“She has forced me onto the streets,” Iago laughed darkly.
“You will not enter your apartment,” DeGracey said again.
“Yes, you made that quite clear.”
“You will not…” The servant’s eyes fluttered oddly, and the corners of his mouth twitched until he wore a broad and unnerving smile that split his head in two. His head dropped to his chest. Had he suddenly fallen asleep? Was there a misfiring in his brain, perhaps? But then he looked intensely into Iago’s eyes. He drew a deep breath. “Change is coming,” he growled.
“What?” Iago asked.
“Change is coming. Our world will begin anew,” DeGracey insisted gravely. His eyes rolled. “Change is coming. Our world will begin anew.” His voice was strange, and he coughed and sputtered. Iago recoiled. The man was unnerving enough already; eerie prophetic trances were entirely unnecessary!
Then, DeGracey blinked, as though he were waking from a short nap, and his smile became even again. With a shrug, he said, “You will not enter your apartment. Perhaps you invited this upon yourself.” DeGracey shoved his free hand into the pocket of his worn trousers, the other still gripping his cane.
“Change, you say?” Iago asked. “Your world will begin anew?”
DeGracey cocked his head, his expression remarkably unchanged. “Someday my queen will give me true immortality,” he answered. “All of us. We will all be changed. No longer will we be mere servants. The Morgans have promised us this.”
Iago glared at the deluded servant. Rather than set him on fire (which would have been incredibly therapeutic at that juncture, but unwise in the middle of daylight), Iago stormed away. “Do not follow me!” he yelled and looked over his shoulder.
DeGracey stood still—smiling, always smiling.
Iago walked to Darke Street. It was not far, just a few blocks away, and he briskly traveled until he reached house number 13. It was a tall and thin house, pleasant to behold from the outside. The average citizen of Marlowe had never seen within, and unless the average citizen harbored an extreme passion for taxidermy, then that was probably a good thing.
Iago walked up the steps at 13 Darke Street and knocked twice. Moments later, Dante Lovelace appeared.
“My dear,” Dante greeted. He was in his shirtsleeves and lacking a necktie. “I was just working. What are you doing he—”
“I apologize, my dearest Dante,” Iago proclaimed as he rushed past his partner and into the foyer. “I know I promised to leave you be. Alas, I have been forced to break that promise by that blood-sucking harlot!”
“Ah,” Dante said, sniffed the air, and grimaced. “Is this much garlic really necessary?”
“Obviously, it’s done me little good! I breakfasted at The Raven’s Nest. I had every intention of going home, of sitting and waiting for these damned fangs to leave Marlowe. However,” Iago said, “that is not an option! I’ll be staying with you for a spell.” He charged into Dante’s parlor, a well-curated museum of taxidermic beasts and post-mortem photos and decorations of hair and bone. His home, though lovely without, was quite frightening within. Dante liked it that way. The room’s centerpiece, a large stuffed vulture named Montgomery, loomed over them from his spot above the fireplace. “If that’s satisfactory to you, anyway,” Iago added.
“Why?” Dante asked and straightened his notes upon his writing desk. “I mean, of course, you are welcome here, Iago. What has happened?”
Iago relayed to Dante what he’d discovered upon returning to his apartment and about the simpering minion who had greeted him on the sidewalk. He sat upon the settee in the parlor and took a glass of scotch—and two petit fours for good measure—to calm himself.
“I should not even be here,” Iago said finally and finished his scotch. “They may do the same to your home if they know I am here.”
“No, stay,” Dante insisted. “Should they curse my house, then at least we’ll be on the streets together. We cannot live in fear of them.”
“There’s no saying what they will do! They are so frighteningly… petty.” It was a most alarming trait.
Dante gave a gentle smirk. “Well, my dear, you did spit in their collective eye a little. You could have taken Locksley’s soul without being quite so demonstrative.”
“That would not have been fun, though,” Iago insisted gravely. “It was such an excellent twist in the plot. Man falls in love with soul-devouring vampire. Man sells soul to demon to win vampire’s heart. Disappointed vampire no longer wants him. The threads connect so nicely.”
