The Last Temptations of Iago Wick

by Jennifer Rainey

  But at once, it subsided. Blinding pain waned, and he could see again. The details of the room flooded in like watercolor. Thomas Atchison gripped him firmly on the shoulder. “There, there. Well done, Mr. Cox. We are well on our way.”

  The inventor swiftly turned away and reached for a vial of purplish liquid, an entirely unnatural-looking substance that Cox feared was going to make its way into his body. Atchison removed the rags, now dotted unnervingly with blood. He tilted the vial to his lips. Dazed, Cox helplessly swallowed the bitter, gritty concoction. “This will put you to sleep,” the inventor explained. “It primes the mind for dream activity and subsides after four or five hours. This will give me ample time to see what you’re seeing.”

  Already his mind was bleary. He watched Atchison slip the goggles over his head to hang about his neck. “What the hell did I just swallow, Atchison?” Cox asked weakly.

  “It’s… it’s a lot of chemicals, compounds you wouldn’t recognize, but trust me, you are in capable hands. What good would it do either of us if I poisoned you now? I promise you—”

  Alas, Cox left the waking world before Atchison could finish.

  As if the room weren’t crowded enough already, there was one man who was unaccounted for in Wilburn Cox’s assessment of the company he kept that afternoon. But if Iago Wick were made uncomfortable by tight spaces, he would not have chosen to haunt a man within his own mind.

  That’s not to say Iago was physically inside Cox’s head. In this case, he was merely a puppeteer. He slipped his hands inside the man’s head, pulling the strings. Dream work allowed for such creativity. It was something of an indulgence Iago granted himself once in a while.

  He leaned against the door and watched this Thomas Atchison. Iago recognized the name not only from the newspapers, but from his research. He was another member of The Order, one with a history that Iago had damnably bad luck in recovering. Other than recent news that the inventor had crafted an automated grooming machine, there was no information available about him. He held a position at the local bookstore, keeping strange and unpredictable hours. He had no history, no affiliations other than The Order.

  This Atchison kept his life under lock and key. And yet, he spoke freely of spirits and ghouls in the company of others!

  Invisible, Iago paced to Atchison and looked the strange young man in the eye. Blond hair, delicate features and piercing blue eyes—it was his first glimpse of the inventor. There were no photographs to be found. He could hardly be more than twenty-five years old, but there was such intensity in his gaze.

  The human mind is like a leaky faucet; memories and fears and dirty thoughts and everything in between constantly seep out, attracting those creatures such as demons who are perceptive enough to sense them.

  Even now, for example, Mr. Cox’s disgusting mind was peppered with lascivious thoughts about Mrs. Atchison.

  But Mr. Atchison’s mind was entirely sealed. There was nothing but extreme and exquisite focus.

  He promptly donned the goggles, concealing his ocean gaze.

  A fascinating specimen. Alas, he had thrown in his lot with The Fraternal Order of the Scarab and so, he would fall with the rest.

  Iago had not anticipated a foe with knowledge of supernatural affairs. A bit of a challenge, perhaps. He was not fearful of an audience. Quite the contrary: he craved one.

  Right, Mr. Atchison, Iago thought. I shall put on quite a show for you.

  A complete and utterly sublime temple waited for Wilburn Cox in the wasteland of his dreams.

  The structure stretched its myriad towers to the sky like great stone fingers. It was a grandiose and glorious monument to someone or something he did not know. He took laborious steps toward it. The monstrous bricks were marked with characters, words he didn’t recognize, but somehow he knew the whole building told a story, perhaps of its very creation.

  Or at least, the creation of something.

  Where were the hundreds of men necessary to craft such a structure? Why would they build so wondrous a temple and then disappear? In some primal way, its completion unsettled him more than any of the apparitions he had encountered in his nightmares.

  It was strange how one could feel so exhausted in the realm of one’s dreams, but Cox felt such fatigue overtake him that he fell to his knees just ten feet from the temple’s entrance.

  He allowed his fingers to sink into the sand.

