The Last Temptations of Iago Wick

by Jennifer Rainey

  “That’s inconsequential!” she spat perhaps a bit too vehemently. She stood to pace, much to her wife’s disappointment. “The fact of the matter is that I was, I hate to admit, wrong in trying to simply eliminate this demon. I could learn much from him prior to testing the weapon upon him.”

  Sofia quirked a brow. “You want to study him? To interview him?”

  Viola nodded once. “Yes. He’s surely a fountain of information concerning his kind, correct? It would be a grave mistake to squander this opportunity.”

  Her wife blinked and looked to the untouched side of the bed which was supposed to be Viola’s. The inventor slept wherever she worked, often perched upon the high stool at her workbench, snatching an hour or two of sleep where she could. It was difficult to recall the last night they spent even within ten feet of each other. Sofia sighed, “Yes. Squandered opportunities. Very sad.”

  “And so, I will require your assistance tomorrow,” Viola proclaimed. “He is a cunning demon. I happened to stumble upon him twice tonight. Once was quite the affair… and as for the other, I saw him from afar on Darke Street. I know where he is.”

  “That is lovely, but—”

  “It is imperative that we act quickly in the morning.”

  “Yes, Viola—”

  “We will take him by surprise—”

  “Viola,” Sofia interrupted and stood with her hands upon her hips and her mouth in a sour pout. “I will assist you in any way necessary. You know this to be true. But I beg you: might we have one night where we do not chatter madly about this creature?”

  Creature was too animal a word for the eloquent and charming man Viola had confronted that evening, she thought, but she dared not interrupt her wife; Viola valued her wellbeing.

  Sofia continued, “Might we find repose tonight? Together?”

  A deep and apologetic bow was required, and Viola graced her wife with the gesture. “Yes, my dear. I apologize. We shall.” She looked hopefully to the door, her mind already in the basement workshop she called her own. “Soon. Allow me a mere quarter of an hour to prepare for tomorrow and then…”

  Sofia Atchison shook her head and narrowed her eyes.

  “Ten minutes?” Viola asked. Sofia furrowed her brows. Viola sighed. “Fine. I relent. You are the victor,” Viola admitted with a true smile. Sofia returned the gesture and slipped her arms about Viola’s slim waist.

  She would allow Sofia a night of sweet whispers and tenderness. A good distraction from one’s work was entirely necessary at times, after all. It could clear the mind before the storm struck.

  If all went well the following morning, Viola would be the tempest which felled the clever man in gray.

  It was mid-morning when Iago finally allowed himself to leave Dante’s bedroom.

  He paused in the hallway to adjust his necktie in an ornate gold mirror which was downright ostentatious against florid purple wallpaper Iago never particularly fancied. He wore a neat, slate-hued suit which he kept at Dante’s home in case of emergencies or extended stays at 13 Darke Street.

  The handsomely disheveled Mr. Lovelace leaned on the doorframe behind him. They were surrounded by an entire murder of taxidermic crows perched upon the walls and tables. Thank Lucifer, Iago thought, Dante never had a notion to put them in the bedroom; they would have been a dreadfully unnerving audience.

  “Must you leave already?”

  “Already? I intended to be out the door an hour and a half ago,” Iago said with a smile, catching the reflection of his partner’s gaze.

  Dante sighed and corrected his posture before tying a perfectly black tie about his neck. It was time for him to resume his usual dark solemnity. “Perhaps you’ll tell me your ideas for claiming Viola Atchison’s soul, now that you do not have more pressing matters on your mind,” Dante said.

  “Ah… perhaps.”

  “You do have a plan, correct?”

  Iago gave a laugh that walked the line between hearty and horribly suspicious. “Dante, of course I have a plan.”

  “…And it would be…?”

  Iago’s bones hummed with the excitement of the last twenty-four hours. A future as Overseer could offer none of this. The realization was both a noose around his throat and the knife which cut him free.

  Damn the Powers Below and their expectations. Damn their centuries of indifference. Damn their negligence and their fire and brimstone and their unholier-than-thou attitudes.

