That is, before Hoss Holmwood gripped him by the bottom of his jacket and dragged him backward.
Though still a little foggy, one of the Conjures joined the fray. He forced the struggling gentlemen into the hallway with a clatter. The other Conjure was still in a daze, utterly enchanted by the fallen hair wreath. He stroked its frame lovingly.
The ball of men slammed into the wall, knocking a few portraits to the ground and toppling a table. Hoss Holmwood thrashed madly.
The Conjure made to forcibly separate Holmwood and Pauley before tripping over the rug, pitching the two men forward down the hall like footballs. He fell upon Iago. The demon wheezed as the Conjure’s elbow jabbed sharply under his rib cage.
Ellie Malark shouted below, “Yes, spirits! Show us you are here with us now!”
“You bastard,” Holmwood growled as he reached for his knife. He charged for Iago and gripped him by the lapels.
Iago found himself inches from the blade again. “This is hardly the time to carve me up, Mr. Holmwood,” he hissed.
They loomed over the top of the staircase. Their weight shifted. The Conjure bellowed, and they rolled, tumbling downward at an alarming rate. Limbs tangled, skulls slammed into stairs, and a perfect avalanche of human, demon, and monster rolled into the foyer of the Ackle mansion.
Iago landed in a particularly undignified position, flat on his back with the Conjure on top of him again. The other, finally aware of his surroundings, galumphed down the stairs so that he might join the action.
Holmwood struggled to stand. Pauley was already upon his feet, gun in one hand while the other scrambled to recover the treasure that had fallen from his pockets.
Iago cleared his throat. “Sirs… you are dismissed,” he sighed, and in an instant, the Conjures were gone, sent back to the Inferno where things were perhaps less chaotic than they were at the Ackle mansion in Marlowe, Massachusetts.
There was a scuttling in the parlor as the guests made to open the pocket door which lead to the foyer. Iago jumped to his feet and rushed to the side of the staircase to hide. The room was still spinning. He looked upon his hands as he attempted invisibility. They faded only a little, affecting a ghostly pallor. It would do no good to be mistaken for someone’s dead cousin.
Holmwood, still disoriented, did not see Iago creep carefully toward the north door and glorious escape.
“Abraham?” Thaddeus Ackle slurred as Vaughn McCrory and Brand Timberly turned up the lights. Ackle swayed like a sycamore about to tumble. “What are you…? Have you…? My safe?”
“Is that my jewelry?” Eugenia demanded, but Pauley only continued to brandish the gun. The guests all gave a start as he waved it past them.
“What is the meaning of this? This entire evening has been nothing but trouble!” Kit Cunningham sniveled.
“What’s that?” Pauley asked.
“I’ve never had such an unpleasant evening,” Cunningham whined. “I’m not even certain why I attended! Just a bunch of bangs and clatters, and in the end, it was nothing but a pair of thieves. I’m telling you, this spiritualism is nothing but nonsense and a waste of our time—my time! I didn’t even want to attend, but I thought it was the polite thing to do. Not to mention that Mr. Ackle has, forgive me for saying, been partaking in a gross amount of alcohol, a detestable habit that I can no longer ignore. Why would—”
Kit Cunningham’s parade of complaint was brought to an abrupt halt by Pauley’s bullet; shooting people between the eyes was apparently becoming the banker’s specialty. The ungrateful guest sagged to the ground.
It was never polite to have someone die at your party. The Ackle family wouldn’t be able to show their faces in public for a good six months. Mr. and Mrs. William Foster swooned in tandem.
Pauley shouted, “Life is too short to waste your time doing what you have no desire to do!”
The other guests could neither confirm nor deny his statement.
“Now, Mr. Pauley,” Vaughn McCrory said, “let’s just talk about this.”
“I’m not looking for talk,” Pauley insisted. “I’m looking for adventure!”
Vaughn McCrory, who noted the wild look in Abraham Pauley’s eye and knew a thing or two about the manly sport of fighting, wasted no time in tackling him to the ground. Before Hoss Holmwood could sufficiently recover, Brand Timberly was upon him with a surprisingly firm grip for a man advanced in age. The demon hunter’s lenses which protruded from his eye were sadly bent beyond repair. The men scuffled across the floorboards, a hearty cheer sounding from Mrs. Proctor, who was just pleased to see Mr. Timberly’s utterly enchanting strength.
