Good Omens

The Good Omens Collection.

Just in time for the new adaptation by Amazon Prime and BBC Two, we’ve expanded this series based on the characters, locations, and concepts squished within the pages of ‘Good Omens’, an apocalyptic comedy by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman!

This series is based on the characters, locations, and concepts squished within the pages of ‘Good Omens’, an apocalyptic comedy by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman! A million thanks to Messrs. Pratchett and Gaiman for giving us this project their blessing!

Terry Pratchett | Neil Gaiman

Neil Gaiman’s Official Online Store

Your purchase from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab will help our friends at the National Coalition Against Censorship promote and defend First Amendment rights, and the Orangutan Foundation UK, which works to actively preserve orangutan habitats while supporting long-term research projects that benefit orangutans.

Because of the nature of this project, imps are not available for any Good Omens scents.

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    A Complex, Wiggly Sigil Perfume Oil

    Hastur produced a clipboard from the grubby recesses of his mack.

    “Sign. Here,” he said, leaving a terrible pause between the words.

    Crowley fumbled vaguely in an inside pocket and produced a pen. It was sleek and matte black. It looked as though it could exceed the speed limit.

    “‘S’nice pen,” said Ligur. “It can write under water,” Crowley muttered.

    “Whatever will they think of next?” mused Ligur.

    “Whatever it is, they’d better think of it quickly,” said Hastur. “No. Not A. J. Crowley. Your real name.”

    Crowley nodded mournfully, and drew a complex, wiggly sigil on the paper.

    It glowed redly in the gloom, just for a moment, and then faded: blood-red ink, fiery pomegranate, and black oudh.

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    A Flaming Sword Perfume Oil

    They sat in embarrassed silence, watching the raindrops bruise the first flowers.

    Eventually Crawly said, “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

    “Er,” said the angel. A guilty expression passed across his face, and then came back and camped there.

    “You did, didn’t you?” said Crawly. “It flamed like anything.”

    “Er, well-”

    “It looked very impressive, I thought.”

    “Yes, but, well-”

    “Lost it, have you?”

    “Oh no! No, not exactly lost, more-”

    “Well?”

    Aziraphale looked wretched. “If you must know,” he said, a trifle testily, “I gave it away.”

    Crawly stared up at him.

    “Well, I had to,” said the angel, rubbing his hands distractedly. “They looked so cold, poor things, and she’s expecting already, and what with the vicious animals out there and the storm coming up I thought, well, where’s the harm, so I just said, look, if you come back there’s going to be an almighty row, but you might be needing this sword, so here it is, don’t bother to thank me, just do everyone a big favor and don’t let the sun go down on you here.”

    Fiery red amber and sweet oudh, flickers of honeyed patchouli and red musk, pale white coconut flecks, and crushed peppercorn.

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    Agnes Nutter Perfume Oil

    The mind of Agnes Nutter was so far adrift in Time that she was considered pretty mad even by the standards of seventeenth-century Lancashire, where mad prophetesses were a growth industry.

    Gunpowder, charred wood, smoke, and rusty nails.

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    An Ineffable Game Perfume Oil

    God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players,* to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.

    An ineffable smell: pitch-black vetiver with a strange, sheer patchouli, orange blossom, and fig leaf.

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    Anathema Device Perfume Oil

    She was a bright child, with a pale face, and black eyes and hair. As a rule she tended to make people feel uncomfortable, a family trait she had inherited, along with being more psychic than was good for her, from her great-great-great-great-great grandmother.

    She was precocious, and self-possessed. The only thing about Anathema her teachers ever had the nerve to upbraid her for was her spelling, which was not so much appalling as 300 years too late.

    White sandalwood, blackcurrant, bourbon vanilla, and warm amber.

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    Annales Veteris et Novi Testamenti Perfume Oil

    Archbishop James Usher (1580–1656) published Annales Veteris et Novi Testamenti in 1654, which suggested that the Heaven and the Earth were created in 4004 B.C. One of his aides took the calculation further, and was able to announce triumphantly that the Earth was created on Sunday the 21st of October, 4004 B.C., at exactly 9:00 A.M., because God liked to get work done early in the morning while he was feeling fresh.

    This too was incorrect. By almost a quarter of an hour.

    The whole business with the fossilized dinosaur skeletons was a joke the paleontologists haven’t seen yet.

    Fossilized amber, dusty white sandalwood, galbanum, balsam of Peru, and brown oakmoss.

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    Aziraphale Perfume Oil

    Many people, meeting Aziraphale for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Two of these were wrong; Heaven is not England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort.