  Viola Atchison was a formidable foe, one who coaxed from him the very thing few beings could: respect. Hers was not a soul to pluck for Hell so that they might claim one more for their miserable legions. He owed her more than that.

  “You don’t have a plan,” Dante groaned. “Iago, you have mere days to finish this assignment! In Lucifer’s name, how have you not crafted some sort of strategy?”

  “Don’t mistake my silence for a lack of thought, Dante,” Iago said, turning to face his partner. “I have my goals in sight. I have known what I must do for some time now. I just couldn’t admit it.”

  Dante’s brow creased. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying… My dearest Dante,” he said and placed a hand on his shoulder, “there are times when one must deviate from the script. The greater plan which once may have suited a man may do so no longer. You asked me days ago if I worked for Hell or for myself foremost. I can now confidently give you my answer.”

  “Iago, speak plainly.”

  “I do,” he said and walked briskly down the stairs past a dozen post-mortem portraits. His partner followed at a more languidly apprehensive pace, righting the buttons on his waistcoat and regarding Iago with an affectionately critical gaze. “I have no idea how my actions will affect the outcome of this venture.” Iago paused near a small table at the foot of the stairs. There was suddenly the familiar sound of crackling, burning paper. The parchment which bore Atchison’s name appeared. He plucked it from the table and slipped it, still neatly wrapped, into his pocket. “But for now, I have a letter to write.”

  “Please don’t do anything stupid,” Dante said gravely.

  “A little faith, Dante, please!” He gave one last bow. He hoped—prayed, in spite of the detestable implication of the word—for an encore. “You can count on me for supper this evening.”

  He left Dante to dress and tidy the bedroom in anxious silence.

  There was something grand in Marlowe’s usual gloom that morning, like a golden sunrise looming over fields of silent tombs. The town conjured something unsettlingly sublime in its austere buildings and quiet, lonely streets. It felt like an empty museum after dark: beguiling and yet, there was the inescapable feeling that one simply should not be there.

  Iago reached into his pocket to retrieve the day’s parchment. He wanted to see the orders he was defying. He unfurled the paper as he trotted down the sidewalk, and he smiled at fresh ink which presented in suitably Hellish strokes the name of Viola Atchison.

  He did not see his course of action as surrender and couldn’t even bring himself to call it a truce. It felt better than either of those, as though upon that day he shattered the manacles about his wrists and tasted the free will which so corrupted Man. He certainly wasn’t going to make a habit of this, no! But to thumb his nose at the Powers Below just once would be, dare he say it, divine.

  Iago had retreated so far into his mind that he didn’t see the small woman in her neat chartreuse coat walking toward him. Nor did he see the syringe hiding in her sleeve. He scarcely even felt the pinprick as she gripped his arm and stuck him. The last thing he saw before he fell unconscious to the sidewalk was her intent gaze, as sublime as any graveyard view Marlowe had to offer.

  The subtle scratch of pencil on paper was the first thing Iago heard when he woke. A familiar coppery taste thickly coated his tongue, the taste of enough lamb’s blood to halt the Apocalypse.

  His breath roared in his ears like an angry sea, and he tried to focus instead on the humming. No, speaking. A familiar voice: Atchi
son’s.

  “I think he’s waking,” the inventor said lowly. There was the rustle of movement somewhere.

  With a perfectly hideous groan, Iago attempted to move. He was sitting—tied to a pole, it seemed, his hands bound behind him. He really hoped this was not to become a regular occurrence. He pried open his eyes. “Where am I?”

  “Unimportant. It will do you no good to try to escape, demon. You’re not going anywhere,” Atchison said from the other side of the musty space. The ground was dirt beneath him. He appeared to be in a barn that smelled regrettably as though a herd of cats had claimed it as their domain. There were no nine-lived beasts to be seen, the first point in Iago’s favor; he had never been fond of cats.

  “I do have a name,” he said, and he looked upward to see a loft and cupola. The barn was dank and dimly lit by a few strategically-placed lanterns. The door before him was barred with two heavy wooden planks, and a smaller door to his right sported no fewer than three padlocks. “Demon will suffice, if you must, but I prefer Iago.”

