The Last Temptations of Iago Wick

by Jennifer Rainey

  And cake. Dessert was always appreciated.

  “Similar ideology? Perhaps The Order is in dire need of new members,” Dante said.

  “They are, but Atchison’s not like the rest of them. His opinions, his intellect, his knowledge—however minimal—of supernatural affairs. There’s a wall here.” Iago motioned to his own high forehead. “He has built such a wall within his mind that no one, neither man nor demon, can intercept his thoughts. He’s playing a game. I just haven’t discovered what that game is yet.”

  “He has consumed your thoughts.”

  Iago smirked. “Oh beware, my lord, of jealousy; it is the green-ey’d monster—”

  “Stop.” Dante shook his head. “I merely feel concern, Iago. He could be a threat. You must keep your mind sharp and clear.” Iago gifted him an incredulous look. “I have a couple of empty days ahead of me. I’d be happy to see what I can unearth about the inventor.”

  “Dante, have you no faith in me?” he asked playfully.

  Dante only poked his roasted pigeon once more. The bird slid greasily across the plate.

  Iago continued, “All the same, I hope we have a bit of time before Atchison’s name comes up.”

  “Do you have a plan for him?”

  “Initially, I had plans to craft a deal for him. Your standard deal, the usual fanfare. Give Hell your soul, and we’ll give you the life of a famous inventor. Dull, I’ll admit, but I felt I hadn’t enough information about him to create anything more elaborate. Not only do I now feel he absolutely deserves more, but I also fear he is unlikely to fall for any of the usual tricks. He is more knowledgeable than the typical target.”

  Dante nodded as Iago looked suddenly past him. Speak of the Devil, as they always say. But in Iago’s experience, Lucifer was a busy man and very rarely appeared simply because He was the topic of conversation. “I’ll start looking and see what I might discover about him. He sounds like a fascinating gentleman,” Dante said.

  “Well, here is our chance to know him better,” Iago said as Thomas and Sofia Atchison joined the raffish vulture who sat beside them.

  Dante gave a discrete motion of the head as if to ask, Is this our man?

  Iago bobbed his head once. The two demons descended into silence, allowing only the occasional scraping of silverware against porcelain so that they did not seem too conspicuous in their dropping of eaves.

  Atchison pulled out the seat for his wife, standing until the delicate Sofia Atchison was comfortable and situated. Her husband had only just seated himself when the man across from them shook his large, hammy head and insisted, “I was not aware you would be accompanied by your wife. This is a man’s business, Mr. Atchison, and I’m not inclined to discuss this transaction in her presence.”

  The inventor pointedly cleared his throat with one condescending ahem. “Mr. Regal, I am here to conduct business, business in which my wife is involved. You will speak freely in front of her, or we will take our business elsewhere.”

  There was something of a grunt which came from the brutish Mr. Regal. A waiter appeared, but Thomas Atchison quickly shooed him away. His wife frowned.

  “As you wish,” Mr. Regal said gruffly. “Mr. Atchison, I would be delighted to further discuss your project. You expressed interest in my shark-tooth blades, but I feel I might provide a blade which will better suit your needs if I knew their future purpose.”

  “Are you implying that I don’t understand my own work?” Atchison asked. “I am certain your blades will be perfect, and I fear I may need a finished product sooner than I had initially anticipated. So! If we can just move along…”

  Mr. Regal sighed deeply and once again muttered, “As you wish.”

  “I need sixty of the small shark-tooth blades you showed me last Tuesday.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I need them as soon as possible. I wish to make you aware that I intend to continuously place such orders.”

  Iago arched a brow as Regal muttered something about the price of such a commission. These blades sounded like a curiously nasty necessity. Perhaps he was creating some domestic cooking appliance, but something about Atchison’s sharp and unrelenting gaze told Iago otherwise.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you owe me a favor, dear Dante,” Iago said, keeping a watchful eye on Atchison.

