The Last Temptations of Iago Wick

by Jennifer Rainey

  He wasn’t incorrect.

  Iago knocked twice and waited.

  He heard the agitated scuffle of footsteps within. Augustus Stewart threw open the door. “Leave me alone—!” He stopped. Augustus Stewart was an oddly handsome man with a strong jaw, and he wore his perplexity well. Iago hurried inside the sorry room. With Augustus’s back still to him, he shed his invisibility and waited for the door to close.

  “What’s the story behind this woman here?”

  Augustus spun around, eyes wide. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.

  Iago looked puzzled. “You just invited me in yourself,” he said and smiled. “Don’t you recall?”

  “I… I’m not…”

  “She’s quite lovely,” Iago said, returning his gaze to the painting. “She reminds me of a dear friend.”

  “Oh?”

  “Daisy. Sweet, wonderful girl. A horse I had once.”

  Augustus bristled but could conjure no retort. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?” he asked cautiously.

  “I did not say. My name is unimportant. What is important is your art, Augustus Stewart. I wish to talk to you about your art,” Iago said as he sat down on the stool before Augustus’s horse-faced woman.

  “Don’t sit there!” Augustus barked. “You’ll ruin something. Never get so close to another man’s work!”

  “Well, where would you have me sit?” Iago asked frankly. “No other chairs… I spy a bed in the corner, I think, but I feel that is a shade too intimate for our first meeting, sir.”

  Augustus scowled, but Iago knew the possibility that he might have called with the intent of purchasing one of these monstrosities forced the artist to behave.

  “You wish to buy?” Augustus asked confidently.

  “No, but no one else does either, do they?” Iago said. “You have so much to sell and not a single person wishes to buy. They cannot see the stories you craft in your art. But I can.” He motioned with a sweeping gesture to one painting propped against the wall—a grizzled man with straw for hair and beady crow eyes. “This man, for example: beaten by his life. A sea captain? No, something more melancholy. A banker, perhaps, a former pillar of society who has crumbled. You can see it in his eyes, the ache of someone who has suffered such severe loss.”

  Iago had plucked the tale from Augustus’s mind with little trouble—his brain was as leaky as his apartment. There were other more sinister thoughts in that rattled brain of his which Iago left sleeping. For now.

  Augustus fumbled for words. “Um. Indeed. My thoughts exactly.”

  “And this lady!” Iago stood up to motion to a young woman. She had shady eyes and pursed lips. “She has multiple suitors, yes? While she enjoys playing them all for fools, she isn’t really in love with any of them.”

  Augustus blinked. “Why, yes. She is quite the tease. I see these people, all of them, in my mind. I have quite the eye for faces, you see. A gift! And then, their glorious stories come to me.”

  “Yes, these paintings have stories, Mr. Stewart. What they need is meaning.”

  “What? They have meaning. The former banker, for example, represents the fickle nature of—”

  “No. I do not refer to the sad and tired meaning of morality plays. You are better than that nonsense!” Iago insisted.

  Augustus arched a brow. “You believe that? I mean, I am certainly aware of that, but no one else seems to agree!”

  “I do believe it.” Iago grinned. “And I can help you fully realize your talents.”

  Augustus slumped, and his mouth turned down sourly. “Hmm. You are a salesman.”

  “No. I am no salesman,” he laughed. “I am merely here to help.” From the inside of his jacket, Iago produced a strange device. It was no larger than an orange, a brass sphere covered in intricate engravings which raced through the metal like lightning cracking the sky into pieces. Affixed on top were four brass loops, the perfect size for one’s fingers.

  Oh, Hell’s grim craftsmen were having quite a good day when they fashioned this horrid item. It might have been tailored just for Augustus Stewart.

  “Ah! I know it does not look like much, but allow me,” Iago said and slipped his fingers through the brass loops so that it settled firmly in his palm. He lifted it up for a better view, as the bottom of the device slid back, disappearing into the sphere. Out came a shining quill and a small metallic tank.

