Blood AmberSelect options
Slivers of warm, pulsating blood forever crystallized in golden amber resin.
Blood PopsicleRead More
The scent of frozen Type O negative.
Blood SquibAdd to cart
Centzon TotochtinSelect options
The Four Hundred divine rabbits of the Aztec pantheon that preside over parties and drunkenness.
Bittersweet Mexican cocoa with rum, red wine, and a scent redolent of sacrificial blood.
Eau de GhoulAdd to cart
They all started telling stories, then, of how fine and wonderful a thing it was to be a ghoul, of all the things they had crunched up and swallowed down with their powerful teeth. Impervious they were to disease or illness, said one of them. Why, it didn't matter what their dinner had died of, they could just chomp it down. They told of the places they had been, which mostly seemed to be catacombs and plague-pits (“Plague Pits is good eatin',” said the Emperor of China, and everyone agreed.) They told Bod how they had got their names and how he, in his turn, once he had become a nameless ghoul, would be named, as they had been.
“But I don't want to become one of you,” said Bod.
“One way or another,” said the Bishop of Bath and Wells, cheerily, “you'll become one of us. The other way is messier, involves being digested, and you're not really around very long to enjoy it.”
“But that's not a good thing to talk about,” said the Emperor of China.”Best to be a Ghoul. We're afraid of nuffink!”
And all the ghouls around the coffin-wood fire howled at this statement, and growled and sang and exclaimed at how wise they were, and how mighty, and how fine it was to be scared of nothing.
Dessicated skin coated in blackened ginger, cinnamon, and mold-flecked dirt, with cumin, bitter clove, leather, and dried blood.
Leather, musk, blood, and steel.
Five Golden RingsAdd to cart
Four Calling Birds
Three French Hens
Two Turtle Doves and a
Partridge in a Pear Tree
Luminous golden amber, lemon peel, and royal agarwood, tonka bean and bone-white orris, and a splash of blood.
God’s Own CountryAdd to cart
“Yes, it’s still God’s Own Country,” said the announcer, a news reporter pronouncing the final tag line. “The only question is, which gods?”
Circuit boards, cathode rays, and exhaust ramming against frankincense, myrrh, soil, and blood.
HemophobiaAdd to cart
Fear of Blood
Crimson splatter, pulsating with blackened vetiver.
HinzelmannAdd to cart
Where Hinzelmann had been standing stood a male child, no more than five years old. His hair was dark brown, and long. He was perfectly naked, save for a worn leather band around his neck. He was pierced with two swords, one of them going through his chest, the other entering at his shoulder, with the point coming out beneath the rib-cage. Blood flowed through the wounds without stopping and ran down the child’s body to pool and puddle on the floor. The swords looked unimaginably old.
The little boy stared up at Shadow with eyes that held only pain.
And Shadow thought to himself, of course. That’s as good a way as any other of making a tribal god. He did not have to be told. He knew.
You take a baby and you bring it up in the darkness, letting it see no one, touch no one, and you feed it well as the years pass, feed it better than any of the village’s other children, and then, five winters on, when the night is at its longest, you drag the terrified child out of its hut and into the circle of bonfires, and you pierce it with blades of iron and of bronze. Then you smoke the small body over charcoal fires until it is properly dried, and you wrap it in furs and carry it with you from encampment to encampment, deep in the Black Forest, sacrificing animals and children to it, making it the luck of the tribe. When, eventually, the thing falls apart from age, you place its fragile bones in a box, and you worship the box; until one day the bones are scattered and forgotten, and the tribes who worshipped the child-god of the box are long gone; and the child-god, the luck of the village, will be barely remembered, save as a ghost or a brownie: a kobold.
Shadow wondered which of the people who had come to northern Wisconsin 150 years ago, a woodcutter, perhaps, or a mapmaker, had crossed the Atlantic with Hinzelmann living in his head.
And then the bloody child was gone, and the blood, and there was only an old man with a fluff of white hair and a goblin smile, his sweater-sleeves still soaked from putting Shadow into the bath that had saved his life.
The luck of the tribe: black pine pitch and gouts of blood, darkness and bonfires that cast long shadows.
All mystique and thrumming power: gurjum balsam, Sumatran dragon's blood resin, olibanum, galangal, oleo gum resin, and frankincense.
MithrasAdd to cart
“…You run into Mithras yet? Red cap. Nice kid.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well . . . I’ve never seen Mithras around here. He was an army brat. Maybe he’s back in the Middle East, taking it easy, but I expect he’s probably gone by now. It happens. One day every soldier in the empire has to shower in the blood of your sacrificial bull. The next they don’t even remember your birthday.”
Oblations of milk, oil, honey, and blood.
