“Likewise!” chirped Mr. and Mrs. William Foster.
Astounding, Gloria Ambrose had called mankind. Iago did love humans, their quirks, their passions, their bizarre rituals. They were gloriously innovative things, and when allowed, they found amazing ways to show their true mettle—whether it was Heaven or Hell that was to be the beneficiary. Humans were a tremendous medium in which to work.
“Where is Mr. Pauley?” Eugenia asked.
“I saw him only briefly earlier this evening. He seemed a little restless and went to smoke his pipe outside,” Thaddeus mumbled through yet another drink. His entire body jumped as he hiccupped. Eugenia, once again, was quite adept at hiding her disappointment, and she walked directly beside Iago to look onto the veranda. She was an inch away—he could smell her perfume, a conservative lilac. “But I believe he went home.”
“He’s not here now,” Eugenia proclaimed.
“I told you,” Thaddeus insisted thickly, “he went home.”
Thank Lucifer Below for drunks. In Iago’s experience, they were such beautiful fountains of misinformation. What a state this country would find itself in if the teetotalers had their way!
“Well, then let us begin,” said Ellie Malark. “Everyone sit around the table, please. Pinkies to pinkies! We must all connect.”
“I’ll take the seat beside you, Mr. Timberly, if it is unoccupied,” Mrs. Proctor purred. “I’ve missed the company of a good man since Mortimer died.”
The aging Mr. Timberly waggled his brows. “Indeed, Mrs. Proctor.”
As they situated themselves around the table at the center of the parlor and the lights were all dimmed, Iago retreated again to the far end of the veranda. With a heavy sigh, he looked up to the clear sky and allowed his invisibility to drop. He felt more a part of this world without it.
The Overseer position he was primed to assume unfortunately would not allow him the interaction with mankind he so adored. A small paper he received the night before indicated he would be nowhere near Marlowe. The Powers Below insisted that the city of Los Angeles, California would need the attention of someone like him in the coming decades. If that were the case, he thought, he didn’t wish to lord over the demons who were lucky enough to have all the fun.
Iago had never even met the Overseer for his part of the world! Brutus Eldritch, as he was called, simply sat in some luxurious office, communicating the needs of the area to Hell and vice versa. He waited for the instructions from the Powers Below before sending them to the corresponding agent. And perhaps Eldritch enjoyed the luxury, and perhaps he was suited for sitting about like some flabby lion unable to hunt for himself.
Iago drew another deep breath, and his shoulders slumped. It was a promotion. Those were good. Overseers were important. They worked closely with Hell. It was something to embrace, something new. It was something of which he could be proud. And once again, he repeated such notions in his mind until his confidence was replenished.
Indeed, he was so tangled in thought that he didn’t hear the rustling in the bushes below until it was too late. A sudden pinch in his neck took him by surprise. Iago brought his hand up to feel a small metal pin protruding from the side of his throat. That didn’t belong there… Darkness came like a sudden autumn draft, and he tumbled to the ground.
VIII.
Shortly after Iago had first arrived on Earth, he became tangled—literally and figuratively—in a fiery woman by the name of Heloise, who was very fond of binding her lovers. A splendid project was Heloise, a deliciously foul-minded human who truly appreciated every turn their sordid relationship took. She was terribly proud of her demon lover. She kissed him like a harlot but walked alongside him like a queen.
It was commonplace for Iago to find himself tied to the bed she usually shared with her husband, a prominent and dim-witted man who hadn’t the faintest inkling of her escapades. She was a firm but affectionate mistress. By the time her demon was through with her, Heloise’s life was a great sinful mess. Damnation was secured, and Iago was utterly satiated.
In a grand and sumptuous bedroom, Iago woke to the realization that he was, once again, tied up. He recognized the room from his earlier investigation of the home. Coarse rope bound his wrists to the arms of a plush chair that might have been quite comfortable had he not been affixed to it. Extra rope tied his ankles to the chair legs. His mind ached hideously.
