“Prior to these murders, he told me you speak of demons. The coincidence, I suppose, chilled me.”
“Coincidence?” Atchison huffed incredulously.
“You believe you’re chasing a demon.” The detective gave a desperate and world-weary glance to the Heavens for guidance, but the angels were silent. “I do not deny the existence of the creatures, but I cannot combat one myself.”
“Detective, no one is asking you to do so! You’re spineless enough in the affairs of humans. How could we expect you to battle a minion of Lucifer?” the inventor spat.
The men sat in silence as a brood of squealing children followed their nanny into the hedge maze. For a moment, there was nothing but their laughter, the autumn breeze, and an uncomfortable lull in the conversation.
“I apologize. That was uncouth. I promise you, Detective, I am not to blame for these misfortunes,” Atchison admitted softly. “However, I do fear that someone is.”
“And you believe you can stop him. Who is it? The man in gray?”
“I did not wish to concern you with these matters, but… Please. Do not bring unnecessary attention to these happenings nor to this mysterious man in gray. Trust in me.”
There was a chilling severity in the inventor’s eyes. “It is a demon, isn’t it?” asked the detective. “It’s caused all of this. It’s terrorizing my brother. I told him his lack of faith would lead to his ruination.”
“As I understand it, faith has little to do with whether or not a demon comes your way. I have kept watch outside the cobbler’s where Augustus lives for the last two evenings. I tried once more to speak to him. He will not acknowledge me. He has not left the building, and yet the murders occur. I have not determined how. I have a feeling our enemy, the man in gray, will reappear.”
“Why is that?”
“He is a proud creature. They are all proud creatures who want to survey the damage they have done. And when he returns, I shall be there. I am prepared for him,” Atchison said and knit his brows sternly. “If indeed Augustus is behind these murders, we cannot reverse them, but we can stop this demon. I will do my best to ascertain that your brother is not hurt. But please. Stay away. Trust me. I have a plan.”
Detective Stewart couldn’t necessarily grant him trust. The turning of a blind-eye, on the other hand, was something to which he was very accustomed. The detective nodded only once and made to stand. “I will heed your words.”
“You would do well to do so,” Atchison said and promptly stood before tipping his hat. “Good day, Detective.” And he was gone.
Good day, the detective mused. Those were becoming fewer and fewer.
It was perhaps only out of habit that Augustus Stewart chewed on a damp paintbrush as he drank in the details of his latest masterpiece. He hadn’t used the brush to create in days. A nasty mixture of paint, water, and saliva dribbled into five day’s growth of beard.
She was older than the others, the hollows of her cheeks endless in the dim light of the hole he called home. This woman’s eyes were open. She was the first to grace Augustus with a true gaze. There was a smear of blood across her forehead.
All of his creations were pinned to blank canvases surrounding him: his gallery of the dead. All women, all with their eyes perfectly closed, except for this latest lovely. And all but one were a rusty brown now. The latest woman always sported a striking and desirous shade of red.
Augustus had taken to leaving the window open. The autumnal scent of fire on the air came through the window where Iago Wick sat and watched. Of course, he’d been following the stories in the newspaper. Hideous exsanguinations! Who is to blame? It was so nice to witness Augustus’s latest work in person. Iago stepped inside the room.
Augustus placed his machine of art and death aside and traced the lips of his latest creation with one finger.
“You are quite taken with her, I see,” Iago said.
Augustus gave a start. “You,” he said in a sort of non-greeting. “How did you get in here?” His voice was hoarse from disuse. Apparently, he had ceased talking to his masterpieces. Over his collection of unfortunate women, he had been a silent god.
Iago shrugged. “That’s unimportant. However, what does matter is the fact that you, dear sir, have gained the attention of the papers. That is, I think, the kind of attention which could increase sales to the right individual,” he said and strolled to examine the cruel portraits. “And by right, I most certainly mean someone who is really very wrong.”
“You know,” Augustus said, “I’m not so concerned with money anymore.”
“Is that so?” Iago gently brushed his thumb over the hair of victim number three, a woman fallen from grace.
