The Soul Proprietor: The Lovelace & Wick Series, #4

By Jennifer Rainey

When Viola Atchison last saw Iago Wick, she promised that if ever they met again, she would destroy him.

 

Imagine his dismay one autumn afternoon upon finding her waiting for him in his parlor.

 

But Atchison has different plans these days. Caught in a battle to save her soul, she swiftly enlists the help of Iago and his husband, Dante Lovelace, in a plot that's part deal with the devil, part supernatural heist.

 

Madam Emilia Sly is a wicked spiritualist with one of the largest collections of stolen supernatural relics around: including an ancient scroll that's the key to Viola Atchison's salvation. It's up to Iago, Dante, and the Atchisons to execute their plot through the art of magic and a little playacting. But Madam Sly has her eyes on her own desired treasure, and she's not about to step aside without a fight, one which could bring deadly consequences.

 

Join Messrs. Lovelace and Wick in the final installment of The Lovelace & Wick Series, a tale of daring deception, magical adventure, and companionship against all odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Rainey
• Release date: Jan 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224939008

Book preview

THE SOUL PROPRIETOR

Jennifer Rainey

The Soul Proprietor. Copyright 2024 by Jennifer Rainey. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or products are of the author’s own creation or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons living or dead or actual events or locations are purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the author’s written consent.

Cover images used under license from Shutterstock.com.

Title font provided by user Bill Roach on DaFont.com.

The Soul Proprietor

I.

When Virgil Alighieri spoke, people listened.

Carried in the spiderweb chill of his voice were worlds to explore, wicked creatures to battle. To listen was to let the ordinary fall away, to turn one’s parlor or salon or workroom into a theater of the macabre.

"A flash of lightning brightened the room, and though our hero could not see the beast, he felt its presence. It emerged from the very shadows around him, within him."

Eager listeners huddled around their radios, convinced, at least in that moment, that what Mr. Alighieri told them was true. After all, he had an English accent. Tales of terror always sounded better when told with an accent. Some listeners had dimmed the lights in hopes that they might themselves see some frightening creature, reaching from the shadows of their own homes.

Others insisted on listening with every lamp in the house aglow and perhaps a baseball bat within arm’s reach, just in case.

Then came the creaking of floorboards—footsteps! ‘Who’s there?’ he called, though in his heart he already knew. Oh, his wretched curiosity! It would be his undoing! He had been the one to summon this beast, by his own voice. He wracked his feverish brain for some last resort, but for now, he could only run. The bedroom door was mere feet away. He lunged forth!

The man on the radio paused for effect. He loved pausing for effect.

His hand had barely touched the doorknob as shadow consumed him and thrust him into never-ending darkness. The housekeeper would return the following morning, and for all she knew, her employer had fled and left the country! There was no trace of Mr. Sam Caldwell to be found, save for an ancient book still open upon his desk.

And again the man on the radio paused before continuing. "Some creatures—old and twisted souls ruined by what lurks beyond our own vision—should never be summoned, as Mr. Caldwell learned tonight. So, if you find a mysterious old book in your attic, perhaps let it be. Some books are better left unread.

Thank you for joining me this evening. I’m Virgil Alighieri, your faithful guide into the unknown, wishing you pleasant dreams.

In a studio in Boston, Iago Wick smiled and stepped away from the microphone. Another tale told, unleashed into the minds of his burgeoning audience. It was more fulfilling work than writing dirty stories for third-rate publications, he supposed.

Another man stood to Iago’s right, and his sterile voice swooped in to root listeners in their own realities again.

"Virgil Alighieri Presents: Tales of Terror is a production of Quinn Publishing House. Mr. Alighieri will return after a brief hiatus with more spine-tingling tales. Stay tuned for a performance of Saint-Saëns’s Danse Macabre, courtesy of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, here on Boston Society Radio."

Iago bowed to Louis Quinn as he finished his usual speech. From beyond the pane of glass across the far wall, Quinn’s brother, Paulie, rejoiced in silent applause. As usual, there was no other soul in the studio. Everyone knew to clear the space on Friday nights. Virgil Alighieri’s identity had always been Quinn Publishing House’s little secret, and a bit of mystery was good for business.

Iago donned invisibility as he left the studio, a handy power in avoiding any Bostonians eager to catch a glimpse of the man behind the Alighieri character. He walked until he found Paulie Quinn waiting a block away in the sort of dark alley a demon such as Iago was used to. As per usual, Quinn’s suit was made to look far more expensive than it actually was, thanks to the nimble fingers of the tailor who lived two apartments below him. Louis had remained at the station for the usual changing of the guard to the sounds of Saint-Saëns.