  “Iago,” the inventor repeated calmly and took pencil to paper. She was without the moustache she donned in public. Her voice, softer than before, was as icy as ever. Sofia Atchison, who had poisoned him outside Dante’s home, looked entirely unapologetic.

  “Iago Wick,” he said. He surveyed his surroundings as he awkwardly pushed himself up the pole and into a standing position. They had crafted this barn into a makeshift laboratory. A few instruments, beakers, and weapons sat atop an old work table. The barn was otherwise quite empty—abandoned, perhaps. The top half of the structure was illuminated only by the thin slats in the cupola. The loft door behind him appeared to be boarded shut. “And while we’re on the topic of names, pray tell, why is Viola Atchison masquerading as her dead brother? Do you seek to avenge his soul?”

  Bitterness spoiled her otherwise placid countenance. “Not quite. ‘Masquerading’ is far too foolish a term, Mr. Wick. It is, I fear, more practical in most situations to be a man in this world,” she answered.

  “You appropriated him in death.”

  “Something like that, yes. In the eyes of Man and of Society, I am Thomas Atchison. Based purely upon my perceived sex, the buffoonish men of this town not only associate with me, but allow me in their clubs. They take an interest in my work. I’ve even infiltrated The Fraternal Order of the Scarab, although there is nothing fraternal about me.

  “But with you, Mr. Wick, I wish to have no pretense. In my own heart of hearts, I am Viola Atchison, and here I request—no, require—that you refer to me as such.”

  Iago hadn’t the faintest idea where “here” was precisely, but he imagined that would reveal itself in due time. It wasn’t as though he were going anywhere soon. “If you don’t mind me saying, you are far brighter than any of the self-important dullards in that dying wreck of a society. And so, if you don’t mind me asking, why seek out such a venture?”

  “Dylan Courtwright was the reason I joined.” Viola rolled up layers of clothing to reveal a still-vibrant scarab tattoo on her upper arm. “I attended a party at his home, an awful affair where one could hardly breathe for all the suffocating self-importance in the room. However, Courtwright was quite… addled, we’ll say, throughout the party. I investigated. His strange behavior was caused by the Abstractia drug, and his interest in ancient gods led me to believe he was involved in the supernatural. I was wrong… for the time being.”

  “I admire your dedication. And now, Courtwright is to stand trial next week.”

  She gave a sardonic bark of laughter, cold and clear. “An idiot. He deserves it.” She handed the notebook and pencil to Sofia before rolling up her other sleeve in a gesture which could only mean there was work to do. Iago feared that he was the project at hand.

  Viola continued, “I never involved myself with The Order intimately. I only attended one of their loathsome meetings. I told them I was a relation of Mortimer Peebles, a deceased member of The Order. A lie, of course. I was waiting for the opportune time to abandon The Order when you appeared.” She gave her usual grimace of a smile.

  It was not lost upon Iago that the reason for all of this exposition from the usually sour and terse inventor was her pride. Ah, a glorious sin. Despite the ropes around his wrists and the lamb’s blood sluicing through him, it did his black heart good to see such a display.

  “Brava.” He warily regarded the blade which Viola picked from the work table. “I perceive that once again I am restrained,” Iago said and tried to flex against his bonds. The coarse rope pinched his wrists. If only his powers hadn’t been sapped so cruelly, he might have been able to conjure enough of a flame from his fingertips to weaken the rope. “I was on my way to write you a letter when your charming wife poisoned me.”

  Sofia Atchison gave a sweet smile. “Under usual circumstances, Mr. Wick, I assure you that I am very charming.”

  “I’m sure.” Iago coughed. The fog in his head had cleared somewhat. “I have decided not to pursue you.”

  “Is that so?” Viola asked, unmoved by the gesture. He wasn’t expecting some emotional effusion, but he might have liked some kind of reaction—any kind!

  Iago would try again. “That is to say, I don’t want your soul,” he insisted. “…A thank you might be in order.”