Iago focused his gaze. There was a large bed complete with swooping canopy and a dozen pillows. The fireplace in the center of the far wall was flanked by two enormous paintings of members of the Ackle family whose heavy brows and frowns indicated they were so important that a lighter demeanor not only couldn’t be afforded, but would have been downright insulting to the gravity of their positions.
And in front of Iago was a man, also frowning, in a ratty blue suit. He had half a dozen crosses around his neck. A cigar hung from his mouth, and he chewed on it like a cow on its cud. Iago took note of his left eye, which was a strange and filmy marble lodged in braces of gold and tanned leather. A couple of lenses on tiny mechanical arms protruded from the device, providing, he assumed, the same effect as monocles of varying strengths. The eye rolled about quite unnervingly, as though it not only had a mind of its own, but a bulleted agenda of everywhere it wanted to look.
To his right, the Conjures stood side by side, looking upon him with even blanker stares than usual. Abraham Pauley was similarly tied up, squirming and proclaiming through a mouthful of rags that he had business to tend to. A scrawny man in a hide vest gripped his shoulder. Who in their right mind, Iago wondered, would wear a hide vest to a séance?
“Well,” Iago managed, “judging by the ropes around my wrists and your bizarre and unfashionable apparel, I’ll venture a guess. I’ve encountered a duo of demon hunters, haven’t I?”
The one with the false eye did not answer but continued to chew on his cigar. It didn’t even appear to be burning anymore, and still, he gnawed incessantly.
“Charming,” Iago muttered.
“You’re right,” said the man to the right, nervously flicking a pistol about. He obviously wasn’t too accustomed to brandishing one; he twitched wildly and spun it around like a chemically-altered Annie Oakley. “That’s a potion of lamb’s blood and holy water that took you to the ground.”
“Hah. Lamb’s blood. That would account for the dizziness.” Iago’s powers were sufficiently weakened by the concoction. Lamb’s blood, when blessed, could leave a demon without his claws. Holy water had a similar effect, and was, in Iago’s considered opinion, a terrible waste of perfectly good water. “And my Conjures?”
“He has two pockets of blessed brimstone to keep your Conjures subdued, as do I,” False Eye grunted.
“That does not work forever. It merely stuns the dullards temporarily,” Iago sighed. “Something at once so familiar and yet so strangely holy disturbs their already limited mental faculties. I fear you’re not here by matter of coincidence. Was it Atchison who hired you, Mister…?”
“Holmwood,” said the man with the false eye. “My name is Hoss Holmwood. This is my partner, Walter Powell, and I don’t think it matters one lick who hired us.”
“But you were hired? It can only be Atchison, then.” Iago shut his eyes and tried to ignore the anvils clanging behind them. “And the séance downstairs?”
“Perfectly undisturbed,” Powell said.
“For now,” Iago added pointedly.
“You bewitched this man,” Holmwood asserted. He took the whole chunk of cigar in his mouth.
“Bewitched?” Iago spat. “I did no such thing. I merely removed his inhibitions. He acts purely of his own free will. He is following his dreams, sirs.” Holmwood’s jaw set, his larynx bobbing as he gulped. Did he just swallow that cigar?
“Dreams? More like nightmares!” Powell growled and obviously thought he had quite the acerbic wit. Iago hadn’t the heart to tell him otherwise. He was already in a terribly precarious position.
Iago said,
“You gentlemen are a bit green, I think—new to the demon hunting profession, if one might refer to it as such.” Both of Holmwood’s eyes, natural and mechanical, rolled from side to side, and Powell tossed the pistol about even more erratically. “I don’t need my powers to perceive that.”
“No,” Holmwood insisted firmly. “That’s where you’re wrong. We know well what we are doing, and we are here to destroy you.” He affected a threatening tone which sounded rather like a bloodhound attempting to speak English.
Iago tossed his head back and laughed, although it hurt to do it. “Ah! That was passion. Let’s see. Are you avenging a loved one? A man of God who is perhaps a bit overzealous? … No? Are you a marked man yourself? You owe Hell your soul?”
His jaw tensed.
“Ah, there it is,” Iago said. “A hearty congratulations to you and the demon who negotiated the deal. Was it worth it?”