    Ethereal musk, blonde woods, and dusty Bible accord.

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    Beelzebub Perfume Oil

    A figure rose from the churning ground in the manner of the demon king in a pantomime, but if this one was ever in a pantomime, it was one where no one walked out alive and they had to get a priest to burn the place down afterwards. It was not greatly different to the other figure, except that its flames were blood-red.

    Black, red, and white pepper buzzing through a brimstone-suffused bloody clove musk.

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    Crowley Perfume Oil

    Nothing about him looked particularly demonic, at least by classical standards. No horns, no wings. Admittedly he was listening to a Best of Queen tape, but no conclusions should be drawn from this because all tapes left in a car for more than a fortnights metamorphose into Best of Queen albums. No particularly demonic thoughts were going through his head. In fact, he was wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.

    Crowley had dark hair, and good cheekbones, and he was wearing snakeskin shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue. And, whenever he forgot himself, he had a tendency to hiss.

    Infernal musk, red patchouli, lilac cologne, mahogany, lemon rind, oakmoss, leather, and vanilla husk.

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    Deeds of the Day Perfume Oil

    “Now we art all here,” said Hastur meaningfully, “we must recount the Deeds of the Day.”

    “Yeah. Deeds,” said Crowley, with the slightly guilty look of one who is attending church for the first time in years and has forgotten which bits you stand up for.

    Hastur cleared his throat.

    “I have tempted a priest,” he said. “As he walked down the street and saw the pretty girls in the sun, I put Doubt into his mind. He would have been a saint, but within a decade we shall have him.”

    “Nice one,” said Crowley, helpfully.

    “I have corrupted a politician,” said Ligur. “I let him think a tiny bribe would not hurt. Within a year we shall have him.”

    They both looked expectantly at Crowley, who gave them a big smile.

    “You’ll like this,” he said.

    His smile became even wider and more conspiratorial.

    “I tied up every portable telephone system in Central London for forty-five minutes at lunchtime,” he said.

    There was silence, except for the distant swishing of cars.

    “Yes?” said Hastur. “And then what?”

    “Look, it wasn’t easy,” said Crowley.

    “That’s all?” said Ligur.

    “Look, people-”

    “And exactly what has that done to secure souls for our master?” said Hastur.

    A wrath for the ages: scorched aluminum and white-hot copper solder, cracked aluminosilicate glass, conflict-full tantalum, and the gingery-bubble of a short-circuiting vibration assembly stewing in a thick, hot black musk.

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    Don’t Touch Perfume Oil

    “You’ve got to admit it’s a bit of a pantomime, though,” said Crawly. “I mean, pointing out the Tree and saying ‘Don’t Touch’ in big letters. Not very subtle, is it? I mean, why not put it on top of a high mountain or a long way off? Makes you wonder what He’s really planning.”

    And Jehovah God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: the green rolling hills of the First Garden, a scattering of apple blossoms and apple pulp, a handful of pomegranate seeds, and a soft, serpentine hiss of poisonous green musk, opoponax, and frankincense.

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    Evil Does Not Sleep Perfume Oil

    Evil in general does not sleep, and therefore doesn’t see why anyone else should. But Crowley liked sleep, it was one of the pleasures of the world. Especially after a heavy meal. He’d slept right through most of the nineteenth century, for example. Not because he needed to, simply because he enjoyed it.

    One of the pleasures of the world. Well, he’d better start really enjoying them now, while there was still time.

    Blackened lavender, red labdanum, sweet hops, and violet leaf.

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    Famine Perfume Oil

    It was not surprising that she had recognized him, for his dark grey eyes stared out from his photo on the foil-embossed cover. Foodless Dieting: Slim Yourself Beautiful, the book was called; The Diet Book of the Century!

    Sleek black tea, tobacco leaf, frankincense, lilac, and white musk.

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    Hastur Perfume Oil

    It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

    It should have been, but that’s the weather for you. For every mad scientist who’s had a convienient thunderstorm just on the night his Great Work is finished and lying on the slab, there have been dozens who’ve sat around aimlessly under the peaceful stars while Igor racks up the overtime.

    But don’t let the fog (with rain later, temperatures dropping to around forty-five degrees) give anyone a false sense of security. Just because it’s a mild night doesn’t mean that dark forces aren’t abroad. They’re abroad all the time. They’re everywhere.

    They always are. That’s the whole point.