  “That’s very nice. I didn’t ever in any way intend to give you my soul, but still, I appreciate the change of heart, Mr. Wick.” She placed a protective hand over the weapon from the night before. “I tried to help the men of The Order out of a distaste for demons rather than altruism toward my ‘brothers.’ And then, I realized that you were an ideal test subject.” The inventor approached Iago in the dim and dusty light, the knife still firm in her hand. “It felt almost like Christmas,” she said in a tone that more suggested an unpleasant trip to the dentist’s office.

  “Test subject? For your weapon?”

  “At first, that was all I could see. But after last night, I found myself so utterly intrigued by you that I couldn’t send you back to Hell yet.” The inventor placed a cold, thin hand to Iago’s cheek before she loosened his tie. She undid the first few buttons of his shirt. “I intend to study the anatomy of a demon, Mr. Wick.”

  Iago blinked twice. “Well, that sounds… naughty.”

  She continued, “Demon hunters are secretive brutes. They pass their own unique hunting methods from father to son. These are methods which might not even work, but since that’s the way Daddy always did it, they cling to them. It seems pigheadedness runs rampant. They write nothing down. I have few allies in my battle against the forces of darkness because I am an outsider.”

  “I’m a force of darkness, am I? Oh, that sounds quite imposing. I like it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t wish to fraternize with other demon hunters, anyway. All they discuss is how to harm you. Nothing else matters to them. But I look upon this pursuit through the eyes of a scientist. After all, we live in a scientific age. You are a fountain of information. I wish to understand your kind.”

  “Delightful. Rule number one: we don’t like being tied up.”

  She piqued her pale brows in something akin to amusement. “Hmm. One thing I do know about demons is that they like to hide behind a cocky sense of humor,” she said as she leaned closer to him. He caught a whiff of her sharp, masculine cologne again. “But I am no fool, Mr. Wick. You are afraid.”

  He gave a broad smile. “Only a little.”

  The inventor was silent as she slashed the knife across Iago’s collar bone. He yelped, and she studiously observed the beading of his black blood. It was a detail deemed book-worthy, and she nodded to Sofia, who took pencil to paper.

  “Black. A similar consistency to human blood, Sofia. Do you all bleed black?” she asked.

  Iago winced. “Yes, we do. You could have asked. I happily would have told you.”

  She delicately placed the blade just below his sternum. “And if I sliced your belly open, would similarly black innards spill to the gro
und?”

  It was enough to conjure a rather unattractive and nauseated sneer on Iago’s part. “Yes, but I promise you, it’s not worthy of demonstration.” He regarded the inventor uneasily. “Y-You’ve never actually confronted a demon, have you?”

  Viola bristled, and her mouth pursed unpleasantly. “No. Not exactly. It’s not for lack of trying, I assure you. I’ve encountered ghouls and goblins. Filthy, disgusting things. I’ve even battled a vampire or two.”

  “Foul creatures, aren’t they? Terribly bitey.”

  She flicked the knife into a small sheath hooked to her belt and walked to take a peek at the notes her wife quickly scrawled. Something which resembled a tiny cheese grater was the next tool atop the table to earn Viola’s attention. She picked it up delicately. “I don’t like to admit it, but I don’t hate you, Mr. Wick. I promise I won’t cut you open. Not today, at least. I want to talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “From where do you hail?” she asked as she brought the grater and a small glass dish to his side.

  “What? I’m from Hell,” he answered bluntly. “I’ve never met a demon who couldn’t say the same and… I’m sorry, what are you doing?”

  Viola had taken the small tool to the back of Iago’s hand, proceeding to grate his skin as though he were nutmeg over a hot toddy.

  “Don’t mind me, Mr. Wick. Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  “That’s a little distracting, you know.”

  “Merely a sample for later experimentation. I apologize. Please go on. I wish to hear your story,” she said stiffly. “Sofia, please listen carefully. Details, my dear.”

  Sofia sat straighter in her chair, eyes wide in anticipation of some great epic from the likes of Milton. Not everyone had quite the adventure had by Lucifer, but that was why He was the one in charge. Iago admitted, “I am a thousand years old. We’ll be here far past supper if you want to hear the unabridged tale of my life.”