Holmwood’s massive body heaved with a sigh. The false eye rolled in a way which may have qualified as melancholy. “No, it wasn’t.”
“My sincerest apologies. And you?” Iago asked of Walter Powell. “Are you equally damned or is this merely sport to you?”
Walter Powell twitched. “Be quiet, demon! I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“I’m only trying to make conversation,” Iago sighed. The Conjures would hopefully recover what little sense they had soon. Mrs. Ackle had a beautifully decorated bedroom, but priceless vases and delicate boudoir furniture meant very little to an aggravated Conjure. This could get very messy.
“We’re not looking for frivolous chatter, demon. Release this man from your spell,” Holmwood snarled.
“What spell? I’m no witch, sir. I already told you, he acts freely.”
If the impassioned hmphing from Abraham Pauley was any indication, he vehemently admitted it.
“You see?” Iago asked. “You’re only delaying his progress. There’s nothing I can do.”
Hoss Holmwood sneered and reached into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a small leather book not unlike the one Iago used to take the signatures of those who sold their souls. “Then we have nothing to discuss,” he said. “I’ll have to stop you.”
Iago regarded him with quizzical eyes. “Allow me to make something clear to you: you cannot stop demons. Should you eliminate me in my current human body, I will merely return to Hell in my true form. Debilitated, yes, but I’m a determined and resilient creature, Mr. Holmwood. And I wonder if you even know how to send me back to the pit.”
And Hoss Holmwood smiled. It was a wolf’s grin which showed only his top teeth. He opened the leather book to reveal a very familiar and nauseating sight.
“We’re not as green as you think,” Walter Powell boasted.
On the page before Iago was a mess of ancient characters surrounding a crudely drawn eyeball.
The God’s Eye, as it was called by those who pursued the noble career of demon hunting, was used to send a demon back to Hell. Naturally, the only way to use the wretched thing was to carve it, detail for detail, into the weakened demon’s flesh. A more artistically-challenged demon hunter might painstakingly carve two or three of the damned eyes into a demon’s body before succeeding. Iago couldn’t tell if Holmwood was the artistic type or not. He swallowed. “I see. And you know how to use this, I presume?”
Holmwood nodded and pulled a dagger from another hidden pocket. “You’re to be my canvas, demon. If you won’t cooperate, I have no choice.”
He placed one thick hand to Iago’s throat, loosening the knot of his necktie with calloused fingers. Holmwood tried the knife against Iago’s skin. A line of black blood formed along his collarbone before Holmwood villainously wiped the weapon on Iago’s lapel. Iago winced. Removing demon’s blood from anything was quite a trial for even the craftiest homemaker.
Holmwood continued, “I can tell you that my employer asked that I bring you back to him. He wants to do the deed himself. But I’m afraid he’s going to miss out this time.”
“Is that so?” Iago asked weakly.
Holmwood shook his head. “I don’t believe in ever letting a demon continue living on Earth once you find him. Your kind are vermin. I’m going to have to tell him that things got too dangerous, and I had no choice but to send you back to Hell.”
“I imagine he won’t like that. You wouldn’t want to incur his wrath,” Iago said desperately.
“Demon, I don’t give a good goddamn what he thinks,” Holmwood snarled as he pressed the knife to his flesh to carve one solid line. Iago flinched and gave an embarrassing whimper.
“Can’t we talk about this?” Iago pleaded.
“Trust me, I’ve learned well never to give a demon the chance to talk.”
He sliced another deep line across Iago’s chest. Then, a sudden crash cut through the room’s suffocating tension.
Let it be said that on that day, Iago Wick gained a before unfathomable respect for Conjures.
Growling fiercely, one Conjure erupted from his trance. With the ease of a cat batting away a mouse, he knocked Hoss Holmwood across the room. His head cracked against the wall, and he dropped to the floor. A framed hair wreath crashed down over his head.
With Walter Powell sufficiently distracted, Pauley finally wrestled himself free from his bonds and firmly elbowed his captor in the gut. He grappled for the pistol. Powell grunted and squealed like a harassed pig. Through the sheer willpower of a man with a dream, Pauley grasped the gun for himself.