  From deep within the desert, something gripped his hand and pulled. He cried out, and when he yanked back, the familiar severed hand flew from the depths of the sand. It landed and scurried to perch upon his wrist. It reared like an angry tarantula. Red ribbons still trailed behind it. At a wild pace, it crawled up his arm and settled upon his shoulder. The ribbons smeared fresh blood as they dragged across his skin and clothes. Cox made to stand, but something pushed him back down again.

  The man full of holes sat beside him. He reached carefully and held Cox’s wrist tight, bringing it upward so that he might examine his hand. He held it an inch from his face, tilting his head in curiosity. His strange, doughy face did not change as he thought.

  And then with careful movements, he pinched the tip of Cox’s index finger and, as though plucking a daisy, picked it from his hand. The flesh separated cleanly, painlessly. Cox gave a yelp, but the creature simply tossed the severed appendage behind him.

  “No! No, what are you doing?” Cox sputtered.

  The creature plucked finger after finger from his hand, casting them aside as a butcher discards unwanted fat. Never once did the impromptu amputations cause Cox pain, but it was the absence of agony which horrified him most. So easily he came apart, and so easily the temple before him had been built. His perforated friend did not stop at fingers, and he carefully unscrewed Cox’s hand, as well.

  Cox cried out for him to stop. The creature did not even seem to hear him over the roar of the desert wind. Even if he could hear him, Cox worried he would not have halted.

  “Wilburn Cox,” a thunderous voice called over the wind’s howl.

  Cox watched in horror as a face emerged from the brick before him. It was the visage of a jowly man with full and downturned lips. He did not so much erupt from the rock as he appeared to be a part of it. He seemed so very familiar, but in his frantic terror, Cox could not place him.

  “This is our Temple, Wilburn Cox. The Temple of Our Brethren. It is a monument to our deeds.”

  Moist, clammy flesh pressed against Cox’s left cheek. The hand gingerly stroked his face with one blood-stained finger. It dragged itself slowly to the crest of his cheekbone before reaching for the bottom eyelid.

  It was with the ease of pulling a grape from its stem that the severed hand popped Cox’s eyeball from its socket. The sticky marble fell to the sand. He shrieked in horror, but never pain, as a pair of desperate hands snaked upward from the sand.

  The screeching monster with greasy black hair dragged itself from deep beneath the surface of the desert. He tried to scramble away, but the other two fiends held him fast (the severed hand displayed a curious amount of strength).

  This dark-haired creature was content to remove his feet as though they were apples ripe for the picking.

  “It is a monument to our deeds.”

  Four hands belonging to creatures he could not see gripped him from behind. He tried to turn. Wind stung his remaining eye as he whipped his head around, but he could make out only glimpses of gnarled flesh, tattered clothes. One of the hands reached down his chest. It opened the buttons of his shirt before massaging apart the skin and muscle. Bone cracked loudly.

  Cox wailed as its fingers made to grip his heart.

  Back in his bedroom, Wilburn Cox’s eyes flew open. At first, he recoiled at the hand which soothed his brow. Sofia Atchison shushed him, insisted all was well. He could have guffawed at the silly woman. He had just been forced to witness his own dismemberment. He was not well! Still, he surrendered to her touch and her warm, inviting eyes. After the Hell he’d suffere
d, Atchison’s wife was a welcome sight.

  Atchison, on the other hand, abruptly removed his goggles and stood to pace as well as one might about the tiny room. His brow was furrowed.

  Thomas Atchison stopped quickly, one finger pressed to his thin lips as he finally looked at Cox. He drew a deep breath. “Gretchen Jennings,” was all that he said.

  The name conjured something vague, foggy in the back of Cox’s brain.

  Atchison elaborated, “Gretchen Jennings. The woman who felt the need to remove your feet.”

  Cox shook his head wildly. “That was surely one of your ghouls! That was no woman!”

  “Ah, but it was! I recognized her. Gretchen Jennings. Think, man. You know her,” he insisted and gave a meaningful glance to his wife. Sofia promptly nodded and walked from the room. This was not for her ears.

  Cox mumbled, “I can’t… Can you untie me?”