“Unhand me!” Pauley cried as he struggled against Mr. McCrory. “I am looking for adventure!”
And indeed, he had found it.
At the edge of the garden, Iago Wick lurked in shadow.
This was, however, only after the butler and maid, both with bottle in hand, saw him depart on the veranda. He quickly affected this newly discovered transparency, sending the house’s staff screaming ghost! and scurrying away with a lack of coordination only exhibited by those with bottle in hand.
He drew a deep and steady breath. Concern for his appearance surged suddenly, and Iago smoothed his hair. He straightened his lapels. He looked to the blood stains on his favorite suit and sighed. All of the night’s peril aside, this suit’s ruination was the greatest tragedy; he was bereft.
There was but one thing which had not been resolved, and oh, how Iago hated a lack of resolution. He had given Mr. Pauley two sparks at the beginning of the night, but it had taken only one to open the safe. If not used soon, the second spark’s efficacy would quickly diminish until it no longer had any power. It would be a mere useless trinket, a paper weight.
Fortunately, it did not go to waste.
A loud crack cut through the night and in an instant, dark and sulfurous smoke seethed from the veranda door, drifting into the air like homeward-bound spirits. Shrieks bubbled up from inside. Lights glowed in the surrounding houses as fleets of nosy neighbors strove to discover what on Earth could be happening at the Ackle residence.
Iago leaned heavily against the stone wall which sat at the back of the garden, and a familiar sizzling sound reached his ears. Before him was a scroll bearing the name of his next target. The evening had been fruitful. The golden scales tipped in Hell’s favor; Pauley was sufficiently damned. It was time to move on to the next member of The Order who required Iago’s expert attention.
He plucked the scroll from the air and placed it in his pocket for later consumption. It was not customary for demons to sleep, and yet, after this particular adventure, he felt his bed sweetly calling to him.
With Thomas Atchison walking the streets of Marlowe, he would sleep with one eye open.
IX.
There was an honesty and simplicity to Dante Lovelace’s piano playing which Iago thoroughly enjoyed. He did it effortlessly and purely to soothe the restlessness within him, a restlessness which brewed inside every catastrophe artist. Often the melodies he conjured reflected his latest work—sweeping and grand themes for The Lady Liberty, sharp rhythms for carriage accidents—but tonight, he fluttered anxiously from tune to tune in the macabre parlor of 13 Darke Street. Various taxidermic beasts were a glassy-eyed and captive audience in the warm, infernal glow of the room.
Iago, meanwhile, intently read what the newspaper reported about The Great Ackle Mansion Jewel Heist That Almost Was. He had recovered nicely from his encounter with Hoss Holmwood and visited Dante that evening in a neat charcoal suit he liked almost as much as the lighter gray one now stained with his blood. The demon hunter was not so lucky, still confined to his hospital room with a badly injured leg. He insisted that he and his partner were aware of Pauley’s premeditation and crept into the mansion to stop him.
The police didn’t believe him until Pauley insisted quite vehemently that he acted alone. This was his great plot! Occasionally, he mumbled of demons, but the public was more interested in the t
attoo upon his arm than his pathetic ramblings. The servants in the Ackle mansion insisted a ghost was to blame, but their words reeked of booze. No one paid them mind.
Doctor Edward Victoria encountered another scarab when he discovered Septimus Boeing swaying pathetically from a beam in his study. And so, two more bugs scurried out into the world so that the people of Marlowe might gasp and conjure fantastic theories.
Checkmate, Mr. Atchison.
Dante was unusually quiet that evening, allowing the piano to speak for him. A brief and altogether uninspiring compliment was all he managed after Iago grandly described his latest venture, and he was prompt in abandoning the subject.
Mr. Wick was not accustomed to being ignored.
Iago set the newspaper aside. “Are you bitter this evening, Mr. Lovelace?”