Powell threw up his hands and gulped, a pitiful caricature of terror. “N-Now, just calm down, Mr. Pauley. We’re trying to—”
How fortunate that Mrs. Ackle had chosen a deep burgundy carpet for the bedroom; it would conceal the blood spatter well, for Pauley took no time in shooting Walter Powell right between the eyes.
The séance below appeared surprisingly unaffected by the bang.
“I told you blessed brimstone won’t work forever,” Iago sighed. “And a Conjure will always protect his master if something has gone awry.”
The Conjure who defended Iago nodded firmly and might have dusted off his hands in triumph, had he even a modicum of character. The great beast took his sausage fingers to the ropes around Iago’s wrists and ankles. He snorted at the knots. They were beyond his comprehension, and he decided instead to tear them apart.
“Is it true what he said?” Abraham Pauley asked firmly as he pointed the pistol at Iago. “You’re a demon?”
Iago stood, still dizzy from the lamb’s blood. He cursed under his breath. “Perhaps I am a demon, Mr. Pauley.” It didn’t much matter what Pauley knew at this point. Once in custody, he would be another madman raving about the demons who told him what to do. “But I entreat: did you come here tonight to discuss the existence of demons?”
Pauley solemnly considered this for a few moments. “No! No, I certainly did not!” he proclaimed and charged to the leftmost portrait. He gripped the portrait by the frame, swinging it open like a door. On the other side, predictably, was a wall safe. Iago supposed the Ackle family had never considered how a painting with hinges announced quite loudly that it concealed something of value, but who was he to judge their security measures?
Pauley reached into the unconscious Holmwood’s pocket to retrieve the two sparks he had confiscated upon capturing him. He fetched the original revolver Iago had gifted him, as well, and tucked it into his trousers. “I can’t believe that rascal,” Pauley muttered, “stealing from me like that.”
He positioned one spark over the safe’s lock, marveling at how it tightly gripped the dial like a possessive spider. Then, he pressed the crimson crystal in the center. Pauley foolishly stuck his fingers in his ears and hurried to the other side of the room. Iago did the same, though not as comically.
The spark detonated with a deafening bang and a sudden chorus of oohs came from the parlor below. But there were no frantic footfalls upon the stairs, no scramble to see what could be happening. It seemed Iago had overestimated the commotion the
sparks would cause. Perhaps they believed they had contacted a particularly boisterous spirit, and it would simply do no good to break the circle now!
Smoke filled the room, a foul and sulfurous by-product of the spark. Iago coughed and hurried to throw open the window. It smelled like home, the demonic equivalent of the aroma of mother’s apple pie after months abroad, only not nearly as pleasant. The spark’s golden shell turned to dust. Iago drew in a deep breath of night air before Abraham Pauley pushed him out of the way for relief.
“Dear God, that’s terrible!” Pauley hacked.
Iago might have pointed out how it was a mere taste of what awaited Pauley in the afterlife, but that would only add insult to injury.
When the cloud of dense smoke had cleared, the safe door hung sadly from its hinges, and Pauley gave a fiendish cackle. “Success!” he hissed. Glistening jewelry and thick straps of money sat waiting for him. The treasure was defiled by his greedy fingers, and he shoved it hungrily into his pockets.
Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal; Abraham Pauley was making quite a night of it. Iago peered out the window to gauge the drop to the ground below. The lamb’s blood still surged through him. Invisibility was not an option. His balance was not unaffected by the poison, but he didn’t have much choice. Even the best demon knew when to abandon ship.
“Ah! Good idea, Mr. Whateley. I shall escape through the window,” Pauley said as he carefully examined a ruby ring.
But Hoss Holmwood had awoken, and he was having none of it.
He groggily threw himself at Pauley, tackling him to the ground. “Stop this, sir! This demon has confounded you!” he insisted.
“Unhand me, fiend!” Pauley grunted. His gun had fallen, and he reached for it. Holmwood fiercely gripped his wrist. The banker’s other hand reached for the second gun, and they rolled, leaving the first out of reach.
This could only end badly. Seeing his opportunity, Iago prepared to make his descent.
The Last Temptations of Iago Wick Page 10