  “Put this quill to paper, to canvas. To the wall, even! I promise you, Marlowe will take notice.” Iago placed the sphere in Augustus’s hand as the quill retracted again.

  “And I imagine now is when you require monetary compensation,” Augustus said bitterly as he examined the strange object.

  “Oh no. No, no. Just take it. It’s yours,” Iago insisted. “You see, art is about blood. It’s about sacrifice. It shouldn’t come from the head, but the heart. This will help you realize that more fully, Mr. Stewart.”

  There was a glimmer in Augustus Stewart’s eye. “Blood?”

  “Indeed.”

  Carefully, Augustus slid his fingers through the loops. As soon as the sphere settled in his palm, the sharp quill appeared again. It may have looked more weapon than artist’s tool. Indeed, Iago thought as he paced to the door and donned invisibility, the pen is mightier than the sword, but it would still be a terrible idea to bring a pen to a sword fight.

  Augustus slipped it from his fingers and watched it close. He asked, “How precisely does it work, Mister…?”

  Iago waited until the puzzled Augustus Stewart opened the door to see where his guest might have wandered. Then, he slipped into the hall and left the artist on his own. Under different circumstances, he might have liked to watch Augustus use the machine, a delightful little contraption demons called the sanguisphere. Alas, he would remove himself from the situation for the time being.

  And so, the rest of the afternoon would bring ginger cake and much ruminating over what was to be done with a certain inventor.

  Augustus Stewart believed that if people heeded the old adage curiosity killed the cat, then we would all be sitting in caves somewhere, frightened of the sun and of each other. Reservation never births innovation.

  He felt the presence of the strange orb in his room all afternoon, as though it were another human being, looming over his shoulder.

  A thin sliver of moon hung over Marlowe when he finally convinced himself to use the sphere. He did not usually allow others to influence his artistic habits, but his curious visitor had left him intrigued—despite reminding him of a traveling tragedian.

  Augustus reached for a large and rough-edged piece of paper rolled behind a pile of empty canvases, a collection of possibilities as easily ruined as they were made into masterpieces. He spread it out as evenly as he could on the frail table near the door, pinning the corners to the wood.

  Augustus carefully slipped his fingers through the loops, causing the bottom half of the mechanism to open. The quill slid into place, and he could not help but think of a scorpion, poised to strike.

  He liked the texture and authenticity of oil painting. Paint had a way of sticking to a person, making them part of the art themselves, but he couldn’t say what the art he created with this machine would look like. With bated breath, he placed the contraption in the center of the paper.

  He sat. He waited. He wondered sardonically if the Heavens were supposed to part and bestow grand inspiration. What, exactly, would he create?

  For a moment, he could think of nothing. His mind was as blank as the paper before him… and then a sweet, angelic face. She came to him as if from the clouds of dreams, a young woman of impeccable breeding. She looked straight forward as though she were walking, thinking. He saw her pearl earrings, the wide brim of her hat.

  But her eyes closed at once.

  And the machine hummed, a curious sound which made Augustus’s skin tingle pleasantly. He felt oddly as though he were doing something deliciously wrong.

  Augustus was unable to tell
at first if he guided the machine or if it guided him. No, they worked together. He drew it over the expanse. Rich, red ink appeared in swipes and narrow lines, staining the white. Against his usual practice, he started with the eyes, closed so that thick lashes settled against pale skin. Her brows were lax, resting, and her full and sumptuous lips were parted slightly.

  Her hair was sleek and neat under a fashionable hat. This was a woman of tremendous style. She was a wife, a mother, a woman to be admired. And though her eyes were shut, he could feel her gaze upon him.

  There was no thought, only creation. He thought too much when he painted. As the glorious stranger had said, art was not to come from the mind, but from the heart. How could he have been so incredibly blind for so long? He laughed suddenly, dizzy with the ecstasy of seeing this creation come to life.