    Two of them lurked in a ruined graveyard. Two shadowy figures, one hunched and squat, the other lean and menacing, both of them Olympic-grade lurkers. If Bruce Springsteen had ever recorded “Born to Lurk,” these two would have been on the album cover. They had been lurking in the fog for over an hour now, but they had been pacing themselves and could lurk for the rest of the night if necessary, with still enough sullen menace left for a final burst of lurking around dawn.

    Finally, after another twenty minutes, one of them said: “Bugger this for a lark. He should have been here hours ago.”

    The speaker’s name was Hastur. He was a Duke of Hell.

    Smoky-sour labdanum, black patchouli, wet tobacco, and brimstone.

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    He’d Been an Angel Once Perfume Oil

    He’d been an angel once. He hadn’t meant to Fall. He’d just hung around with the wrong people.

    Sauntering into perdition: leather and smoky musk, damask rose, incense, brimstone, and vetiver.

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    Jasmine Cottage Perfume Oil

    She’d rented the cottage furnished, which meant that the actual furniture was the special sort you find in these circumstances and had probably been left out for the dustmen by the local War on Want shop. It didn’t matter. She didn’t expect to be here long.

    If Agnes was right, she wouldn’t be anywhere long. Nor would anyone else.

    Camellia, jasmine, heather, orange blossom, osmanthus, wisteria, thyme, angelica, freesia, granny’s nightcap, and English wildflowers.

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    Ligur Perfume Oil

    “What’s this Crowley like?” said Ligur.

    Hastur spat. “He’s been up here too long,” he said. “Right from the Start. Gone native, if you ask me. Drives a car with a telephone in it.”

    Ligur pondered this. Like most demons, he had a very limited grasp of technology, and so he was just about to say something like, I bet it needs a lot of wire, when the Bentley rolled to a halt at the cemetery gate.

    Dry olibanum, black moss, soggy ti, khus, and opoponax.

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    Madame Tracy Perfume Oil

    Newt had been amazed to find that Madam Tracy was a middle-aged, motherly soul, whose gentleman callers called as much for a cup of tea and a nice chat as for what little discipline she was still able to exact.

    A coquettish blend of tea rose, ume blossom, geranium, lily of the valley, violet, and heliotrope.

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    Mr. Young Perfume Oil

    He finished thumbing the so-called tobacco into the pipe and glared at the little sign on the wall of the waiting room that said that, for his own comfort, he would not smoke. For his own comfort, he decided, he’d go and stand in the porch. If there was a discreet shrubbery for his own comfort out there, so much the better.

    Pipe tobacco, black tea, starched white cotton, and a very respectable aftershave.

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    Nanny Ashtoreth Perfume Oil

    She wore a knit tweed suit and discreet pearl earrings. Something about her might have said nanny, but it said it in an undertone of the sort employed by British butlers in a certain type of American film. It also coughed discreetly and muttered that she could well be the sort of nanny who advertises unspecified but strangely explicit services in certain magazines.

    Middle Eastern flowers, amber, honey, blood red-berries, whip leather, and polished paddle wood.

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    Old-Fashioned Satanists Perfume Oil

    Most of the members of the convent were old-fashioned Satanists, like their parents and grandparents before them. They’d been brought up to it and weren’t, when you got right down to it, particularly evil. Human beings mostly aren’t. They just get carried away by new ideas, like dressing up in jackboots and shooting people, or dressing up in white sheets and lynching people, or dressing up in tie-dye jeans and playing guitars at people. Offer people a new creed with a costume and their hearts and minds will follow. Anyway, being brought up as a Satanist tended to take the edge off it. It was something you did on Saturday nights. And the rest of the time you simply got on with life as best you could, just like everyone else.

    A homey, marginally-diabolical blend of armchair leather, chamomile tea, cashmere, and a tangle of sweet 7-year aged patchouli.

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    Pepper Perfume Oil

    She herself had short red hair and a face which was not so much freckled as one big freckle with occasional areas of skin.

    Pepper’s given first names were Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. She had been given them in a naming ceremony in a muddy valley field that contained three sick sheep and a number of leaky polythene teepees. Her mother had chosen the Welsh valley of Pant y Gyrdl as the ideal site to Return to Nature. (Six months later, sick of the rain, the mosquitoes, the men, the tent trampling sheep who ate first the whole commune’s marijuana crop and then its antique minibus, and by now beginning to glimpse why almost the entire drive of human history has been an attempt to get as far away from Nature as possible, Pepper’s mother returned to Pepper’s surprised grandparents in Tadfield, bought a bra, and enrolled in a sociology course with a deep sigh of relief.)

