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  Bast Perfume Oil

  There was a girl. He had met her somewhere, and now they were walking across a bridge. It spanned a small lake, in the middle of a town. The wind was ruffling the surface of the lake, making waves tipped with whitecaps, which seemed to Shadow to be tiny hands reaching for him.

  — Down there, said the woman. She was wearing a leopard-print skirt, which flapped and tossed in the wind, and the flesh between the top of her stockings and her skirt was creamy and soft and in his dream, on the bridge, before God and the world, Shadow went down to his knees in front of her, burying his head in her crotch, drinking in the intoxicating jungle female scent of her. He became aware, in his dream, of his erection in real life, a rigid, pounding, monstrous thing as painful in its hardness as the erections he’d had as a boy, when he was crashing into puberty.

  He pulled away and looked upward, and still he could not see her face. But his mouth was seeking hers and her lips were soft against his, and his hands were cupping her breasts, and then they were running across the satin smoothness of her skin, pushing into and parting the furs that hid her waist, sliding into the wonderful cleft of her, which warmed and wetted and parted for him, opening to his hand like a flower.

  The woman purred against him ecstatically, her hand moving down to the hardness of him and squeezing it. He pushed the bedsheets away and rolled on top of her, his hand parting her thighs, her hand guiding him between her legs, where one thrust, one magical push . . .

  Now he was back in his old prison cell with her, and he was kissing her deeply. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, clamped her legs about his legs to hold him tight, so he could not pull out, not even if he wanted to.

  Never had he kissed lips so soft. He had not known that there were lips so soft in the whole world. Her tongue, though, was sandpaper-rough as it slipped against his.

  —Who are you? he asked.

  She made no answer, just pushed him onto his back and, in one lithe movement, straddled him and began to ride him. No, not to ride him: to insinuate herself against him in series of silken-smooth waves, each more powerful than the one before, strokes and beats and rhythms that crashed against his mind and his body just as the wind-waves on the lake splashed against the shore. Her nails were needle-sharp and they pierced his sides, raking them, but he felt no pain, only pleasure, everything was transmuted by some alchemy into moments of utter pleasure.

  He struggled to find himself, struggled to talk, his head now filled with sand dunes and desert winds.

  —Who are you? he asked again, gasping for the words.

  She stared at him with eyes the color of dark amber, then lowered her mouth to his and kissed him with a passion, kissed him so completely and so deeply that there, on the bridge over the lake, in his prison cell, in the bed in the Cairo funeral home, he almost came. He rode the sensation like a kite riding a hurricane, willing it not to crest, not to explode, wanting it never to end.

  A desert wind alight with myrrh and golden amber, cardamom and honey, bourbon vanilla and cacao.

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  Mr. Jacquel Perfume Oil

  Shadow looked up at the creature. “Mr. Jacquel?” he said.

  The hands of Anubis came down, huge dark hands, and they picked Shadow up and brought him close.

  The jackal head examined him with bright and glittering eyes; examined him as dispassionately as Mr. Jacquel had examined the dead girl on the slab. Shadow knew that all his faults, all his failings, all his weaknesses were being taken out and weighed and measured; that he was, in some way, being dissected, and sliced, and tasted.

  We do not remember the things that do no credit to us. We justify them, cover them in bright lies or with the thick dust of forgetfulness. All of the things that Shadow had done in his life of which he was not proud, all the things he wished he had done otherwise or left undone, came at him then in a swirling storm of guilt and regret and shame, and he had nowhere to hide from them. He was as naked and as open as a corpose on a table, and dark Anubis the jackal god was his prosector and his prosecutor and his persecutor.

  “Please,” said Shadow. “Please stop.”

  But the examination did not stop. Every lie he had ever told, every object he had stolen, every hurt he had inflicted on another person, all the little crimes and the tiny murders that make up the day, each of these things and more were extracted and held up to the light by the jackal-headed judge of the dead.

  Golden amber, hyssop, North African patchouli, and embalming spices.

  Out of Stock
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  Diana Perfume Oil

  My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither,
  And do upon mine altar sacrifice.
  There, when my maiden priests are met together,
  before the people all,
  Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife:
  To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call
  And give them repetition to the life.
  Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe;
  Do it, and happy; by my silver bow!

  Artemis, standing in her golden chariot… driving off with her fast-trotting deer over the hills and far away to some rich-scented sacrifice: leather, gleaming golden amber, red amaranth, cypress, asphodel accord, a gleam of silver, and soft brown musk.

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  Lines to a Nasturtium (A Lover Muses) Perfume Oil

  Anne Spencer
  
  Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,
  I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,
  Into your flaming heart;
  Then did I hear crisp, crinkled laughter
  As the furies after tore him apart?
  A bird, next, small and humming,
  Looked into your startled depths and fled…
  Surely, some dread sight, and dafter
  Than human eyes as mine can see,
  Set the stricken air waves drumming
  In his flight.
   
  Day-torch, Flame-flower, cool-hot Beauty,
  I cannot see, I cannot hear your flutey;
  Voice lure your loving swain,
  But I know one other to whom you are in beauty
  Born in vain:
  Hair like the setting sun,
  Her eyes a rising star,
  Motions gracious as reeds by Babylon, bar
  All your competing;
  Hands like, how like, brown lilies sweet,
  Cloth of gold were fair enough to touch her feet.
  Ah, how the sense reels at my repeating,
  As once in her fire-lit heart I felt the furies
  Beating, beating.
   
  Hair like the setting sun, eyes a rising star, and a heart fire-lit: golden amber, warm nutmeg, cardamom pod, tolu balsam, sweet patchouli, vanilla absolute, wildflower honey, lovage root, and cacao.

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