  His plea fell upon indifferent ears. “Gretchen Jennings was the wife of Quentin Jennings. Does that sufficiently rouse your memory?”

  “Quentin Jennings?” Cox hissed. “Who… got a little too close?”

  “Yes, Abraham Pauley’s brother-in-law. Pauley, the fool, left confidential paperwork in his study. Naturally, the endlessly curious Quentin Jennings walked right in on Christmas Eve last year and learned a healthy helping of information about efforts to prevent Colin Carter from involving himself in local government.”

  “Carter was a namby-pamby. Too pussy-footed and… nice,” Cox groaned.

  Atchison rolled his eyes. “In such affairs of The Order, I rarely involve myself.”

  “Yes, I recall the business with Jennings,” Cox said. “And naturally, he told his wife.”

  “And naturally, Courtwright was so incensed that he denied man and wife the opportunity to take a large sum of money and never speak of it again, and immediately enlisted Waylon Squeely, the rat.”

  Cox insisted, “Squeely is a good man.”

  “He’s nothing more than a petty thief and a murderous pig. You know that. All of the men hired by The Order to carry out more unsavory tasks are foul. And so, he murdered Quentin and Gretchen Jennings, and so, she appears in your nightmares,” Atchison explained, clipping his consonants in irritation. “I wonder if Eusebius Brooks was so haunted.”

  “Brooks,” Cox muttered. “That was Eusebius Brooks in the wall!”

  Atchison smirked. “It was only natural that our first mayor should have enemies. That was the origination of our Order, a group of wealthy men who protected Brooks and his interests. In return they were given influence and a vast sense of self-importance. This sense of superiority can be traced back to when Marlowe was founded by citizens of Salem who thought… well, that Salem just wasn’t good enough. Our ancestors kept their new settlement pure through methods that were dubious at best. This has been a long time coming. We might finally see consequences for our actions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was the man full of holes. He’s obviously been shot multiple times. The severed hand, the fiends behind you. I’m certain these are all victims, Cox, people The Order has seen fit to remove from Marlowe. Perhaps we are encountering vengeful spirits. We may deserve such torment,” Atchison said as he removed the probes.

  “Damn them! No one deserves such torment!” Cox insisted.

  “Hmm. Not even the men and women who have displeased The Fraternal Order of the Scarab?”

  “Atchison, you know our work is for the benefit of Marlowe and the good people who built this city. We are preserving its integrity. Are you truly one of us or not?”

  “Spare me your sermon on the mission of The Order, Cox. I am not that wet behind the ears, and I…” Something gave him pause, and he frowned, pinching some unknown grit between his fingers. It had accumulated on the probes.

  “What is that?” Cox asked.

  “What? It’s nothing.” Atchison loosened the straps which held Cox in place. It was both dizzying and a relief to entirely fill his lungs again. His head reeled as he tried to sit up. It was a valiant attempt, but he only succeeded in falling backward again.

  “Johnny Gall,” he groaned. “The man full of holes. Good God, he was killed years ago.”

  Atchison arched a brow. “Hmm. Long before my initiation, I imagine. If these are vengeful spirits, this may become quite complicated.”

  Cox released an agonized groan so frightening that Sofia popped her head in the door to make certain no one had perished in her absence. Atchison beckoned her to enter, and she hurried to the distraught patient’s side.

  “Cox, I wish to continue this study. If we monitor these dreams enough, perhaps the answer to your problem will present itself.”

  Cox shook his head weakly. “But… but why now? And why me—”

  “You said that Courtwright believed he found the key to eternal life, is that correct? That he seemed daffy and confused?”

  “Yes. And?”

  “Hmm. As I said, you may not be the sole target.” Why did Cox have the sinking feeling that Atchison knew something he didn’t? “We are not yet through here. Please keep a journal over the coming days, chronicling these nightmares. I want incredible detail, do you hear? I shall return, but I am required at the bookstore tomorrow. Also, there are matters I must tend to before we continue.”

