The Last Temptations of Iago Wick

by Jennifer Rainey

  “There is something evil afoot here in Marlowe,” Atchison said simply. Evil was such a severe word.

  Thomas Atchison may not be attending the séance, but he would see the glorious aftermath. He was an audience, and Iago was delighted to put on a show.

  Iago entered the ornate parlor, eyes darting over the men and women within. The lights were already a bit dimmer than was customary for an average evening of frivolity, and the autumn breeze swept into the room from a large open door. Gossamer curtains billowed like swaying ghosts. It seemed to be a prerequisite that one must perfect the art of absurd fashion before attending a séance. He was surrounded by strange, ostentatious jewelry and coats in gaudy patterns. How irksome, Iago thought sardonically, to feel so entirely underdressed. The furniture had all been set along the perimeter of the room to allow for a grand, round table in the center.

  “I can’t say I’m excited about this evening,” said one guest by the fireplace. He seemed more weasel than man. “More intrigued, I suppose, but I can’t imagine any good will come of this.”

  “Oh, Cunningham, shake off that rain cloud that’s always hanging over you,” said a man with a full moustache and Southern drawl to match.

  “You’re not my master, Mr. McCrory,” the weasel Cunningham spat. “I think a rain cloud might hang over you, too, had you seen the pain and the agony and the suffering and—”

  “That’s enough, gentlemen,” said a thick, aging man in a midnight blue suit. His hair was a respectable salt and pepper. “McCrory was an Indian fighter. He’s seen his share. We certainly cannot discount the tragedy which befell your family, Kit, but this is an occasion for some fun!”

  “Well said, Mr. Timberly!” Mrs. Proctor bubbled.

  “He hadn’t even set foot in Marlowe in years,” Mr. McCrory muttered lowly to Thaddeus Ackle, a man of few words and apparently even fewer objections to libation. His face was crimson already. The séance was surely Mrs. Ackle’s idea. He merely saw it as an excuse to dip into fine spirits of a different sort.

  Iago knew the tale of The Cunninghams well. Their house had caught fire earlier that year. Everyone escaped, but the family swiftly moved from the area in their grief. That is, all except Kit, the prodigal son who returned to Marlowe only after his childhood home burned to the ground. He had crept around the town like some woeful ghost since then, slithering his way from party to soirée to séance. Society believed he was only ever invited out of pity, for he always dressed unfashionably and was about as exciting as a wet rag.

  Dante, who orchestrated the Cunningham fire, saw it as something of a failure, but Iago assured him that such family tragedies often take many years to completely unfold. One must allow time for tensions to build and bad habits to be indulged.

  Sitting a modest six inches apart on the velvet couch were a husband and wife who looked entirely too similar. The same sloping nose, the same almond eyes, and the same thin lips made Iago wonder if Mr. and Mrs. William Foster—as conversation in the parlor revealed they were called—had a family twig rather than a family tree.

  “I think this spiritualism business is all very exciting,” said Mr. Foster.

  “Oh, me too!” said Mrs. Foster.

  “I can’t imagine what we’ll find,” said Mr. Foster.

  “Oh, me neither!” said Mrs. Foster.

  Or was that the other way around?

  But Iago’s target was missing. He paced to the door where the billowing curtains danced into the room. He peered out onto a secluded veranda. Beyond were gardens already in autumn’s grasp. Around the corner of the house, sitting alone on the veranda was a man Iago recognized as Abraham Pauley. How lucky; it would have been quite annoying to play Pied Piper and lure Pauley to seclusion.

  Pauley stood beside the veranda’s iron railing with the starry gaze of a daydreamer. Ah, beautiful vulnerability. He rested his hands atop his stomach in a jolly sort of way which suggested he was due back at the North Pole any day now. Pauley frequently orchestrated The Order’s deeds. Iago supposed the various paid criminals he enlisted were something like elves. Abraham Pauley was a dead ringer for Old Saint Nick’s morally questionable brother.

  Iago hurried out of Pauley’s line of sight, down to the garden where he could be entirely alone. What he would do next had a tendency to disrupt the biological processes of any human who happened to unknowingly walk into his vicinity. In the best of situations, he’d witnessed a man suddenly soil himself. In the worst, he’d seen a man spontaneously combust.