PlutonianAdd to cart
Once the world’s greatest, most beloved superhero, he has now become its greatest villain — a capricious and vengeful god who haunts the skies and toys daily with six billion lives.
Soapy cleanliness sullied by blood and ashes.
Storyboard: Julius CaesarAdd to cart
Lilith has been taking kiddo Shakespeare classes for the past four years, and absolutely loves them. Last year, they did a mini-series focusing on Julius Caesar, King Lear, and the Tempest. The kids analyze the plays, and perform scenes from them; then, at the end of the cycle, they put together a play of their own based on the themes in the works of Shakespeare that they have studied. Their play this time around was entitled Evil Bunny.
Lilith performed as Marc Antony, and showed off her orator skills. Hearing Lilith speak at Caesar’s funeral gave me the chills. She came to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
Macerated myrrh, rose petals, and iris with frankincense and a splash of blood.
The Blood GardenAdd to cart
Vast open tents have been erected further down the lane. Ornately carved wooden poles support swaths of drooping black lace and blood-crusted burgundy velvet. Grapevines and ivy creep over the beams in the tent and curl like cocoons around bodies that hang upside-down in the caliginous gloom of the tents. Within the shadows, pale figures recline on divans covered in moldering, frayed fabric. As you pass, a feral, white-haired man hoists a tall-stemmed crystal glass of deep red liquid in a toast to you.
Blood accord, bitter clove, English ivy, Tempranillo grape, red currant, oak, leather, blackberry leaf, and ginger lily.
The CarouselAdd to cart
Calliope music played: a Strauss waltz, stirring and occasionally discordant. The wall as they entered was hung with antique carousel horses, hundreds of them, some in need of a lick of paint, others in need of a good dusting; above them hung dozens of winged angels constructed rather obviously from female store-window mannequins; some of them bared their sexless breasts; some had lost their wigs and stared baldly and blindly down from the darkness.
And then there was the carousel.
A sign proclaimed it was the largest in the world, said how much it weighed, how many thousand lightbulbs were to be found in the chandeliers that hung from it in Gothic profusion, and forbade anyone from climbing on it or from riding on the animals.
And such animals! Shadow stared, impressed in spite of himself, at the hundreds of full-sized creatures who circled on the platform of the carousel. Real creatures, imaginary creatures, and transformations of the two: each creature was different. He saw mermaid and merman, centaur and unicorn, elephants (one huge, one tiny), bulldog, frog and phoenix, zebra, tiger, manticore and basilisk, swans pulling a carriage, a white ox, a fox, twin walruses, even a sea serpent, all of them brightly colored and more than real: each rode the platform as the waltz came to an end and a new waltz began. The carousel did not even slow down.
“What’s it for?” asked Shadow. “I mean, okay, world’s biggest, hundreds of animals, thousands of lightbulbs, and it goes around all the time, and no one ever rides it.”
“It’s not there to be ridden, not by people,” said Wednesday. “It’s there to be admired. It’s there to be.”
A place of power and possibility, of gods diabolical and celestial: glowing amber and heady cinnamon, the green of growing things and the white of thunderclaps, sweet myrrh and sacred styrax, forest moss and blood-soaked battlefields, papyrus and clay, rose petals, wildflowers, abbatoirs, and honey.
The ChapelAdd to cart
You come to a building that seems to have been hastily erected from splintered wood, stone, and plaster. Flickering light from within sparkles out through blood-tinged chunks of glass that have been wedged into the arch entrance. You push open the thick velvet curtain that covers the mouth of the building and look inside. The chapel is small and cramped, and the air is thick with heavy incense, bitter wine, sulphur, and the coppery scent of blood. A massive stained glass window is set against the back wall, glowing brightly.
In the center of the room, a groveling figure is crouched before a woman draped in purple-black clerical robes. The woman's eyes are filled with righteous hellfire, and she extends a hand in benediction to the man who has fallen prostrate at her feet. He murmurs, “Libera Te Ex Caelum”, and she gestures for him to rise. As he gets to his knees he winces in pain and moans in a strange expression of ecstasy, and you see small horns growing from his skull.
Black incense, bitter wine, brimstone, bile, and blood.
The Cracked BellAdd to cart
How bittersweet it is, on winter’s night,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Lucky the bell — still full and deep of throat,
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent —
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
Like some poor wounded wretch — long left for dead
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
By bloody pool — rattling, gasping his last.
A winter’s horror: smoke and stillness, faded incense and the metallic tang of blood.
The Edge of DoomAdd to cart
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
The night flight from Tangier: drops of spilled blood color the antiseptic, bland, plastic paleness of the fuselage, with violet leaf for longing, rosemary for reminiscences, and black opoponax for apprehension.