“And now you are paying the price. Something tells me the vampires don’t care for your narrative, Iago Wick.” Dante sat beside him.
Iago didn’t care much for the opinions of his critics. He gave a heavy sigh. “You are correct. We must continue to live well and to work as though we’re unaffected by their nonsense. What’s a mere benediction spell, anyway? We’ll find a way to break it.”
That was easier said than done and something that Iago did not wish to consider presently. He reached for another petit four.
Several hours later, Iago Wick had paced a trench into Dante Lovelace’s floor.
He walked back and forth in front of the window, watching and waiting, while Dante tended to his work. Or at least, while Dante tried to tend to his work. The constant creaking of the floorboards and Iago’s dramatic sighing were something of a distraction. Finally, Dante looked through his notes one last time, stacked them neatly at the corner of his desk, and placed his pen aside.
“Mr. Wick, I wonder if you might accompany me to dinner,” Dante said.
“Aren’t you worried your house will become a cathedral in your absence?” Iago said.
“Not at all,” Dante said as he stood from his writing desk. “You need a distraction. You’re getting irritatingly restless.”
“Irritating? I’ll have you know—”
“Shh.” Dante reached into the drawer and retrieved what first seemed to be a letter opener. No, it was a thin knife, perfectly sharp and utterly frightening. Dante drew a deep breath before pressing the blade to the palm of his hand. He whispered an incantation, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. And then at once, there was a large, bald man in front of him. The man wore a black suit and a blank expression, and he cocked his head at Dante like a befuddled parrot.
“A Conjure?” Iago groaned in something like agony.
Dante shook his head as the wound on his hand quickly healed. “You’ll protect your master, won’t you, sir?” he asked the man.
The man grunted in affirmation.
Conjures were not actually men or even alive. They were made of all the foul and nasty particles of Hell, brought together in the form of a man so that they might serve demons on Earth. They were excellent fighters, brutish and forceful, and incredibly loyal to the demon who conjured them. A shame they had the intellect of a door knob. Dante used them frequently. Iago used them only when he was absolutely forced to do so.
“Does he even know what a vampire is?” Iago asked.
Dante turned back to his Conjure and spoke sweetly to him. “We have been targeted by vampires. Can you protect this house while we venture out?”
The Conjure gave another positive grunt and a nod.
“Excellent! Do you see?” Dante said. “You underestimate them! I’m not always fond of them, either, but they really do some magnificent work if you give them a gentle push in the right direction.”
“The last time I worked with one, I wanted to give him a gentle push off the nearest cliff,” Iago sighed.
Dante rolled his eyes. “Allow me to dress, and then we’ll go to dinner. Not The Covington—they know we dine there. The Golden Swine, perhaps?”
The sun still strained to shine through a blanket of cloud when Iago and Dante arrived at The Golden Swine. It was an ostentatious and pretentious restaurant, but one which had the finest raw oysters Iago had ever eaten. They were determined to finish dinner before the sky grew dark so that they might hurry home
and relieve the Conjure of his duties—not that the brute had any other pressing engagements. One is not burdened by social obligation when one is made of nothing but Hell-fluff and brute strength.
“Do you see any of the vampires’ servants about?” Dante asked softly as they took their seat.
“No, and I have been watching,” Iago said. Though it was early in the evening, the restaurant was already bustling. There were rich men and women wrapped in their finest and a dozen waiters hurrying around the dining room as though they were on wheels. There was an extravagantly-dressed and portly man who was the physical embodiment of the phrase golden swine, and a woman who had her nose so far in the air that someone may have mistaken her for a weather vane. But the strange servants were nowhere to be seen.
Dinner was pleasantly uneventful. The room clucked in its usual haughty warble. All the same, Iago frequently looked around the restaurant as he delicately ate his oysters, expecting to see one of the dead-eyed cybernetic servants watching him from afar.