  He reached into his breast pocket to retrieve a small knife which he pressed to his palm. The incantation he muttered softly to himself was in an ancient, guttural tongue unknown to Man. Blood black as jet oozed from the wound as two large, hairless, and distinctly dull-looking men in black suits appeared before Iago. They loomed over him, great hulking beasts in the darkness with beady eyes and deep frowns.

  Iago smiled, but he didn’t mean it. Conjures were a terrible bunch to work with, dim-witted and dull things who were only good for providing numbers and brute force. It wasn’t that Iago expected more out of a creature who was nothing but general Hellish nastiness densely concentrated into the form of a man, but he preferred to work with beings who provided a little more value than that of a violent potato. They were a necessity in Dante’s work, though Mr. Lovelace didn’t think too highly of them, either.

  However, men are more likely to act if they know they have protection. Who doesn’t feel more confident when they are flanked by enormous brutes, prepared to strike at any moment? Tonight, that was the task of the Conjures: to dangerously boost Pauley’s confidence. They were the toy soldiers which Pauley could place wherever he wanted.

  And if need be, they could rip someone in half.

  “As per usual,” Iago said, “I request that you follow my lead and the lead of our target. We’re going to commit a little burglary today, and with any luck, we’ll get into a bit more mischief along the way.”

  “Humph,” one of them grunted.

  “Hmm. I’m afraid that’s not a word, but I’ll take it as something affirmative. Right this way, please. Also, please take your finger out of your nose once we’re visible. It destroys the ambiance.”

  With the Conjures in tow, Iago made his way back. Pauley smoked a pipe, releasing puffs of cloud into the October night sky. There was a warm and cozy smell of leaves and tobacco on the air as Iago shed his invisibility, revealing himself and the Conjures to their oblivious target.

  “A wonderful night to speak to the dead,” he greeted, startling Mr. Pauley from his reverie.

  “Oh! Yes, I suppose it is a fitting evening. There’s a bit of magic in the air, I feel,” he said happily and bobbed like a buoy on an easy lake.

  “Ah, there is always that spark in the air when autumn is at its peak.” Iago smiled amicably and held out a hand. “Herbert Whateley.”

  “Abraham Pauley. You are a friend of the Ackle family?”

  “I am a friend of all who seek to glimpse what awaits us when we shuffle off this mortal coil,” Iago answered.

  Still he bobbed happily, and Iago wondered if Mr. Pauley was even aware of what a séance was for all his rosiness. “Ah, yes! And your friends?” he asked and motioned carefully toward the Conjures.

  “They are men of few words, I’m afraid,” Iago said. The two brutes leaned identically against the railing, looking into the night as though they pondered great existential quandaries. Iago knew well that not a single thought passed through their mushy brains. “I have lived in this town for many years. How strange we have never crossed paths. You must frequently travel.”

  “Oh, no. But I would like to very much. You know, my father traveled across the globe, and he always told me stories. Even though they were only stories, I always felt as though I were there with him,” Pauley said pleasantly.

  There was delectable regret behind his mirth. It was the kind of weakness Iago craved. “Surely you lead an exciting life in Marlowe.”

  His cheek
s grew redder than their usual happy color. “I’m a banker.” He shook his head. “It’s a fine position! And I find ways to entertain myself. Tobacco. I’m very fond of tobacco.”

  “Well,” Iago began, “there is something to say for the simpler pleasures in life, but nothing compares to the thrill of an adventure, embarking on the endeavor your heart finds most desirable.”

  Pauley considered this for a moment, looking thoughtfully into the dark and eerie garden as he smoked. “Yes. I guess that’s right. I’m not a complete bore!” he said desperately, but promptly remembered himself. It wouldn’t do to brag about The Fraternal Order of the Scarab to some stranger at a séance. “That is to say, I stay busy.”

  “Staying busy and truly living a fulfilling life are two very different things, Mr. Pauley,” Iago sighed, happy to catch the man’s gaze. He held him there. “I don’t mean to speak so philosophically. I merely mean that it’s much more rewarding to act than to sit around thinking or planning or completing mundane tasks simply for the privilege of saying so.”

