The Last Temptations of Iago Wick Page 6

  V.

  There is an aura which halos the houses of the dying, an unsettling and dark presence which precedes the addition of black crepe to the door. A person may unknowingly pass such a residence and feel an unexplained chill race down their spine and their own mortality gnaw at their brain. Once they turn the corner at the end of the block, the grim sensation passes into the ether without a trace.

  These were the simple cases, Iago Wick thought to himself, as he stood before the home of Septimus and Hazel Boeing. Little research was required, but timing was crucial. A desperate human was often willing to do anything to save a loved one from the clutches of death.

  He cast one more glance to his pocket watch before taking confident strides through the wrought iron gate. It was best if he let himself in, invisible to the human eye. In this case, Septimus Boeing did not need to hear or see Iago until Iago wished it.

  Death does not only have a presence one senses, but a distinct scent. Indeed, as Iago entered the dark foyer it hung heavy in the air, an earthy and pungent odor. The only light glowed upstairs. With an easy tread, Iago followed it. He only briefly looked at each of the portraits carefully hung along the stairwell. The vibrant and pretty young woman depicted at the top of the stairs was the very same which languished in one of these austere rooms.

  Oh, the fragility of it all, he thought sardonically and followed the glow to a small bedroom.

  Hazel Boeing had chosen a terribly unpleasant room in which to perish, Iago thought, one which already bore a dusty resemblance to a tomb. There were bare walls, and there was an overall grayness in spite of the lamplight. Naturally, it was an overcast day; death fancied such weather. Septimus stood staring out the large window at the foot of the bed. He was a dark soul, similar to Dante Lovelace but more haggard and lacking Dante’s passion. He had pale skin and black eyes and something somberly Romantic about him.

  His wife, sallow and sticky, looked longingly into the eyes of a woman sitting at her bedside. Septimus appeared to be ignorant of this second lady’s presence. He continued to stare out to the back-yard like a particularly morose cat on a windowsill. Iago was suddenly aware of a high humming inaudible to human ears. The woman at Hazel’s side had dark skin and a glorious golden gaze, and she soothingly smoothed Mrs. Boeing’s red hair with one hand.

  Well. This made matters interesting. Mrs. Boeing was closer to death than Iago had anticipated.

  “Gloria Ambrose,” Iago greeted. The golden-eyed woman looked up, and her peaceful expression turned sour. The humming grew a touch louder.

  “Iago Wick,” she said and left Hazel’s side. The dying woman turned sadly back to the window, as though something dear had been taken from her.

  Gloria was a grand being, even Iago had to admit. She wore a fine white dress, and her radiant, Heavenly presence was enough to calm even the most frightened in their final hour. A single touch, and folks were begging to give up the ghost for her. She stood tall—taller than Iago.

  She regarded him with wary eyes and said, “A demon is really the last creature an angel likes to encounter while collecting a soul for Heaven.”

  “Yes, I exist only to make your day insufferable.” He bowed deeply with an utterly cheeky grin. “And how fares Gloria Ambrose?”

  “She was quite well until Iago Wick paid a visit.”

  “Ah! I’m afraid I am here on a matter of business, not pleasure, although I do enjoy occasionally mixing the two.”

  Gloria very vehemently shook her head and with God-given strength, pushed Iago out into the hallway. She followed him only after casting a quick glance over her shoulder. The two humans inside were unaffected. Humans only heard the words of hidden angels and demons if the creatures allowed it. Their words and shuffling and footsteps sounded only like faint creaks and groans of the old house. Even Hazel would not see Gloria until she perished. For now, she was only a glowing sense of benevolence and peace.

  Peace was all well and good, but the angel momentarily gave it a hearty toss out the window and shoved Iago against the wall. “No. No, you are not here on a matter of business.”

  “Oh, I fear that I am,” he answered. “Orders from my Overseer. I think Mr. Boeing will sell quickly if I offer to save his wife’s life.”

  And despite what one may say about angels, they are quite frightening when angry.

  “No! Hazel Boeing’s is my soul to collect today, Wick,” she growled, eyes flaring.

  “Well, what a simply mad coincidence.”

