read the contract, did you not?” The Devil was still smiling. I decided it was time to wipe that look off his face.
“I did. You ought to have your servants check it before handing it off to mortals - you gave me immortality but my soul isn’t yours.”
I must have looked like such a smug jackass right then, smirking like I’d pulled off some impossible feat. Satan’s expression didn’t falter - instead his grin spread to a disconcerting width.
“No - it’s Santa’s. You have been indefinitely indentured to the great Mr. Claus.”
I heard it now. There was a jingling of bells outside, faint at first but growing louder by the moment.
“It’s the deal we have, he and I - I supply him with his Naughty List and whenever a soul is foolish enough to try to cheat death and escape punishment for their wicked ways — and you, my friend, have been very, very naughty — well, he always needs more help in his workshop.”
“I thought — I thought Santa used elves —?” I stammered weakly.
“Not in ages. The fair folk paid their debts off to him a long time ago - and anyway, it’s much more poetic having the souls of the damned making toys for children, isn’t it?”
There was a clattering above, like the sound of massive hailstones hitting the roof. The bells fell silent.