  Iago could hear some Hellish chord the Church would condemn strike within Abraham Pauley. “You are correct, Mr. Whateley. What a very wise man you are,” he said, unable to keep a chill from his voice. His smile disappeared. He was human, after all.

  “I apologize if I’ve commandeered our conversation, Mr. Pauley. It was not my intent,” Iago admitted and gave a small bow. Pauley shook his head in embarrassment.

  “No need for apologies. As I said, you’re very right.”

  “But we can’t always do the things we’d truly like, correct?” Iago asked. “There’s a part of me that’s always wanted to rob a bank, you know. No offense intended to you or your profession—I’d simply like to try. But where would I be if I actually did? Most likely a bloody mess on the floor of a bank lobby or a pathetic thing locked behind bars. We are forced to confine our demons to our skulls, never relenting to their call.”

  Pauley nodded and admitted, “Or we allow other men to carry out our own personal wishes.”

  “Ah!” Iago said. “As in love, so in life; it is not as fulfilling to watch another, is it? And then we look up, and we’re buried in the ground, and the living are dressing up so that they might try to call us back for their own ephemeral pleasure.”

  Iago felt Pauley warming to him, and still, an interruption from the parlor could ruin everything. It was a delicate process, luring Abraham Pauley into a state where he could easily give in to his deepest desires, the ones which had gnawed at him for years as he sat far from the action he so desperately wished to join.

  Flashes of people, of places, of hideous crimes shot through Pauley’s head for a perceptive demon’s taking: a bright and idealistic young entrepreneur from out of town who had run for political office; the wife of the minister who had been seen merely speaking with a handsome Italian visitor; a dozen others who had perished or had their lives ruined by the will of The Order, and Pauley’s deep regret that he had asked some two-bit crook to carry out the deed for him rather than striking them down himself.

  “Perhaps I am too loquacious, too bold, Mr. Pauley,” Iago said.

  “Certainly not! It is all true. How fortunate I stumbled across you tonight,” he said.

  “Well, we all have secret desires, yes? We wish to ignore the rules. We long for the wives of other men, and we seek to eliminate certain people we do not like. Or… perhaps we wish to steal. It provokes such a thrill in the bones, in the pit of the soul, to make away with something that is not our own.”

  “A jewel heist!” He puffed dramatically on his pipe.

  Iago piqued his brows. There was that hidden desire Iago had plucked from the depths of his skull whilst following him that afternoon. It had haunted Pauley as he paced about the bank, surrounded by the temptation to take what was not his. “Precisely,” Iago purred.

  Abraham Pauley took the pipe from his fleshy lips and grinned. “I’ve always wanted to commit a jewel heist, to be some great thief the newspapers would proclaim a mastermind. I would strike fear in the heaving bosoms of… sensitive ladies.”

  Iago affected a look of shock which only delighted Pauley more. “But you would never actually commit such a crime, correct? Mr. Pauley, that is breaking the law.”

  “Good sir,” Pauley said delicately as he leaned in to half-whisper in Iago’s ear, “the laws do not apply to everyone.”

  Spoken like a true member of the Bug Brigade.

  “Oh, Mr. Pauley, you utter rapscallion,” Iago said affably and watched the man’s ego grow. “Where precisely would you first commit such a crime? Here? Tonight?”

  “Well, why not? Thaddeus and I have been dear friends all our lives, and I know precisely where he hides his safe: in his bedroom upstairs. He has such treasures hidden there. His wife’s good jewelry. He trusts me. I’ve seen it all before,” Pauley explained, but he suddenly frowned. “This is not to say that I’m an interested party. It-It’s all just speculation. I would never—!”

  “Of course,” Iago cooed.

  “I’m a man of good standing.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “I’m a member of several town committees, and I recently judged the Marlowe Apple Pie Contest at the Autumn Festival.”

  Iago blinked. “Something of which you can only be proud, I’m sure.”

  “And Thaddeus is a friend.” He paused. “It would be terribly exciting, though. I’m not so adept at picking locks.”

  “Hmm,” Iago hummed ponderously. “It occurs to me that picking a lock is not the only way to achieve entry.”