  “I can’t take her Home if you insist upon mangling the natural order with another one of Hell’s filthy deals.”

  Iago hissed through his teeth. “Filthy. I don’t like to think of myself as filthy. And must you hum so loudly? You angels are such noisy things.”

  The angel loosened her grip. She breathed deeply and peered into the sickroom once more. “I understand you are a man who has a purpose to fulfill. I understand the pressures of acting as an agent of a being so immense and sublime that neither of us can comprehend. However, I cannot let you interfere today.”

  “Alas, Miss Ambrose, it is you who are interfering,” Iago spat, gripping Gloria’s wrist and flipping her back against the wall. “I am mere souls away from my greatest success. I won’t have an angel spoiling it for me.”

  He released her and charged into the bedroom, snapping the door shut behind him. Hazel gave a start and looked worriedly to the empty space where the demon hid himself. “A draft, dear,” Septimus insisted and hurried to sit at his wife’s side. He took her bony hand in his. “It’s nothing.”

  “Septimus,” she croaked and pulled away, “there is something here, there is someone here. I feel it.” Her voice was barely audible, like the groan of rotting floorboards as Iago stood at her bedside.

  “There is no one here, Hazel,” he said. “Dr. Victoria will arrive soon.”

  She may have been dying, but she had the strength to roll her eyes at the statement. “He’ll do no good, Septimus. Please accept that.”

  “Now, now, we can’t abandon hope.”

  “Husband,” she said as severely as she might. “I’m asking you. Please abandon hope.”

  Septimus Boeing was a worn and frayed man, but there was an exquisite guilt in his eyes as he turned from her. Iago knew of the tragedy in their past after thoroughly researching the family, but there was more there than the papers described. A darkness tinged his guilt, guilt which he did not feel for the crimes committed by The Order.

  Poor bastards like Mr. Boeing were open books to a demon. Iago spent little time observing him that morning as he traveled by streetcar to Dr. Victoria’s home. An effusion of sadness flowed from him. The mind can be a fortress, but when that fortress is weak, one hardly needs a Trojan Horse to invade.

  To Septimus, The Order existed in some other world. He wasn’t as good at hiding from the grave sins he had committed all on his own.

  Gloria appeared suddenly at Iago’s side. “You’ll terrify the poor woman if you keep slamming doors,” she said softly.

  “What of her? Why do you want her so badly?” he asked.

  “She is a pure child of God, a truly good person.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Iago scoffed.

  “You know as well as I do that they are not,” Gloria answered, and Hazel turned to face her angel again. Her face softened. “She lost a child. He drowned in the river, and not only does Septimus blame himself, but since then, he has failed to give her another.”

  “I have done my research, Gloria. I’m not new to this, you know.”

  She cleared her throat. “However, she prays and prays. She is a morose woman, and yet she has never turned from the light.”

  Iago snorted. “Allow me ten minutes.”

  “Wick.”

  “And what of dear, impotent Mr. Boeing? Do you know something I do not?”

  Gloria was silent for a moment before choosing her words delicately. “He is a sad man.”

  “He’s also a member of The Frater
nal Order of the Scarab. I have a feeling his affiliations wouldn’t meet the approval of your superiors,” Iago said and padded to where Septimus sat at her bedside. Iago traced his fingers, feather-light, over his target’s shoulders and throat. Septimus shivered and reached to brush away the unseen nuisance. “And he is deliciously desperate.”

  “We in Heaven are aware of Mr. Boeing’s unfortunate affiliations,” Gloria admitted. “But as of now, that does not exclude him from a place in God’s Kingdom. He has never killed by his own hand. Mr. Boeing has done much wrong, pitiable wrong which has strained his marriage. However, he is not beyond salvation. Humans are so easily misled when they are in groups.”

  “Yes. They share a common ancestor with lemmings, I think.”

  Gloria shook her head. “As of this moment, if he turned to the light, if he truly begged for forgiveness, let the truth be seen and changed his ways, he could still be saved.”

  “Not when I am through with him,” Iago said lowly.