“Don’t touch them,” Augustus insisted gravely, and Iago only laughed.
“Selling the art no longer interests you because you wish to keep them. Is that it? They are yours forever. Yours to admire, yours to claim, yours to use as inspiration.” He raised a critical eyebrow before smiling again. “I understand. An artist who creates for himself and himself alone is one who is truly free.”
For a moment, these words shot like an arrow to the very pit of Iago’s foul, black heart. He cast thoughtful hazel eyes to the latest victim. For whom did Iago Wick work? He shook himself from his sudden reverie. “I wasn’t certain you would continue to create once you realized how the device works. But you did. You will have damned yourself to Hell for such murder. This machine is a weapon.”
Augustus smiled. “You are Atchison’s demon, aren’t you? Atchison’s demon… and my liberator. Of course, I am damned. I cannot bring myself to care,” Augustus insisted with calm confidence. “If this damns me, then it must be something important in the eyes of Hell.”
“And equally important in the eyes of Heaven, should they find it so repulsive that they close their doors to you,” Iago said smoothly. “You do not care about the opinions of others, whether those who judge are human, angel, or demon. You know its worth in your own heart, yes?”
Augustus looked into the eyes of his latest creation. He looked upon her as a vindictive god looked upon his woebegone children. Iago donned invisibility and left through the window. “Yes,” Augustus said softly, proudly. “To Hell with all of them.”
Iago Wick stood invisible upon the fire escape outside Augustus Stewart’s window. There was some pleasant scent on the air, a sweet smell which elicited a sigh of satisfaction from the demon. Augustus’s temptation had been as much poetry as drama, every detail falling into place more perfectly than planned. Iago would count it among his most treasured temptations.
An artist who creates for himself and himself alone is truly free, Iago thought once more. He did not, after all, require the approval of a handful of absent gods. And yet, were they not always the beneficiaries of his hard work? Didn’t Hell ultimately control his fate?
Oh, what a dismal thought.
Iago pressed his back to the brick and looked to the ground below. It was time to wash his hands of Augustus Stewart and focus entirely upon his final target. Thomas Atchison deserved more than some strangely lustful tango with the dead. Thomas Atchison deserved a masterpiece.
Now, what that masterpiece was unfortunately escaped Iago’s keen mind. He still couldn’t be certain if he was facing a dead man, a case of mistaken identity, or even—perish the thought—witchcraft. He shuddered.
And then, Iago suddenly caught sight of a tall, blond man lurking in the shadows behind the cobbler’s shop. Someone, something, somewhere must have liked him, for what incredible luck! There was Thomas Atchison, alone and entirely unassuming. His ill-fitting greatcoat hung loosely on his shoulders.
Dante’s warnings rang in Iago’s head like disregarded church bells on a sinner’s Sunday morning. There was nothing wrong with having a little fun, was there? Swiftly, he descended the fire escape and landed firmly on the ground.
He remained invisible as he crept down the alley. The sweet smell was stronger now. It made Iago’s heart flutter in
a way usually only Dante Lovelace provoked.
Perhaps now that they were alone, Iago could pluck something from Atchison’s mind. He noted there was something hidden in his coat. Perhaps a present for any demon who might wander by, he thought grimly. Iago wasn’t eager for another dose of lamb’s blood and holy water.
He breathed shortly, easily, so as to not conjure any obvious clouds on the chilled air. Somewhere in the distance, some drunkard laughed wildly, and there was the steady clip clop of horse hooves. And yet, they seemed to be the only two in the universe. Iago was so close now that it might have been considered indecent in certain social circles. Still, there was not a single crack in the wall of the inventor’s mind. Atchison smelled of a sharp, spiced cologne applied too liberally. And still, that underlying sweet scent made it all feel like something of a hallucination.
Iago smirked and turned back down the alley. He paused once he was around thirty feet behind Atchison. Ah, just as he thought: wrapped neatly and tucked behind a stack of crates were golden boughs of witch hazel. He didn’t dare touch it, for he valued his senses.