  And so, this beauty came to be in a mere half an hour, not a hair out of place. Somehow the device was never short on ink, constantly spewing forth its deep crimson. Augustus Stewart found himself short of breath when he finally finished. An electric pleasure surged through him. A vague sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. He placed the machine on the table and held up his creation to fully observe her. She seemed so very real with her penetrating non-gaze that a chill passed through him as he put her down again.

  He was drunk on her. He stumbled to his bed merely to sit, but a sudden and suffocating exhaustion came over him. He fell back, eyes open and staring to the ceiling before a black sleep swooped to claim him.

  And still, she stared at him from behind pale eyelids.

  Augustus Stewart was hazy and sick when he awoke the next morning. He hadn’t felt so utterly debauched since he dared involve himself with eligible females, an unsatisfying pursuit he’d long abandoned. They were always lovely until they opened their mouths.

  The dull throb behind his eyes was only exacerbated by an excited bird outside his window. There was a raw ache in his stomach that may have been hunger but felt more like the remnant of an overly-merry evening.

  Augustus pushed himself up. He forced his eyes open.

  After a few attempts, he managed to stand. Though disheveled, he was still dressed from the night before, right down to his shoes. They were like boulders attached to his feet as he stumbled in the direction of his door to retrieve the newspaper the woman across the hall had left him. He suppressed a yawn.

  To his surprise, two newspapers waited for him. Augustus frowned. It should have been October twelfth, but here he found a paper for the twelfth and the thirteenth. How on Earth could he have slept for an entire day?

  Then he caught her gaze. Her eyes were wide open! A drawing of a beautiful young woman stared at him from the newsprint, a sharp and fashionable feathered hat atop her head. His muse! The events of that evening flooded back to him, and he quickly scanned the newspaper story.

  Local Woman Murdered

  …walking alone on East Street…

  …body discovered by groundskeeper…

  …exsanguinated.

  Augustus could not swallow the lump in his throat. He slammed the front door and revisited his art from two nights before.

  But the brilliant red ink had faded to a rusty brown. He grabbed the machine and slid his fingers through the hoops so that he could view the intricacies within. Holding it just below his nose, he could detect the pungent, copper scent of human blood upon the quill. He cast the contraption aside. This woman’s blood had fueled his art. He painted her. She died. What kind of witchcraft would allow such a thing?

  But to drain a thing so lovely as this lady for the sake of his creation was somehow deliciously stirring.

  What had his visitor said? Art required sacrifice.

  It occurred to him only then that perhaps Thomas Atchison had been correct in his assertion. Was Augustus so awful that he attracted a minion of Lucifer?

  And what is more, did he care?

  He gulped and placed the newspaper and the portrait aside. Perhaps it was not as easy to kill as he had proclaimed to his brother upon their last meeting. He needed to eat so that he could think more clearly. Augustus walked unevenly to the small pantry near the stove, fumbling for bread so that he might prepare his usual meager breakfast: a jam sandwich.

  But even as he reached for a butter knife, he felt her presence. It enveloped him like the warm embrace of being utterly drunk. Did he care at all about the immorality of it? Art had no obligation to be moral.

  He smeared the jam, red and glaring, across the white canvas of the bread.

  Were there more to be had? If he used the machine again, would it cost him his soul? His flesh prickled in excitement.

  He could have an entire gallery. Long ago, the romance of The Fraternal Order of the Scarab dissipated.

  He would have glory and excitement they had never known.

  Augustus Stewart silenced any angels who might have whispered in his ear, calling him back to their light. He would have his gallery of the dead.

  X.

  Mary Sieber died tragically young. The avid gardener perished after stumbling headfirst into a patch of poison ivy. Those present said her face swelled like a balloon, as red as an overripe tomato, but that was hardly a topic of polite conversation. Rather than wallowing in the dismal irony of the situation, the family used much of their wealth to open the Marlowe Conservatory and Hedge Maze: Mary’s House, it was fondly called. It was as good a place as any for Thomas Atchison to meet Detective Stewart that afternoon.