  “Eh, I’m afraid I don’t recall…”

  “Yes,” he said briskly. “Precisely one month ago, I assisted you in the matter of that chandelier which suddenly took a tumble in the Falcon Club ballroom. My dear, I am here to collect.” Dante heaved a sigh. “All I ask is that you speak to him. See if you can glean any information from him. I can’t risk him seeing my face so early in this assignment.”

  Dante shook his head. Iago might have endeavored to bat his eyelashes if he didn’t already know his partner was always one to honor a favor. “I do such things for you, dear Iago.”

  With a deep breath, Dante cast off his gloom and affected a perfectly dizzy expression. He carefully approached the table with his hands folding over each other—a delightful touch, Iago noted.

  “Excuse me,” Dante began sweetly, “but are you Thomas Atchison? The inventor, Thomas Atchison?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “The inventor of the Mechanical Valet?”

  A tremendous sigh blew from Atchison’s lips. “Yes. I am.”

  Dante thrust his hand outward. Atchison looked at him in distrust before briefly examining the extended hand for any trickery or foul play. He reluctantly shook. “Sir, it is a pleasure to meet you! An absolute pleasure. My wife is insisting she will purchase a Valet for me as a birthday gift, though with what money, I can’t say! When will they be available to the public?”

  “I believe the general store intends to sell them next month. I’ve not been blessed with the knowledge of an exact date,” he answered dryly.

  “I must know how it works.”

  “A good inventor never reveals his secrets.”

  “To combine a razor blade, comb, shoe-shiner… and to automate it! Ingenious! It must be so very exciting,” Dante continued, “to see your name in the papers, to know that everyone in Marlowe is antsy to own your creation.”

  “I’m positively ecstatic,” Atchison sighed. Mr. Regal rolled his eyes and looked for the waiter so that he might provide a reason for this bumbling idiot to return to his table. Sofia Atchison, however, looked positively enthralled, her smile ever-blossoming.

  “My husband may not be adept at expressing his appreciation, but I know he thanks you for your enthusiasm. As do I,” Sofia said brightly.

  “It’s a very exciting time, ma’am! I’m certain this is the beginning of an illustrious career. You’re relatively new to Marlowe, aren’t you, Mr. Atchison? I’m sure your old hometown will be green with envy.”

  “That is doubtful,” Atchison answered and added coldly, “Was there something you wanted?”

  Dante gave him a perfectly innocent pout. “Hmm? Oh! Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I am interrupting your evening. I am so, so sorry. I’ll go, but it was splendid to meet you, really splendid!” he said effervescently as he stumbled giddily away from the table so that he might rejoin Iago.

  “Mr. Lovelace,” Iago said once he was certain Atchison was otherwise occupied. He raised his glass. “What a splendid show you put on, particularly for a catastrophe artist.”

  He bowed his head and returned the gesture. “Thank you for passing along the knowledge gained from centuries of experience, oh, sage teacher.”

  “I’m only three centuries older than you. You make it sound as though I witnessed The Fall.”

  Dante shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “You’re right, you know. He’s very difficult to read.”

  “You see?”

  “However, I wonder if you noticed the way he speaks.”

  “As though the entire world inconveniences him?”

  “Not his tone, my dear, his accent. Our Mr. Atchison isn’t from around here. I mig
ht say the mid-western part of the country.”

  “Dante, you’re right. How did I not notice?” he wondered airily.

  “Too distracted by your intricately crafted country of dreams, perhaps.”

  “I must be careful of him. He’s clever, and the last thing I should do is go barging into a demon hunter’s home, looking for information. I’m not that desperate yet, and it could spell my doom,” he sighed. “You’re comfortable speaking with Damien Morte.”

  Dante grimaced at the mention of the Overseer for the Mid-Western region of the country. “Comfortable? I wouldn’t say that, but I am familiar with him. Perhaps a little too familiar.”

  “We needn’t discuss that,” Iago said dismissively. “If you wish to assist me, please ask him if he recognizes the name. If this Thomas Atchison is so interested in supernatural affairs, I’m sure they have taken note of him. I would prod our Overseer for a bit of information, but Eldritch is a terrible stick in the mud. I’m lucky to receive the names of my targets most of the time.”