“I am, I suppose, not necessarily afraid of the vampires,” Iago said after dessert had been delivered to their table. It was a raspberry confection, something light and suitable for the season. And not inadequate. He sucked thoughtfully upon the spoon. “I simply don’t like surprises. The idea that those bloodsuckers might jump out at me at any moment is so terribly unsettling.”
“It bears repeating, Iago: you have exacerbated the situation,” Dante answered with a sigh. He slipped his finger under his tie and tugged, a strangely improper action for Iago’s companion. Dante ran his hand through his hair before remembering himself and smoothing his dark locks back into place.
“Perhaps I have,” Iago admitted, and he took another bite. “I love a good mess, but this one is becoming a distraction. All the same, they are the ones who are misbehaving. His soul was mine, fair and square.”
Dante only nodded and looked anxiously around the room.
“It’s all a show. All of it. And with last night’s incident, they won’t be around much longer. Citizens are talking. They can’t very well settle here for too long,” Iago rambled. He knew he was rambling. Each word soothed his nerves, particularly when coupled with the dessert. “All the same,” he continued, “someone must lift the curse from my room. It will—”
“Are you uncomfortable?” Dante asked suddenly. His eyes glistened feverishly, and his skin had turned to the color of a boiled parsnip.
“Uncomfortable?” Iago asked.
“Over-heated? It’s practically infernal in here,” Dante said and tugged again at his necktie. Heat was normally a demon’s friend. Something was wrong.
“No, I… Dante, are you well?”
“Just faint. A bit nauseated. I’ll be fine, Iago.”
“No, Dante Lovelace is never unwell. I’ve never seen you in any less than the pink of health, so to speak. What’s… oh no.” He looked around the room, but there were still no servants to be seen. A good thing, too. Iago might have forgotten himself and started a brawl with the robotic bastard right there in the restaurant.
“What?” Dante asked and covered his eyes with one hand. “In Lucifer’s name, what, Iago?”
“They have poisoned you,” Iago hissed. “We must take you from the restaurant. You look like death.”
“Oh, thank you, Iago. I can always count on you for a compliment,” Dante muttered and tried to stand. He failed and fell back into his seat again. Swaying like a drunken man, he drew a deep breath before he attempted to stand again. He was fading fast. Iago imagined it was something like Holy Water that had sickened him so. How they had concealed it in his dinner, however, he could not say.
“Take my hand,” Iago said, holding out his right arm.
“Which one?” Dante mumbled. “There are four.”
“Choose wisely, dear Dante, and let’s move along.”
This time, Dante managed to keep his balance. Iago threw a bit of money upon the table to aid their smooth and speedy exit, and they carefully made their way toward the door.
“This is what they want,” Dante slurred and narrowly missed trampling Iago’s feet. “The vampires want us to leave. They’re drawing us out.”
“To Hell with them. You’re in no position to stay here. We’ll get you home. Hopefully the Conjure has done his duty, or we’ll have nowhere to go.” Iago briefly thought of the Hellish beast sitting at the window and waiting for them like some forlorn puppy expecting his master. Thanks to cloudy skies, it was already purple and gray at a quarter to seven. Twilight was creeping in early.
Once they had left the restaurant, Dante pitched forward, palms pressed firmly to his knees. Iago feared for his shoes, but after a few steady breaths, Dante righted himself again without incident. He leaned heavily upon Iago’s shoulder.
“Lucifer Below,” Dante muttered, “the street lamps are dancing.”
“Are they?” Iago asked.
“They’re waltzing,” he groaned, and Iago couldn’t tell if it was a poor attempt at humor or if he was delirious. Perhaps a bit of both.
They had just passed an alley cloaked in shadow when they heard a voice say, “I guess he doesn’t like lamb’s blood—does he, Mr. Wick?” Iago turned back to see Grizzly Bear standing in the shadows, well-dressed in a deep burgundy suit that Iago begrudgingly admitted to himself was quite fetching. The ghostly servant Iago encountered that first night at The Covington lurked behind the vampire, dressed in plain wool and still sporting his nosegay. “Just a few drops of lamb’s blood.”