  Everywhere the strange Mr. Atchison went, trouble followed, and the detective’s primary objective for the time being was to avoid such trouble. It might have been yellow-bellied, but courage only begat danger.

  After a polite but unpleasant handshake, they settled upon a wrought iron bench at the mouth of the excitingly foreboding hedge maze where citizens dressed in autumnal woolens eagerly prepared to lose themselves for a spell. The trees surrounding the conservatory were ruddy and rich.

  “Detective Stewart, thank you for meeting me here,” Atchison said crisply. “I assure you, I will occupy no more of your time than is absolutely necessary.”

  “Busy, Mr. Atchison?” the detective asked with one caterpillar eyebrow cocked.

  “Always. I am strongly averse to sloth.”

  Detective Stewart sighed. “Why did you call me here, Atchison?”

  Atchison clasped his hands before him and hissed, “These exsanguinations.”

  The detective grimaced. “That would be the correct term, though I find it a tad gruesome for use in a happy place such as this.”

  “Gruesome, yes, but indeed, it is the most accurate term. You’re a detective, for God’s sake. Fortify your spine.”

  Detective Stewart didn’t need abuse from some eccentric who had misplaced his social graces. “You seek information. I have little to give. Five women have been found after suffering profound blood loss, and yet, there are no wounds to be seen. No witnesses, no connections between the victims. I have nothing.”

  “Useless,” Atchison muttered bitterly.

  “And even if I did have information to impart, I would not be obligated to share it with you,” the detective growled. “It all seems very strange. It’s just as strange, I think, as a respected man murdering his own cousin with a razor blade or someone suddenly robbing his closest friend. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Thomas Atchison looked briefly over his shoulder and waited for a giggling couple of ladies to pass. “You seem to be suggesting, if I may say so, that you believe these exsanguinations,” he said, “are also connected to another member of The Order. I’ve had similar thoughts. How frightening that our minds should work in kind.” Detective Stewart piqued his brows. “If our suspicions are true, there is only one person who could be responsible.”

  “By my counting, there are two, actually.”

  “Two?” Thomas Atchison looked as though the detective had up and insulted every one of his ancestors, their respective pets, and a handful of their neighbors, to boot. “You’re n
ot suggesting me, are you? That’s absolute nonsense!”

  Detective Stewart frowned. He had avoided his brother since the first murder, horrified of what he might discover. “It’s enough like every other crime tied inexplicably to a member of The Order that I fear it can only be you or my brother. There are witnesses who claim they saw you speaking with Pauley just after lunch on the day of the catastrophe at the Ackle mansion.”

  “I was wishing him good day.”

  “You, Mr. Atchison? Wishing someone well? Is that a sign of the End of Days?” Detective Stewart spat. Atchison looked more than a little perturbed that someone should call him a harbinger of the Apocalypse. “My brother first suggested it to me, that you are behind these strange events involving the men of The Order. You are forcing their hands.”

  “Forcing their—what?” Atchison coughed. “Good God, man, listen to yourself. I am trying to help my brothers.”

  “Who is the man in gray?”

  Atchison shook his head.

  Stewart continued, “I have spoken to Abraham Pauley. He is a mess of a man now, but through his madness, he muttered to me the name ‘Herbert Whateley.’ A man in gray, he says. I have kept that information to myself until today, for I feared it involved The Order. I can find no one by that name in Marlowe.”

  Thomas Atchison looked terribly thoughtful. “The man in gray,” he repeated softly. “Holmwood told you nothing of this Herbert Whateley?”

  “Holmwood told me nothing.”

  “At least he’s not a complete idiot,” Atchison admitted. “I spoke to Pauley on the day of the séance because I feared for his safety.”

  The detective pressed on. “Why did you fear for his safety? You know these events are all connected. The Order has been targeted. By what, Atchison?”

  He could conjure no answer and neither could he look the detective in the eye.

  Detective Stewart continued quietly, “Pauley mutters of demons. Augustus tells me—”

  “You actually spoke to your brother?” Atchison asked. The detective nodded. “Oh, splendid.”