  Pauley looked suddenly at Iago as though he had gifted him with the meaning of life and the cure to the common cold all wrapped into one glorious bundle. “Explosives,” he hissed in awe. “I hadn’t even considered it! It would be so dramatic!”

  “And don’t you deserve such adventure in your life?” Iago asked and looked deep into his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Life is too short to waste your time doing what you have no desire to do.”

  “Yes, yes!” Pauley looked to the stars with eyes that yearned for adventure, that desired some divine force to descend from the Heavens and gift him with the key to such excitement.

  Iago had him.

  “Well, Mr. Pauley, I may be able to give you what you need.”

  The portly man looked on in delight as Iago reached into his jacket to conjure a revolver. He pressed it into Abraham Pauley’s hand. It settled heavily in his grasp. Give a man a gun, and he will use it. “For protection, and…” Iago reached into his breast pocket to retrieve two identical devices. They looked like mechanical spiders, their bronze legs reaching out in all directions. A red crystal was regally positioned in the middle of each. One might have passed for a rather ostentatious lady’s brooch—perfect for this evening’s affair, it seemed. They were affectionately called ‘sparks’ by the demons who used them. Dante might use dozens at a time.

  “I shall give you two of these,” Iago said. “Press the middle, and they shall provide you with the bang you’re looking for, dear sir. Take care with them.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said distantly. “I shall.”

  “Mr. Pauley,” Iago continued, “this is where I depart, but I leave you with my associates. They are to be your accomplices. Use them as you will.”

  “Ah, yes! Lookouts!”

  “A perfect idea, sir,” Iago said. “The door by the dining room on the north side of the house might assist you in your stealth. There is a back staircase just inside. Just beware of any servants. I have appreciated our talk.”

  Pauley bobbed excitedly and took Iago’s hand with such vigor that the demon jolted similarly. “Yes! Yes, it was splendid talking to you, Mr. Whateley. I cannot thank you enough.”

  Iago bowed deeply. Abraham Pauley crept around the side of the house, the Conjures following as swiftly as they might.

  Assuming invisibility again, Iago returned to the parlor where Thaddeus Ackle introduced the party to Elli
e Malark. This was the woman who was presumably to be their conduit to the other side that evening. Iago leant upon the door frame and watched through wafting curtains. She was not the decadent and melodramatic spiritualist one had come to expect—rather, she was quite a plain woman. Her graying, ghostly hair was pulled into a bun askew, and her glasses balanced precariously upon her nose. She had a smile like candy floss. This was no charlatan. This woman, Iago determined quite quickly, truly believed she was contacting the dead.

  What a terrible bore. Thank Lucifer for demonic intervention. At least the Ackles’ guests would still see something of a show.

  Eugenia Ackle closed the door between the parlor and the foyer. This evening required a little engineering on the part of an invisible demon—doors flying open, paintings tumbling to the ground! Like chess pieces, Pauley and his Conjures would be maneuvered as necessary. The explosion caused by the sparks would surely bring the guests upstairs to investigate. There would be confrontation, gunshots. It had such glorious potential, but timing was crucial.

  “What are your credentials?” Kit Cunningham demanded bluntly of the medium. He spoke through his nose, sounding much like a kazoo.

  “Sir, I didn’t go to some fancy school,” she said sweetly. “I was born with this ability! I have always been able to speak to those who are lost between this world and the next.”

  “And you have proof of that?” Cunningham sneered.

  “Cunningham, please give it a rest!” Vaughn McCrory insisted, standing akimbo. Despite his crisp green suit, he looked like he could inflict severe bodily harm. “The Ackle family has graciously invited all of us into their home for a night of spiritual enlightenment, and all you’ve done is bellyache. …So, keep quiet, or I’ll punch you in the nose.”

  “Well said, Mr. McCrory,” Brand Timberly added.

  “I am so very excited, Mrs. Malark,” Eugenia said in a bold attempt to smooth over the tension between Kit Cunningham and the rest of the world. “If we can speak to those on other continents via telegraph, why couldn’t we speak to the dead? That’s what I believe. It would give me quite a sense of peace to know we could.”