    There are only two ways a child can go with a name like Pippin Galadriel Moonchild, and Pepper had chosen the other one: the three male Them had learned this on their first day of school, in the playground, at the age of four.

    They had asked her her name, and, all innocent, she had told them.

    Subsequently a bucket of water had been needed to separate Pippin Galadriel Moonchild’s teeth from Adam’s shoe. Wensleydale’s first pair of spectacles had been broken, and Brian’s sweater needed five stitches.

    The Them were together from then on, and Pepper was Pepper forever, except to her mother, and (when they were feeling especially courageous, and the Them were almost out of earshot) Greasy Johnson and the Johnsonites, the village’s only other gang.

    Wild English roses, French gardenia, vanilla, honey, golden ginger, blood orange, pine resin, pink pepper, crushed berries, tuberose, bergamot, and geranium.

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    Pollution Perfume Oil

    “Excuse me,” barked Tyler. “Is that your crisp packet?”

    “Oh, it’s not just mine,” said the boy. “It’s everybody’s.”

    R.P. Tyler drew himself up to his full height. “Young man,’ he said, “how would you feel if I came over to your house and dropped litter everywhere?”

    Pollution smiled, wistfully. ‘Very, very pleased,’ he breathed.

    “Oh, that would be wonderful.”

    Beneath his bike an oil slick puddled a rainbow on the wet road.

    A toxic chypre: radioactive green musk, davana, and oozing white amber.

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    Shadwell Perfume Oil

    Shadwell had turned out to be about five feet high and wore clothes which, no matter what they actually were, always turned up in your short-term memory as an old mackintosh. The old man may have all his own teeth, but only because no-one else could possibly have wanted them; just one of them, placed under the pillow, would have made the Tooth Fairy hand in its wand.

    He appeared to live entirely on sweet tea, condensed milk, hand-rolled cigarettes, and a sort of sullen internal energy. Shadwell had a Cause, while he followed with the full resources of his soul and his Pensioner’s Concessionary Travel Pass. He believed in it. It powered him like a turbine.

    Roll-ups, mildewed raincoat, sweet tea, and condensed milk.

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    Sister Mary Loquacious Perfume Oil

    Sister Mary Loquacious has been a devout Satanist since birth. She went to Sabbat School as a child and won black stars for handwriting and liver. When she was told to join the Chattering Order she went obediently, having a natural talent in that direction and, in any case, knowing that she would be among friends. She would be quite bright, if she was ever put in a position to find out, but long ago found that being a scatterbrain, as she’d put it, gave you an easier journey through life.

    An effervescent blend of white musk, lemon peel, vanilla incense, and wild bergamot.

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    Slate-Black Clouds Tumbled Over Eden Perfume Oil

    Slate-black curtains tumbled over Eden. Thunder growled among the hills. The animals, freshly named, cowered from the storm. Far away, in the dripping woods, something bright and fiery flickered among the trees. It was going to be a dark and stormy night.

    Clouds massing east of Eden: a rapidly darkening sky blasted by thundercrack of ozone, blast of cold, black rain, punctuated by a thin flicker of amber.

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    The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast That is Called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness Perfume Oil

    “Is that him?” said Sister Mary, staring at the baby. “Only I’d expected funny eyes. Red, or green. Or teensy-weensy little hoofikins. Or a widdle tail.” She turned him around as she spoke. No horns either. The Devil’s child looked ominously normal.

    “Yes, that’s him,” said Crowley.

    “Fancy me holding the Antichrist,” said Sister Mary. “And bathing the Antichrist. And counting his little toesy-wosies…”

    Baby powder, goat’s milk, and a distant whiff of brimstone.

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    The Buggre Alle This Bible Perfume Oil

    The book was commonly known as the Buggre Alle This Bible. The lengthy compositor’s error, if such it may be called, occurs in the book of Ezekiel, chapter 48, verse five:

    2. And bye the border of Dan, fromme the east side to the west side, a portion for Afher.
    3. And bye the border of Afhter, fromme the east side even untoe the west side, a portion for Naphtali.
    4. And bye the border of Naphtali, from the east side untoe the west side, a portion for Manaffeh.
    5. Buggre all this for a Larke. I amme sick to mye Hart of typefettinge. Master Biltonn if no Gentelmann, and Master Scagges noe more than a tighte fisted Southwarke Knobbefticke. I telle you, onne a daye laike thif Ennywone half an oz. of Sense should bee oute in the Sunneshain, ane nott Stucke here alle the liuelong daie inn thif mowldey olde By-Our-Lady Workefhoppe.
    6 And bye the border of Ephraim, from the east fide even untoe the west fide, a portion for Reuben.