  A sharp and distinctly impatient rapping on the front door sent Septimus to his feet, cooing to his wife that Doctor Victoria had arrived. He walked swiftly from the room with Iago on his heels. “Don’t do anything without me, Miss Ambrose!” Iago called as he left. It was something of a relief to leave that room. Death was oppressive enough. To throw an angel into the mix was nearly suffocating.

  Septimus took the stairs at a brisk pace and leapt to open the door. His shoulders slumped. This was not the doctor. Rather, there stood a tall, thin man with golden hair and a moustache. He was dressed in a neat suit, and he looked as though Septimus were the one inconveniencing him.

  “Atchison?” Septimus asked. “What are you—”

  “Are you alone?” Atchison asked.

  Ah, yes, Iago thought, unsurprised. Thomas Atchison is here to stick his nose into the affairs of demons once more.

  Again, Iago silently watched Atchison from afar. The wiry inventor certainly had the appearance of one of those eccentric types, but still there was something else, something upon which Iago could not squarely place his finger. He wore it like a cologne, faint but always lingering. There was something deceitful about Thomas Atchison.

  “Yes, I’m alone,” Septimus said, “but I’m awaiting Doctor Victoria. You see, my wife—”

  “Have you heard that Wilburn Cox is dead?” Atchison asked.

  “I had not heard of Cox. How did it happen?”

  “He shot himself,” Atchison said plainly. “He relayed to me that he was having strange dreams. It’s quite odd to have something so dreadful happen right on the heels of Courtwright’s crime.”

  Septimus stood firmly in the doorway when the inventor tried to enter. “What are you implying? I’m certain Cox was greatly stricken by the crime Courtwright committed. After all, he was the one who discovered it. It would be a great jolt to any man’s mind. He was weakened, I’m sure.”

  Atchison laughed humorlessly. “Listen to yourself. One of your closest associates kills his cousin and cuts out his own tongue, and then another kills himself in a mad fit. Perhaps this cannot be explained away with mere passion, Boeing.” The inventor glanced briefly over Septimus’s shoulder, and his steely gaze met Iago’s. In that moment, for a fraction’s fraction of a second, it were as though Atchison could see him.

  The inventor frowned even more profoundly and looked back to Septimus. He continued, “In fact, I know it goes beyond that. I admit, I monitored Cox’s dreams, and I found—”

  “I apologize if I do not see the possibility of conspiracy so desperately as you,” Septimus insisted impatiently. “My wife is… very ill, Atchison. A married man such as yourself can surely see why I cannot be bothered with anything else. Courtwright was always a rash man, in his way. Cox was weak of mind and constitution. There is nothing here that seems strange to me.”

  “Good God, man, use your head!” Atchison spat. “Not only are our ranks thinning at a suspicious rate, but there are two bodies in the custody of the authorities which bear the scarab. Detective Stewart will not be able to protect us from consequence forever. A little urgency, please.”

  “Atchison—”

  “Cox insisted there was something strange afoot with Courtwright, something unnatural, and when I studied his dreams, I found evidence of the same. I have recently spoken to Detective Stewart; I am loath to involve the authorities in these sorts of matters, but he gave me more proof himself. Courtwright’s tattoo… I know you believe in the power of the supernatural. Something is happening here. Something demonic, I fear.”

  Iago prickled at the assertion. It was so nice to be recognized for one’s hard work. Septimus gave a weary sigh and shook his head slowly. He was unable to meet his demented associate’s icy gaze. “I can’t. I don’t have time for this nonsense today.”

  The dismissal certainly did not agree with Thomas Atchison, who bristled like an enraged cat. “Fine. I shall depart. I am required at the bookstore, anyway. I know Mr. Pauley has been invited to a séance at the Ackle residence tomorrow. I will find and warn him beforehand, though I will burden his tiny mind with talk of demons as little as possible. I would attend myself to keep watch over him, but… the Ackle family disagrees with me.”

  “Understandably. You called Eugenia Ackle an insipid cow.”

  “Is it not true? I digress. Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said coolly.

  With a sour expression, Atchison turned on his heel, straightened his hat and left.

  Septimus shut the door with a heavy sigh and muttered as he took the stairs again, “Strange young man.”