“What reason would I have to be bitter, Mr. Wick?” Dante asked but did not turn from the piano.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Iago sighed and leaned back lazily upon the settee. “Perhaps you’re a bit prickly because I wandered into your territory on this last venture, creating disorder and mayhem. Sparks, Conjures. It wasn’t so difficult—”
With a fierce and clashing chord, Dante spun to face Iago. There was something about him which indicated a severe lack of amusement—perhaps the frown. “Don’t flatter yourself so much, dear Iago.” His expression mellowed, and he looked meek and undone in his shirtsleeves. “No, it is not bitterness I feel, but rather apprehension.”
Iago smiled. “What did I say about worrying about me?”
Dante rolled his eyes magnificently. “If this Holmwood had succeeded in carving you up, you would have found yourself back in Hell and who knows if you ever would have returned to Earth again. To be sent back by a human is a disgrace. It’s the highest failure, Iago.”
“You needn’t educate me.” He stood and spread his arms wide. “I’m here in one piece, Dante. I didn’t fail.”
“You certainly came close!” he spat and leapt to his feet. “You knew Atchison was watching for you, and yet you waltzed into a séance—where humans are already anxious to see the supernatural! Even if the demon hunters weren’t there, it was incredibly perilous, given the circumstances. Spiritualists get all kinds of twisted notions in their heads!”
“Give me a bit of credit, dear,” Iago said dryly. “I’d like to think I’m smarter than the average spiritualist.”
“Well, Holmwood and Powell were obviously working for Atchison. You have his attention, Iago. Did you want to be caught?”
“No, I didn’t want to be caught!”
“You only wanted to put on a show. You wanted to demonstrate to Atchison just how great Iago Wick is! Well, I can tell you this: Iago Wick won’t be so great if he’s back dragging himself through the muck and the mire in Hell for the rest of eternity.” He attempted to regain the composure he held so very dear. “I’m sorry. I only wish that you be careful. I would rather see you acting as Overseer far away from me on Earth than know you are back crawling through that dreadful pit.”
If indeed he had been cast back to Hell, he would have fought to return to Earth, to Dante, and yet, he knew many good demons had lost that battle. The journey back to Hell could so addle the senses. He brought a gentle hand to Dante’s cheek. “I am not immune to concern. My next target is Augustus Stewart.”
“Atchison is last.”
“Indeed. Stewart is an artist, and a terrible one, at that. I have a plan which will allow me to topple Augustus Stewart with minimal involvement on my part. I will lie low,” Iago explained, and the sudden smell and crackle of burning paper interrupted them.
Dante paced to the piano where the letter appeared. It was stamped with the serpentine seal of Damien Morte. He opened it and read swiftly, dark eyes darting wildly over the page. Iago hoped that upon that page was the key to gaining Thomas Atchison’s soul, but at this point, he was beginning to fear there was little short of the Apocalypse that would tear the inventor from his quest.
The words only left Dante looking damnably puzzled. It was a bad sign. He rarely allowed himself to look anything less than perfectly Byronic, despite the circumstances. Iago took the letter.
Dante Lovelace,
As you know, it is not customary that an agent should speak so openly with an Overseer, particularly one who is not his own. I am not on amicable terms with your Overseer, Mr. Eldritch, and so, he was a resource not available to me. Research was necessary, and for this, you owe me a debt of gratitude. I will gladly collect the next time I am in Massachusetts.
Iago quirked a brow. “Lustful creature. He still wants you.”
“He won’t have me,” Dante insisted. “Keep reading.”
There was a young man five years ago named Thomas Atchison who lived in Bedbury, Ohio. Somewhere around twenty or twenty-five years of age, tall and blond, with half a dozen siblings. Though the demon who collected his soul was recently cast back to Hell at the hands of a hunter and is still mad from the journey, I have record that Atchison contracted a deal in order to save his ill sister, Viola, from death.
Atchison himself perished six months later, and his soul, indeed, resides in Hell.
The rest of the letter—little more than embarrassing and vaguely nauseating attempts to flirt with Dante—did not interest Iago, and he tossed it to the piano.