  He finally managed to sit upright as The Atchisons speedily gathered their equipment. The clock on the wall told Cox he had been asleep for nearly four hours. It felt as though the Atchisons were leaving as soon as they arrived. “I don’t think I can survive a few more days!” he barked. “Damn it, man, what are you good for? I need help now!”

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that patience was a virtue?” Sofia asked.

  His mother told him a lot of stupid things, he thought. He threw his hands up as fiercely as he might. He wished he could tell Thomas Atchison and his pretty wife to go to Hell, but failed to see what other choice he had than to place his life in their hands.

  III.

  The patrons of The Golden Swine Restaurant created an ostentatiously melancholy sea of black in memorial to those lost aboard The Lady Liberty. They spent much of the evening devouring expensive meals, commenting vaguely on the tragedy, and criticizing that British idiot who had been at the helm.

  Of course, it was not Captain Nigel Ingram’s fault. Demonic tampering was to blame.

  The newspapers proclaimed it a horrific tragedy. Headlines featured the words most coveted by a demon such as Dante Lovelace: No Survivors.

  Events caused by troublemakers such as Dante had a tendency to push weaker men from the light so that they might fall into the hands of a demon such as Iago. They worked together like gears in a rather grim clock. Still, Iago felt such work lacked the intricacy, the personal nature of a good temptation or an artfully crafted deal. It punished many, not simply those who provoked punishment.

  “You know my opinion on such aimless death and destruction, my dear Dante, but all the same it is a job well done,” Iago said appreciatively.

  Dante gave a small smile, basking in his praise.

  The Golden Swine was quite an affair, a chamber draped in velvet curtains and florid wallpaper. The waiters were in a world all their own, their presence felt though rarely acknowledged as they drifted from table to table. Women were permitted so long as they were accompanied by a gentleman. The patrons were mostly unpleasant.

  The staff certainly took notice of their two Hellish patrons. They regarded the duo of demons cautiously, though they weren’t at all aware why they felt such apprehension. The two nameless gentlemen simply made quite an odd pair, like a peacock and a raven happy to share a meal.

  Iago Wick carried himself as though all the world were his stage. He was fit, though in the comfortable way men in middle age often exhibit, and he had the air of a man who lived well. Dante Lovelace, meanwhile, had the reserve and thoughtful gaze of a poet, reason enough for most of Marlowe to avoid him. An outsider might have speculated that their pe
rsonalities did not match or wondered why a man as settled and sure as Iago spent so much time with such a withdrawn man who appeared only to be nearing the end of his twenties.

  In actuality, both gentlemen had seen centuries dawn and die and preferred that they should see many more pass in each other’s company.

  “And Mr. Wilburn Cox?” Dante asked. “How long until you’re through with him?”

  Iago delicately sucked back an oyster and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He turned to his pocket watch. “Precisely five hours and thirty-two minutes. That is provided Thomas Atchison doesn’t interfere.”

  “Ah, the inventor,” Dante recalled from Iago’s earlier musings on the case. “Any sign of his return?”

  “Not yet. He’s bright, perceptive, and level-headed, but he doesn’t frighten me,” Iago said with a dismissive sweep of his hand.

  “What is his story?” Dante asked.

  “It’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you,” Iago said. “He simply appears in Marlowe records two years ago. Recently he gained attention, however, for his automated Mechanical Valet. It’s a quaint little invention that has the simple-minded citizens of Marlowe particularly spellbound, but as we’ve seen, Atchison is capable of much more.”

  Dante poked disinterestedly at his pigeon. Far to their left sat a large and decidedly raffish gentleman hunched over like a vulture protecting his meal. His clothes were worn, and the stubble upon his face was nothing short of gauche. He seemed out of place, but neither Dante nor Iago saw fit to comment. “Any familial ties?” Dante asked.

  “Not that I can find, which is remarkable given The Order’s inclination toward strong family history. His mother’s side, perhaps,” Iago said before swallowing another oyster. Demons did not require food, but often desired it. The menu at The Golden Swine was novel-length, and yet, Iago frequently ordered the same dish. While he was not overly impressed by the human art of cooking, he was very fond of a good oyster.