Iago made himself visible.
“Thomas Atchison!” he called grandly. “I believe you are looking for me.”
The inventor spun around, his duster swirling and his expression remarkably unchanged. “Demon.”
Iago bowed. “Indeed. Witch hazel? Clever. Demons are very fond of it. Younger, inexperienced demons are heartily affected. They lose themselves and become distracted. It calls to them, and they forget their invisibility, their task at hand, even their name. A good try. I’m not as young as I look. I appear before you of my own volition.” He grinned. “You hired Hoss Holmwood to capture me, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
Iago tisked. “And how is he?”
“A miserable hunter. I regret hiring him and his dimwitted partner, but I was unwelcome at the séance,” Atchison said. “When I visited him at the hospital, he gave me your description.”
“And did he do me justice?”
“Hmm. Your name is Herbert Whateley?”
“A pseudonym, I’m afraid,” Iago answered. “One of many I have used in my time.”
“And how long is that?” Atchison asked.
“Ooh, a good demon never discusses his age. I have seen much, Mr. Atchison. We shall leave it at that.”
“I see. Funny that I have been looking for you, but it appears as though you found me first,” Atchison said coolly. He took not a single step toward Iago. He was too calm. He thought he had the upper hand. Excitement tightened Iago’s chest.
“I apologize deeply if I spoiled the thrill of the hunt for you,” Iago said.
The inventor’s lips twitched oddly as though he were trying to smile and just wasn’t any good at it. “There are many roads one may take to reach one’s goal.”
Atchison was not so adept at hiding his intent that Iago could not see him subtly reaching for whatever he kept hidden in his coat. Still, time in the alley slowed.
Iago concealed himself and leapt out of the way as the inventor pulled out a large gun. A circular mechanism about four inches in diameter shot from the weapon, full of barbs like the mouth of a sea lamprey. It latched fiercely onto a pile of empty feed bags propped against the adjacent building. Iago kept himself hidden as the metal monster of teeth and gears rapidly picked at the layers of burlap.
It gnashed and tore like some voracious termite. And when it finished, it simply fell away to reveal a perfect God’s Eye cut into the burlap. Iago’s mouth fell open in shock; this tiny masterpiece was supposed to be etched into his flesh.
So, this was why Atchison had needed all of those blades. Charming.
Iago firmly believed that the antidote to fear is self-assurance. He squared his shoulders before revealing himself to Atchison again.
“That is a very impressive trick, Mr. Atchison,” he said. The inventor reached to his belt to click another cartridge into place. “By my estimation—and I should hope I would know—that is a perfect God’s Eye, one that could certainly send a demon such as myself screeching back to the Inferno below.” Iago smiled. “But you’ll have to catch me first.”
He swiftly gave chase, allowing himself to be seen for just long enough so that Atchison could trail behind.
Above was a soupy, starless sky. Sporadic blossoms of lamplight outlined their surroundings. Iago did not leave Atchison entirely in the dark, occasionally allowing himself to be seen or knocking over a barrel to lead him in the right direction.
Ahead shone a burning light. They hurried past a gaggle of cooks, who tossed old food and snubbed cigarettes onto the ground behind one of Marlowe’s dingier dining rooms. The workers looked blankly at Atchison as he passed, seemingly alone and toting a rather offensive-looking weapon. They shrugged and turned lethargically back to their work.
Iago paused as they reached Elkins Street. Cool air filled his lungs with an invigorating sting. He hoped the cold would not be too hard on his companion, but he reveled in the way it filled him up and prickled his skin. He felt a mere five hundred years old again!
This strange inventor reminded him of why he felt ardor for his work in the first place. It was not for the recognition, for the laurels, but rather for the heart-pounding thrill of it. No Overseer in the history of Hell felt such passion; of this, Iago was certain.
Atchison stood still at Elkins, eyes darting madly. Iago flickered into sight to the inventor’s left. He whistled shrilly before taking off again.