When his overseer, Brutus Eldritch, first sent him his final job, he had merely been given the following sentence: Secure for Hell the Souls of the Six Remaining Members of The Fraternal Order of the Scarab by the 20th of October.
And so, Iago began to conduct research on the men in question, stalking them and poring over documents and photographs. Their names would then come one at a time as Iago finished each individual temptation. Hell was very fond of making demons sing for their supper. The more work involved, the better, and to ask for any clues or hints was a profound offense.
Suddenly, Iago wasn’t certain that last letter would bear the name Thomas Atchison at all.
“It can’t be him,” he said.
“It’s not a terribly unusual name. Perhaps yours is a different Thomas Atchison,” Dante said.
“But why do I have the sinking feeling that it’s not?” Iago groaned. “It would make sense. Why is he so difficult to read? Because he’s not who he says he is! The world thinks he’s Thomas Atchison! And he has crafted that identity so fully that not even we can penetrate that wall.”
Dante sat with his back to the piano and glanced over the letter. “Unless he truly is the same Thomas Atchison, and his soul has escaped Hell.”
“Bah!”
“You know it’s not impossible. We’ve seen witches manage more… upsetting things before. His wife, perhaps. Witchcraft would also account for an impenetrable mind.”
Iago shuddered at the possibility. “Ugh, witches. I swear to Lucifer Below, if I’m to battle witchcraft on this assignment, the title of Overseer will not be prize enough.” Witches, quite notoriously, did not play by the rules. And while Iago admired their independence, their tendency to fling about spells and familiars and dance naked around cauldrons grew terribly tiresome.
“It’s just the sort of trick Eldritch would play,” Dante said.
“But we can’t be certain of that.” The idea made Iago feel more puppet than demon. He detested the thought that he was anyone’s marionette, but then again, weren’t they all Lucifer’s to push and manipulate?
Shaking the notion from his head, Iago slumped onto the settee and looked to the newspaper again. Success was, as always, infuriatingly fleeting. How quickly the spoils of victory were swept aside to make way for more formidable troubles.
He looked across the room into his partner’s dark eyes. “You’re going to tell me to be careful again.”
“Dear Iago, you know it bears repeating.”
Was this, Iago wondered, what it was like to be married?
“Your advice,” he admitted, “is duly noted.”
No matter what Atchison’s story was,
one thing was certain: Iago Wick would not be attending any séances for a very long time.
Iago had long agreed with the notion that artists were their own breed, a strange sort of variation of the human race. Augustus Stewart was no exception.
Iago discovered the mad artist’s quirks while shadowing him, spying upon his thoughts one afternoon shortly after the catastrophe at the Ackle mansion. Augustus spoke soothingly to a painting of a woman with crooked eyes, inhuman proportions, and horse teeth as he intermittently gnawed upon his paintbrush. She was quite a fright, but he cooed and fawned over her, even occasionally sang to her in a shaky baritone. Augustus’s cramped dwelling was filled with dozens of portraits with dead-eyed stares and strange faces. He spoke sternly to some paintings, sweetly to others. He was a bad artist, but he was an artist, nevertheless.
Augustus crafted his portraits from wisps of people he’d met in his thirty-nine years. A nose here and a frown there. They came from thoughts and voices and memories. And then, he painted them.
Selling them was another matter altogether.
His last interested buyer, Iago gleaned from Augustus’s thoughts, believed they were good for nothing but kindling. To Augustus, he was a fool. Anyone who said such things was a fool. All the same, a man must have funds to survive. His Granddaddy’s money wouldn’t last forever.
Though Dante Lovelace was tending to a tragic farming accident, Iago resolved to keep his promise; he would best Augustus Stewart with minimal involvement on his part. All the same, he felt a creative mind—even a disastrously poor one like Augustus’s—required a creative temptation.
The following afternoon, Iago stood invisible on the other side of Augustus’s door. The handful of apartments above the cobbler’s storefront may have been unpleasant, but Augustus Stewart liked living there. A rancid scent hung heavy in the cold air, and Iago spied a rat scurrying down the hall. The best artists suffered, and Augustus thought himself an artist worthy of profound suffering.
The Last Temptations of Iago Wick Page 11