    [The Buggre Alle This Bible was also noteworthy for having twenty seven verses in the third chapter of Genesis, instead of the more usual twenty four.

    They followed verse 24, which in the King James version reads:

    “So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life,” and read:

    25 And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee?
    26 And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next.
    27 And the Lord did not ask him again.

    It appears that these verses were inserted during the proof stage. In those days it was common practice for printers to hang proof sheets to the wooden beams outside their shops, for the edification of the populace and some free proofreading, and since the whole print run was subsequently burned anyway, no one bothered to take up this matter with the nice Mr. A. Ziraphale, who ran the bookshop two doors along and was always so helpful with the translations, and whose handwriting was instantly recognizable.]

    Crumbling paper and ancient cracked leather with a touch of tobacco leaf and incense.

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    The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch Perfume Oil

    Anathema Device – her mother, who was not a great student of religious matters, happened to read the word one day and thought it was a lovely name for a girl—was eight and a half years old, and she was reading The Book, under the bedclothes, with a torch.

    Other children learned to read on basic primers with colored pictures of apples, balls, cockroaches, and so forth. Not the Device family. Anathema had learned to read from The Book.

    It didn’t have any apples and balls in it. It did have a rather good eighteenth-century woodcut of Agnes Nutter being burned at the stake and looking rather cheerful about it.

    The first word she could recognize was nice. Very few people at the age of eight and a half know that nice also means “scrupulously exact,” but Anathema was one of them.

    The second word was accurate.

    The first sentence she had ever read out loud was:

    “I tell ye thif, and I charge ye with my wordes. Four shalle ryde, and Four shalle alfo ryde, and Three sharl ryde the Skye as twixt, and Wonne shal ryde in flames; and theyr shall be no stopping themme: not fish, nor rayne, nor rode, neither Deville nor Angel. And ye shalle be theyr alfo, Anathema.”

    Anathema liked to read about herself.

    (There were books which caring parents who read the right Sunday papers could purchase with their children’s names printed in as the heroine or hero. This was meant to interest the child in the book. In Anathema’s case, it wasn’t only her in The Book—and it had been spot on so far—but her parents, and her grandparents, and everyone, back to the seventeenth century. She was too young and too self-centered at this point to attach any importance to the fact that there was no mention made of her children, or indeed, any events in her future further away than eleven years’ time. When you’re eight and a half, eleven years is a lifetime, and of course, if you believed The Book, it would be.)

    A seventeenth-century tome, pages lined with witching herbs and lightly spattered by gunpowder residue.

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    Three Rounds, One Fall, No Submission Perfume Oil

    Crowley thumped the wheel. Everything had been going so well, he’d had it really under his thumb these few centuries. That’s how it goes, you think you’re on top of the world, and suddenly they spring Armageddon on you. The Great War, the Last Battle. Heaven versus Hell, three rounds, one Fall, no submission. And that’d be that. No more world. That’s what the end of the world meant. No more world. Just endless Heaven or, depending who won, endless Hell. Crowley didn’t know which was worse.

    Well, Hell was worse, of course, by definition. But Crowley remembered what Heaven was like, and it had quite a few things in common with Hell. You couldn’t get a decent drink in either of them, for a start. And the boredom you got in Heaven was almost as bad as the excitement you got in Hell.

    Beatific gardenia, virtuous lemon flower, and sacred frankincense clashing with infernal musk, a burst of sulphur, and a little bit of hellfire.

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    War Perfume Oil

    She finished the drink, hefted the sword over one shoulder, and looked around at the puzzled factions, who now encircled her completely. ‘Sorry to run out on you, chaps,’ she said. ‘Would love to stay and get to know you better.’

    The men in the room suddenly realized they didn’t want to know her better. She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful: something to be admired from a distance, but not up close.

    And she held her sword, and she smiled like a knife.

    Red ginger, black spices, patchouli, honeysuckle, and three blood-soaked red musks.

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    Wensleydale Perfume Oil

    “My father says there’s no such thing as witches,” said Wensleydale, who had fair, wavy hair, and peered seriously out at life through thick black rimmed spectacles. It was widely believed that he had once been christened Jeremy, but no one ever used the name, not even his parents, who called him Youngster. They did this in the subconscious hope that he might take the hint; Wensleydale gave the impression of having been born with a mental age of forty seven.

    An immaculately clean scent: well-scrubbed soapy skin and fresh cotton.

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