  “I’ll send him a letter as soon as I get home. Burning parchment will be singeing his tea table in no time,” Dante promised.

  It would be difficult for Iago to put Thomas Atchison from his mind that evening as he focused upon Wilburn Cox. The inventor was already leaving the restaurant. He told the appalled Mr. Regal that he would receive payment upon completion of the blades and that he must leave to meet a man who had been performing a test for him.

  Alas, Atchison was a problem for another day, and Iago turned his focus to the dessert selection.

  A book on species of frogs indigenous to New England tumbled to the floor as Wilburn Cox closed his eyes. Sleep stalked into his study to claim him at nine o’ clock that evening.

  Obviously, he was not the zoology enthusiast he wished he was. He fell asleep most promptly on the evenings he endeavored to learn of the animal kingdom.

  When he opened his eyes, his cheek was pressed against stone gritty with stray sand. Balls of light—torches, perhaps—blazed around him. His eyes struggled to adjust to his surroundings, but something deep in his gut told him that he lay within the monstrous temple of his nightmares.

  Like miniature carriages, small black orbs moved quickly across the floor, and Cox tried in vain to distinguish what they could be. He swallowed hard, throat dry. Before he could completely recover himself, one of those suspicious orbs scurried over his hand. The stickiness of six insect feet startled him.

  Scarabs. The floor was covered with scarabs, racing from side to side as though they had something pressing to achieve. Cox’s weary mind briefly pondered whether or not the damned beetles had built the temple. There was certainly otherwise unwarranted urgency and importance in their scurrying. He stumbled to his feet, careful not to smash any of the scarabs which hurried around him.

  Cox gave something of a yelp as he observed his surroundings more clearly. The chamber seemed far too large, too cavernous. He had never before entered the temple, and yet he knew it could not possibly be this huge. He looked up and realized he could not even see the ceiling. Rows of identical pillars stretched upward into blackness as imposing as a starless night sky.

  He took a few careful steps toward the center of the hall, tiptoeing over bugs. It felt almost blasphemous to speak in the strange place. “Hello?” he called apprehensively and heard only his own voice echoing back. He looked behind him, but there was no exit in sight. It was as though a thick, dark fog obscured either end of the room. The walls to his left and his right were perfectly clear and, of course, covered in scarab beetles.

  Then, a godawful sound came from everywhere like the screeching of a hundred defiled violins. Cox jumped and looked around to see the walls undulating. The rock moved and shifted unnaturally, and suddenly a hand shot out from the brick. It was followed by a shoulder, a face, a body. Gretchen Jennings, his nightly tormentor, tore herself from the wall. Johnny Gall, with his expressionless face and bullet-riddled body, joined her. But there were more. Dozens of human-shaped creatures once wronged by The Order crawled from the walls.

  Some were missing their eyes. Another had red, angry bruises about its wrists and throat. Some mangled and bloodied mess of limbs appeared before him, the legs bearing a nauseating resemblance to chopped steak.

  The deformed creatures lined the walls, but they did not swarm Wilburn Cox. They merely stood against the stone, horrific and twisted faces illuminated by dancing torchlight. Cox spun around to view them all. His heart thrummed wildly in his ears. They did not even seem poised to attack, and yet, the fearful anticipation of an assault crawled across his skin.

  The Fraternal Order of the Scarab ran in Cox’s blood, and despite the frightful faces, he could not bring himself to regret his involvement. Underneath the fear was the same flicker of pride he had always felt when The Order prevailed, the sense of power one always held over one’s victim.

  There was a collective breath on the part of the creatures around him. In horrible unison, they shrieked. Their banshee cries echoed off the walls and pierced Cox. He threw his palms to his ears and fell to his knees. An unlucky scarab met a messy fate beneath him. He felt their agony in his mind, his heart, his insides. Daggers, bullets, painful last breaths. He curled in on himself on the ground.

  “Awaken!” he hissed to himself. “Wake up!”