Brilliant as always, Wick, Quinn said once Iago appeared again. Sometimes I wish Uncle Osgood could hear you.

Iago fondly recalled the elder Mr. Quinn for whom he used to write sordid short stories under Alighieri’s name. He would hate it, he said, happy as usual to lose the accent he affected for Alighieri. A demon could speak in any dialect or language he wished, but the modern English accent was such a prickly one.

He’d still have you writing slop, Quinn said. For ten years, I’ve had you turning out the best gothic tales this side of Transylvania. Uncle hated this stuff. He paused. Do you think he, uh… ended up in the good place?

I don’t know, Mr. Quinn, Iago said. Striking business deals with a demon might not be smiled upon by the denizens of Heaven.

Well, I’m willing to burn for a few eternities for the audience we’re getting, Quinn said. What in Hell am I supposed to do with you going on this sabbatical?

Sabbatical is a severe word, Quinn. It’s a vacation, Iago said. "And tell Louis to stop calling it brief. I’m hoping there’s nothing brief about it."

Now, wait just a minute! Where are you going again?

Iago pulled his coat around him. The October wind had turned bitter after dark. Somewhere warm. Australia.

Australia? They’ve got bugs down there the size of your head, I hear. For how long?

Quinn, I have served your family for over thirty years now. I think I deserve a bit of a vacation.

In Bug Kingdom? Quinn balked, and shook his head. Your funeral.

They moved toward traffic, toward the bustle of Friday night in Boston. Did you give it any thought? Quinn said. What I asked?

The answer is no.

It would be a cinch! Louis can mimic your voice, you know.

Absolutely not, Iago said, and added quietly, There is only one Virgil Alighieri, and in three days’ time, he is going to be as far away from Boston as possible. You’re not continuing without me.

Quinn sighed. I had a feeling you’d say that. At least give us some ideas to develop while you’re gone. We’ll meet with Louis tomorrow morning. I booked you a room at the Parker House tonight.

You didn’t think to ask me if I even wanted a room at the Parker House?

Who doesn’t? Quinn asked. We’ll meet you there tomorrow, nine o’ clock sharp.

Iago yearned to smell the familiar scent of fire on the air. All he found was Boston’s noxious perfume of exhaust and garbage and progress. You know, I’d really prefer to go home to Marlowe.

You’re going to pass up the Parker House? I’m spending good money on that, Wick.

I’m certain you are, but Mr. Lovelace and I have to prepare for our trip.

I’m busy this evening, and I can’t have you showing up late tomorrow. You can’t trust the trains. You’re staying in the city tonight. Room service is on me, Quinn said, glancing to his wristwatch and waving for a cab.

What, pray tell, occupies your time this evening? Iago asked.

"Not a what, but a who. I’m heading over to Delrubio’s to meet a lovely lady who I would very much like to have a lovely evening with."

A cab stopped before them, and Quinn opened the door, ushering Iago inside. Mr. Wick obliged. What was one more obligation when rest and relaxation were so close?

Iago glanced to a newspaper on the seat beside him. More about some expedition in Egypt—couldn’t the English just let sleeping Pharaohs lie? Then there was an impassioned article about the Red Sox, something about a new film starring Mary Pickford, and a large advertisement.

"Coming Soon! Madam Emilia Sly’s Cabinet of Curiosities! it proclaimed in grand letters. Returning to Massachusetts! One Night Only in the City of Marlowe: October the Thirty-First! Strange artifacts and wonders of the occult world! Amazement and Horror!"

Madam Sly obviously owned the market for exclamation points.

In the center was a drawing of the woman herself, dressed in an outlandish gown and wearing star-shaped eyeglasses.

What drivel, and in Marlowe, no less. With any luck, Iago and Dante would be out of the country by the time Madam Sly and her assortment of junk arrived.

Provided Iago wasn’t trapped in Boston for all eternity.

Well, he thought as they lurched toward the Parker House, at least Paulie Quinn would have a lovely evening.

* * *

When Iago finally arrived at Benevolent Street the following day, gold leaves glittered in the sunlight, and the people of Marlowe demanded cinnamon buns and coffee.