The servant leaned forward eagerly. “Wouldn’t want to render him unconscious.”
Perhaps not, but Iago could think of a brutish bloodsucker and a cybernetic lackey he would have dearly loved to render unconscious at present. “It’s awfully early for you to be awake,” Iago growled.
“I fed last night,” Grizzly Bear answered. “I’m feeling quite strong, and the sun is hiding. I will lurk in shadow until it fades completely.”
“Yes,” Iago said. “The suffragette’s husband. That was you.”
“Indeed. He was delicious. A little nutty… but you would have to be to marry a suffragette.”
Iago rolled his eyes. “Of course, once again you needed your lackey to help you this evening. Blessed lamb’s blood is detrimental to vampires, as well. I’m noticing a pattern. You cannot pursue me yourself. You only order your semi-human lackeys to do your bidding.”
“That ends now,” Grizzly Bear insisted gravely. “Mr. Galloway here has been a great help to me, but night will soon fall. I’ll no longer need him.” The vampire took a solid step forward and stopped. His nose crinkled in a sneer. “When the moon is high, I’ll abandon Galloway, if you take the garlic from your pockets.”
Galloway quivered deliberately. “You won’t… you won’t really abandon me, will you, master?” His eyes glistened. “I can still be of use to you, Lord Oleander.”
“Shut up!” snapped Grizzly Bear—apparently called Lord Oleander. Iago had a strong feeling that was not his real name. “Why don’t you fight me, demon? For the store clerk’s soul.”
“All this for Locksley’s soul!” Iago exclaimed. Dante leaned upon the brick along one side of the narrow alley, arms wrapped meekly around himself. “He is a weakling, a pathetic creature. You can lie to me all you want. This has nothing to do with Locksley’s soul—your queen just can’t accept that matters didn’t fall in her favor.”
“If he’s so pathetic, give his soul back,” Oleander said.
Iago pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “It does not work that way.” Demons did not often regret, but Iago was beginning to feel that twinge at the back of his skull. “I must take Mr. Lovelace home before someone mistakes him for a drunken vagrant.” He motioned to Dante, who was slumped over on the ground like a sickly ragdoll. He might have groaned a curse at Iago in response.
“True, he is looking quite ghastly. Tomorrow night, then. Midnight,” Lord Oleander said.
“Midnight! Of course, it’s always
midnight, isn’t it?” Iago snapped his fingers and conjured a flame. “I assure you, I would not hesitate to incinerate you.” Lord Oleander regarded the flame uneasily, as though through all his posturing and poisoning, he had forgotten that he was poking and prodding a creature who was well-versed in the ways of fire! Iago continued, “This has gone on long enough. I would like to speak with Lady Eustacia.”
“To discuss the terms of the clerk’s soul?”
“No, I thought we’d have a good chat about the weather and the latest revue at the theater,” Iago answered. Lord Oleander blinked. “Yes, to discuss the clerk’s soul.”
Oleander considered this rather glumly. A truce would mean he wouldn’t be able to fight a demon in hand-to-hand combat, but he should have known that would most likely end poorly for him. Vampires and fire did not mix. “Tomorrow night. Midnight,” Lord Oleander said.
“I should have known,” Iago sighed.
“Find me by the river. I will escort you.”
“If you’re angling for some romantic tryst, Lord Oleander, I am flattered, but spoken for,” Iago said glibly and looked down to his partner. Dante had his eyes closed. “I think I am, anyway.” He reached down and gently shook Dante before pulling him from his daze and onto his feet again. Dante wobbled dangerously but kept his balance.
The servant, Galloway, narrowed his empty eyes at Iago as they left. Then, just as the servant with the cane had done outside his apartment, he smiled a wide jack-o-lantern grin.
They arrived shortly at 13 Darke Street, where the Conjure was sweetly concerned for his master. He fluffed a pillow and fetched a blanket for Dante before continuing to stand guard at the window of the parlor. Dante slept fitfully upon the settee, and Iago thought of how he might settle his score with the Vampire Queen.
Iago Wick and the Vampire Queen Page 4