  Strange young man, indeed. Iago lingered on the stairwell a moment, considering the inventor. His determination was vibrant, alluring. Perhaps he was more of a threat than he had originally seemed. Still, he was a problem for another day. Iago ascended the stairs once more.

  Gloria stood at the side of the bed when Iago returned, and Septimus stroked his wife’s hand, still insisting that the doctor would be there soon. His empty and distant tone betrayed him, Iago thought. He himself knew a doctor would do no good at this point.

  “No doctor?” Gloria asked.

  “One of Boeing’s associates,” Iago said as he joined her. “Well, Miss Ambrose, it occurs to me that we must come to an agreement.”

  “I fear you’ll simply have to fail this time, Wick. You will recover.”

  Not true. He wore every failure like a scar, and he was no stranger to melodrama, lamenting failed temptations as though they were grand tragedies. Poor Dante would never hear the end of it.

  She continued, “I want you to know that I understand. You’re nearing the end of your time as a tempter.” Iago must have looked at least mildly surprised, for she smiled and added, “News travels. You’re pleased, I take it, to become an Overseer?”

  “It’s an indication of a job well done, isn’t it?”

  Septimus Boeing spoke softly to his wife, recalled the time they visited The Bijou Theatre in Boston to see the electric lights. Her eyes did not stray from Gloria. Her heart was very weak, Iago perceived, but her gaze carried a spark as she looked in the angel’s direction. Hazel was passionately prepared to die.

  But there was some sort of art in such an ending, the way she was slipping through her husband’s fingers. There was something to be said for Gloria’s vision of a pure woman taken to the gates of Heaven. It was certainly not Iago’s paradise, but it wasn’t meant to be. There was profound beauty in it all the same, he thought.

  And then, he mentally smacked himself.

  In Lucifer’s name, what was the matter with him? Was he really becoming so sentimental, so disgustingly understanding in his old age?

  “Do you enjoy your position in Heaven’s ranks, Miss Ambrose?” Iago heard himself ask. “When last we met you only floated around and played the harp.”

  She laughed, and it was like music in a key too pleasant for both Iago’s tastes and the current circumstances. “Of course. I love it passionately. I am enamored with humans, hum
anity. For all of the good and all of the bad, humanity is astounding. Don’t you agree, Mr. Wick?”

  It pained him deeply in the pit where a more benevolent being might have housed a soul to admit that he did agree.

  Iago fumbled for the right words, a challenge that was strange to him. “It is… nice. Humanity is nice.”

  Compromise. Even a demon had to admit that there is always room for compromise.

  Iago finally turned from the morose couple to face Gloria. “We’ve ended up in quite the predicament, haven’t we?”

  Her eyebrows piqued. “Yes, we have.”

  At that moment, Septimus bolted from the room, a tear or two staining his pallid cheek. The doctor, perhaps, Iago thought, though he hadn’t heard the door. The demon made immediately to follow.

  “Wick, don’t!” Gloria called.

  Iago turned and gave a deep bow. “You have my word as a gentleman, Miss Ambrose. I shall not keep you from your success.” As he left, he added under his breath, “Nor shall I sacrifice mine.”

  Septimus did not race to the foyer again, but rather to his study three doors down the dark hallway. Iago passed a few more portraits as he followed him, the largest of which portrayed a child. His lost son. Gloomy, glassy eyes stared accusingly from beyond the grave.

  Iago found Septimus drinking straight from the bottle in his study. He owned an impressive collection of books. At the very least, he pretended to be well-read, the demon thought. Iago paced to one bookshelf to trace a finger along the spine of a thick volume chronicling the Roman Empire. It felt strange beneath his finger. He was thwarted in his attempt to pick up the book; it wasn’t real. It was merely a wooden façade, stretching along the entire shelf of volumes.

  Carefully and discreetly, he pried back the top of the wood. A dozen half-empty bottles sat inside a compartment. It appeared as though the only reading which occurred in this study was of the labels on bottles, stashed away where Hazel could not find them.

  Septimus hid another bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk and turned with wet and fearful eyes to the large window behind him.