His feet pounded the sidewalk. The inventor struggled to aim the gun and keep momentum at once. He shot and missed, the metal device smacking into the dirtied brick of the general store to their left. After sprinting across the street, Iago ducked into another narrow alleyway. The inventor followed.
Iago turned a corner and promptly became invisible. He stopped in his tracks and leaned against the brick.
The inventor rushed by, gripping the gun like an over-possessive infantryman. Sparse snowflakes began to drift lazily from above in the unseasonable cold. They were a peaceful foil to Iago’s thrumming heart. He pressed himself to the wall.
Something in Atchison must have alerted him to Iago’s change in course. He came to a speedy halt and turned back.
He raised his eyes. Two flimsy fire escapes were on either side, and he considered them gravely. Iago, meanwhile, also considered making such an ascent. He decided against it. Climbing toward the heavens was an angel’s game. Iago was far more comfortable on the ground.
Somewhere nearby, a cat gave out a melancholy yowl, but Atchison did not do the beast the honor of flinching. Rather, he tip-toed, delicate as a dancer. Iago followed, barely even allowing himself to breathe. He could not, however, suppress the Cheshire smile which stretched his lips. He deftly bent to take a small rock in his hand.
He tossed it against the side of the adjacent building.
Instinctively, Atchison fired the weapon into the brick again.
“Your skills of invention are quite impressive,” Iago said from the darkness, allowing his voice to be heard. “What you still need to perfect is your aim.”
The inventor gave a bark of laughter as he reached to reload. “You don’t fool me, demon,” Atchison said. “I saw the flicker of shock in your eye when I first fired this weapon.”
“Naturally, dear Atchison. I’m not a fool.” He slid behind the low-hanging stairs of the fire escape, using it as a shield. “It’s a remarkable machine. I had no idea you were so talented in the art of destruction. Forgive me for saying, but you don’t exactly seem the type.”
“No, not destruction necessarily. I merely craft the tools necessary to solve problems.”
“Problems such as the age-old struggle of shaving oneself?” he asked smartly.
The mention of the Mechanical Valet made Atchison’s spine stiffen. “No. I am a hunter first and an inventor second. I mean problems like you.” He finally clicked the cylinder into place. “That is my passion as much as yours is ruining
the lives of humans.”
“Incorrect. My passion is to push humans to be their truest selves… and to do it with a certain amount of panache, I suppose.”
“For the benefit of Hell.”
Yes, Hell was quite the ball and chain, Iago thought and surprised himself with such a notion. It was nothing less than blasphemy, and what shocked him even more was the complete lack of remorse he felt at the thought. How terribly, delightfully naughty. “Yes, unfortunately. I like to think my own satisfaction in my work is most important.”
Atchison hummed. “I see. I cannot berate you for such independence, demon.” And in this stiff and unfeeling man’s voice were traces, however vague, of reverence. Iago felt downright privileged to hear it.
“And you? What inspires your passion, inventor?” Still invisible, Iago stood squarely behind Atchison now, eight feet back and unprotected by the shelter of the fire escape.
He paused, holding the weapon close to his birdlike chest. Snow dotted his black greatcoat briefly before disappearing into the wool. He whipped around swiftly and shot. The cylinder nicked Iago’s shoulder before he could fully leap out of the way. The metal teeth tore a hole in the fabric of his suit in passing. He hurried behind the fire escape again.
“Selfishness, I assure you.” He looked sourly to the machine. “I almost had you that time.”
Iago touched the newly-made hole in his suit. Another one ruined! Those blades were quite proficient; perhaps it was wise to invest in a parka. “Indeed. Close. No cigar for you. Better luck next time.”
“Ha. But there is much more at stake here than at a frivolous carnival, demon.”
“I don’t know,” Iago said as he crept quietly away from the fire escape once more. “I’ve seen some fairly grave and horrific carnivals in my time.” He looked intently into Atchison’s eyes: an artist’s eyes. More so than Augustus Stewart’s. This was a man of great and immovable passion, and at once, Iago was loath to steal his soul from him.
The Last Temptations of Iago Wick Page 13