The Head of HolofernesAdd to cart
And when it was grown late, his servants made haste to their lodgings, and Vagao shut the chamber doors, and went his way.
And they were all overcharged with wine.
And Judith was alone in the chamber.
But Holofernes lay on his bed, fast asleep, being exceedingly drunk.
And Judith spoke to her maid to stand without before the chamber, and to watch:
And Judith stood before the bed praying with tears, and the motion of her lips in silence,
Saying: Strengthen me, O Lord God of Israel, and in this hour look on the works of my hands, that as thou hast promised, thou mayst raise up Jerusalem thy city: and that I may bring to pass that which I have purposed, having a belief that it might be done by thee.
And when she had said this, she went to the pillar that was at his bed’s head, and loosed his sword that hung tied upon it.
And when she had drawn it out, she took him by the hair of his head, and said: Strengthen me, O Lord God, at this hour.
And she struck twice upon his neck, and out off his head, and took off his canopy from the pillars, and rolled away his headless body.
And after a while she went out, and delivered the head of Holofernes to her maid, and bade her put it into her wallet.
And they two went out according to their custom, as it were to prayer, and they passed the camp, and having compassed the valley, they came to the gate of the city.
And Judith from afar off cried to the watchmen upon the walls: Open the gates for God is with us, who hath shewn his power in Israel.
And it came to pass, when the men had heard her voice, that they called the ancients of the city.
And all ran to meet her from the least to the greatest: for they now had no hopes that she would come.
And lighting up lights they all gathered round about her: and she went up to a higher place, and commanded silence to be made. And when all had held their peace,
Judith said: Praise ye the Lord our God, who hath not forsaken them that hope in him.
And by me his handmaid he hath fulfilled his mercy, which he promised to the house of Israel: and he hath killed the enemy of his people by my hand this night.
Then she brought forth the head of Holofernes out of the wallet, and shewed it them, saying:
Behold the head of Holofernes the general of the army of the Assyrians, and behold his canopy, wherein he lay in his drunkenness, where the Lord our God slew him by the hand of a woman.
Dried blood, boiled wine, leather, galbanum, onycha, tonka bean, and pomegranate.
The Hellish Tattoo of The HeartAdd to cart
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am.
Blood musk and pulsating black pepper, a throb of bitter almond, and cracked pimento.
The Sea Foams BloodSelect options
When you return go alone, just you and the children and when you approach the beach then call for me:
If alive, may the sea foam milk
If dead, may the sea foam blood…
And if you see coming towards you foaming milk then know that I am still alive, but if blood comes then I have reached my end. While you, my children, let not the secret out, do not let anyone know how to call for me.
Blood rising through an ocean wave.
TranseoAdd to cart
The Transeo are vampires that have assimilated into human society, often reaching positions of power. Among the Transeo there are many celebrated politicians, scientists, businessmen, philosophers, artists, writers, and musicians, and, surprisingly, a large number of influential clergy and militarists. Not every Transeo is an illustrious public figure; many simply desire the comforts associated with reentering society. In the past, most Transeo posed as humans as best they could, concealing their true natures. In the twenty-first century, more and more Transeo are coming out in the open, and they form the backbone of most vampire-acceptance movements.
GA cologne that (almost) blends well into human society: benzoin, orange blossom, cumin, King mandarin, gaiac wood, juniper berry, Calabrian bergamot, Ceylon cinnamon, and blood camouflaged by wine.
“Take it, then,” the Tsar said, “and bid her do it for me.” The old woman brought the linen home and told Vasilissa the Tsar's command: “Well I knew that the work would needs be done by my own hands,” said Vasilissa, and, locking herself in her own room, began to make the shirts. So fast and well did she work that soon a dozen were ready. Then the old woman carried them to the Tsar, while Vasilissa washed her face, dressed her hair, put on her best gown and sat down at the window to see what would happen. And presently a servant in the livery of the Palace came to the house and entering, said: “The Tsar, our lord, desires himself to see the clever needlewoman who has made his shirts and to reward her with his own hands.”
Vasilissa rose and went at once to the Palace, and as soon as the Tsar saw her, he fell in love with her with all his soul. He took her by her white hand and made her sit beside him. “Beautiful maiden,” he said, “never will I part from thee and thou shalt be my wife.”
So the Tsar and Vasilissa the Beautiful were married, and her father returned from the far-distant Tsardom, and he and the old woman lived always with her in the splendid Palace, in all joy and contentment. And as for the little wooden doll, she carried it about with her in her pocket all her life long.
She herself had cheeks like blood and milk and grew every day more and more beautiful.
Creamy skin musk and blushing pink musk with soft sandalwood, white amber, dutiful myrrh, and star jasmine.