  At once, they stopped. All Cox could hear was his own pathetic whimpering.

  And then came the sound of echoing footsteps.

  Appearance was of the utmost importance when claiming a man’s soul. Iago always insisted that temptation can have no flaws to make a man think twice about committing his transgressions. In the case of Wilburn Cox, he was to be the light at the end of the tunnel, a handsome benefactor come to end his suffering. That evening Iago wore a neat gray suit and plum-colored waistcoat. A pair of fine cufflinks glimmered at his wrists. He stood in stark contrast to the horrific temple of Cox’s nightmares, and he extended a hand. Cox was hesitant to take it, and Iago did not begrudge him his mistrust.

  “Wilburn Cox,” Iago greeted warmly. The victims lining the walls stood at attention.

  “Yes,” Cox said weakly. “I am Wilburn Cox.”

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” Iago laughed and added gently, “I’d like to help you.”

  “W-What?” He glanced nervously to the fiends around him.

  “Your nightmares. I can help you put an end to them.”

  Cox gulped. “Are you an associate of Mr. Atchison’s?”

  “Ha! No, no. Mr. Atchison’s attempts are admirable, yes, but only I can help you now, Mr. Cox.”

  Cox stumbled, but Iago helped him up with a firm grip. He asked, “Who are you?”

  To say a demon’s name gave that demon power, but it could just as easily be the key to his ruination. “A friend,” was all Iago said and bowed. He motioned broadly to the walls. “Do you recognize these people?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  With a tisk, Iago said, “You are in part responsible for their murders, you know. I wonder if the magnitude of your sins has ever haunted you before.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “There is reason in what The Order does, sir. We have our goals and our goals are for the good of the city. This has always been true.”

  “You are quite unrepentant,” Iago exclaimed. “Such pride.”

  Wilburn Cox looked gravely to those creatures surrounding him. “Not so much pride,” he insisted, “as a knowledge of what must be done. We might have different ideas of what constitutes sin. If you are an angel come to turn my head to what you consider to be the light, I fear you are too late.”

  Iago laughed deeply—a mirthful laugh that hardly fit their gruesome surroundings. It was like an ill-planned joke during a funerary procession. “An angel? In all my years, I have never been called an angel. Do I seem particularly angelic to you?”

  Cox eyed him carefully. “I’m not sure. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “He’s not th
e only one,” he said. “Mr. Cox, I can free you of all of these horrors. For a price.”

  Cox frowned and shivered suddenly. “What price? What do you require of me?”

  “I don’t believe it’s anything you truly value,” he said dismissively.

  “What is it?”

  “Only your soul, Mr. Cox. Sign your name, and I shall provide you with two options which will lead to glorious release,” Iago said, throwing his arms wide like a barker at a circus. He conjured a black leather book and quill pen from only the musty air. “A choice! It’s terribly simple.”

  Cox wrung his hands. “You’re the Devil, aren’t you?”

  Oh, how often they thought Lucifer tended to His own affairs. “Wrong again. Lucifer is an obscenely busy creature. I am merely a humble servant and your salvation, sir.”

  Cox attempted to stand tall, jutting his jaw. “My actions have courted an agent of Hell?”

  “They have. A demon such as myself rarely targets the good or the just. It’s too great a fight, and the angels always swoop in to erase the mere moral decay we might have managed. I need sin as an artist needs clay. But don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen grander men sign this book.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Imagine what horrors await you tomorrow night if you deny me. Can your poor heart withstand that? Can your mind?”

  He looked once more to the dozens of victims surrounding him. Ah, there was a twinge of regret in his eye, but Cox extinguished it before the fire could flourish.

  Iago continued, “You’ve always let The Order guide you. For once in your life, be the master of your fate, Wilburn Cox.”

  Cox could not steady his hand as he reached for the quill.

  The clock was a hair’s width from midnight when Wilburn Cox opened his eyes back in his library. Roaring winds outside heralded a storm speeding toward Marlowe. Iago so loved it when Mother Nature played a suitable tune to accompany his work.