The twentieth century had thus far been one which did not value the art of simple pleasures or catching one’s breath. The Honey Bee Bakery was a haven in Marlowe which was proud to offer opportunities for both. There was always a moment to be had for the establishment’s clove-laced coffee, and you certainly never saw anyone frowning about a pumpkin tart or a loaf of fresh bread.

It was as pure a fount of joy as the old village had ever seen, yet the bakery’s owner always looked as though he had gotten lost on his way to the funeral home.

Despite his dreary kit, Dante Lovelace had proven himself to be one Hell of a baker.

It was half past two in the afternoon when Iago Wick darkened the bakery’s door, briefcase in hand. The Brothers Quinn had always had a remarkable knack for turning an hour meeting into a marathon.

Well, if it isn’t Mr. Wick, here to grace us with his presence, chirped the woman at the till, in a voice that could cut through granite. Another successful Friday evening in Boston?

Indeed, Mrs. May.

And what is it that you do? I mean, besides owning half the bakery, helping Mr. Lovelace with the books. What is it you do in Boston?

Now, now. We must allow some mysteries to remain unsolved, he said. Mr. Lovelace?

He’s in the salon with Mr. Brownlee, she said, just finishing their weekly meeting. They’re discussing the winter specialties to serve while you’re gone.

Gingerbread had better be on the menu, or this town will stage a riot, Iago said.

Oh! Speaking of Ginger, she said conspiratorially, and leaned over the till, my cousin is coming to town in January with her daughter, Ginger. She’s a talented artist who is in need of a husband. She would be a perfect match for Mr. Lovelace.

We certainly will not have returned from our business trip by January, and anyway, Mrs. May, he’s already told you, Iago said. He hired you to manage the till, not play matchmaker.

I only have his best interest at heart, she insisted. Mr. Lovelace needs a good wife. I’ll move Heaven and Earth to find her.

Heaven’s got nothing to do with it, madam.

She blinked, then shook her head. Oh, Mr. Wick, you say the strangest things.

The woman meant well, but the scope of her understanding was narrower than the wafer straws crisping in the oven.

Iago moved toward the salon, a space frequently used by Marlowe residents for tea parties and luncheons… or, in Mr. Lovelace’s case, for private arcane discussions amongst friends.

The salon’s plush couches and ornate fireplace had witnessed the Honey Bee Baker doff his apron to chat about everything from banishing spells to love potions with his fellow practitioners. Yet Iago knew some of his most treasured engagements were with Professor Harry Foster. Dante and Foster had kept regular correspondence in the years following Beatrice Dickens’s passing, and their two-person book club had met once a month ever since Professor Foster had moved from Indiana to Massachusetts to take a position at Thornmire College. A professor of folklore always had the best books.

But Professor Foster was not the only one to come bearing books. Recently, the salon had seen Elladora Lee sitting upon the couch, draped in her black and red ceremonial robes and carrying a bundle of grimoires, devoted as ever to the dread Lord Lucifer.

Funny how Mrs. May never suggested Dante pair off with any of the strangers discreetly shuffled into the salon for tea and tarot. She may not have known what was discussed once the doors were closed, but she knew no one worth marrying wore a bathrobe in public.

Iago used the salon to chat with Miss Lila Graves, Marlowe’s resident temptress. She’d held the position for several decades but was, in Iago’s opinion, a far better source of gossip than she was a soldier of Hell.

The entire bakery sat squarely at the crossroads of the mundane and the supernatural, though certainly most of the clientele would never suspect it. Anyway, as long as the coffee was good, they’d be willing to forgive any mysterious goings-on.

The salon door opened, and Sergeant Colin Brownlee emerged in his flour-dusted apron. He was a far more mundane audience than Dante typically entertained in the space, and he gave Iago the usual thin, terse smile. He resumed his position behind the counter, eyes sharp as though he were still fighting the Great War years later.

The Honey Bee Bakery’s owner lingered in the salon as Iago entered and asked, Why doesn’t he like me?

Dante Lovelace briefly thumbed Iago’s necktie—a brilliant magenta to complement his gray checked suit. Mr. Brownlee finds you frivolous.

Frivolous?!

Mysterious trips to Boston, fancy clothes, a piece or two of cake a day…

Is he keeping count?

He’s a military man, Dante said simply.

Do you think he’ll manage running the place while we’re gone?

He is the General Manager, isn’t he? Not the most revolutionary man, but he makes a fine loaf of bread and runs a tight ship. Dante cocked his head. Paulie Quinn kept you hostage again. I was so lonely last night after listening to that fellow, Virgil Alighieri, on the radio.

I’ll make it up to you.

Dante gave a devilish grin and pulled Iago by his necktie, just around the door and out of sight from the crowded bakery. He brought their mouths together in a kiss that only made Iago resent Paulie Quinn even more for keeping him away.

I’m sure you will, Dante said, before they emerged from their private corner, bade farewell to the staff, and left the bakery.

They walked onto Benevolent Street with an acceptable amount of space between them. The people of Marlowe believed that Mr. Lovelace and Mr. Wick were merely business partners and that Mr. Wick rented a separate room on the second floor of the house at Darke Street.

They dined and worked together as they always had, but in recent years they found they could no longer linger in Marlowe’s periphery. They were the Honey Bee Baker and his business partner. They were known. They were watched.

Strange prejudices poisoned the human race. The work of Hell is done in the shadows. Once thrust into the light, Dante and Iago found themselves forced to play odious games. The citizens of Marlowe had no idea Messrs. Lovelace and Wick were of Infernal stock, and they might have been just as surprised to learn that they were married.

Someday they would withdraw again. Dante would leave the bakery to Brownlee entirely. They would vanish, slip back into the shadows. After all, Marlowe was beginning to wonder why the Honey Bee Baker and his business partner never seemed to age. Good breeding, Dante always said.

They didn’t know the half of it.

I had quite the revelation while listening to your program last night, Dante said as they walked toward Darke Street. I was looking over the grimoire Elladora brought with her a few weeks ago.

Oh, I can’t keep track of all the books she’s given you since returning to the country. The French one?

The very same, Dante said. Its magic has distinct leanings toward the Infernal. You would not believe what I found inside. His brows leapt upward. "It. I found it."

It? Iago asked. "The elusive it which has plagued your mind for the last twenty years?"

Indeed. A sigil to prevent exorcism, Dante said gleefully, then muttered, The problem is it’s incomplete.

How incomplete?

Every stroke has meaning in a sigil. It is magic, highly condensed into a single symbol. One part identifies a demon as the focus, one part identifies the intent, Dante explained. What we’re missing is the part that actually locks the demon in their human body.

Iago snorted. That would be important, wouldn’t it?

But it’s a start, and I can work with it, Dante said. It certainly would be a nice precautionary measure to take with us while traveling.

Iago leveled his gaze. Darling, I have avoided exorcism for the four and a half centuries I’ve walked among men. I will not have you spending our entire holiday with your nose in a book.

Says the man who spent our last anniversary shackled to Paulie Quinn’s typewriter, Dante teased. A radio program a week for five years?

Exactly what I’m looking to remedy, Iago said, then grimaced. Though I do wish we could avoid sea travel.

We’re not going to walk to Australia, dear.

It was not unusual to see a moving van parked along the side of the street in Marlowe these days. This new century turned villages to towns and towns to cities overnight.

And apparently, it turned abandoned homes into three-ring circuses, too.

As they rounded the corner, they spotted men hefting boxes into an old, familiar house while another man in paisley directed them. Their van sported plumes of colorful text: Madam Sly’s Cabinet of Curiosities: A Wonderland of the Unknown!

The paisley man was none other than one Bertram Evergreen, President of the Marlowe Clairvoyant Society. So, they were to blame for this macabre menace.

The house in question was haunted, of course, though not by spirits. Bad memories soured the air of the old and austere saltbox which had stood empty for thirty-five years. The family was long gone, and it seemed no one wanted to purchase a murder house.

Madam Sly had chosen none other than the Courtwright House to host her eerie little exhibition.

Every Marlowe citizen knew the story: Pillar of Society Dylan Courtwright had murdered his cousin, Edgar, slitting his throat ear to ear before cutting out his own tongue to silence himself. Understandably, it had been quite the talk of the town, as the ghastly crime cast into glaring light the affairs of The Fraternal Order of the Scarab.

Decades later, Marlowe citizens still spoke in hushed tones about the Order, the men who pulled the strings of the city through whatever means they deemed necessary. Murmurs of Courtwright’s corrupt work and certain occult proclivities gave the story staying power. To this day, people wondered why he committed the crime that sent him to the gallows.

Iago could have told them why, but they wouldn’t have believed him. Iago Wick was the co-owner of The Honey Bee Bakery, not some creature lurking in the shadows and driving men to murder and eternal damnation.

Lord Below, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Still, it was fitting that the home should open its doors only for the kind of twaddle the previous Master of the House would have lapped up.

Iago’s eyes wandered from the