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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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  The Drunkard’s Dream Perfume Oil

  The drunk in the graveyard raised his bottle to his lips. One of the gravestones flipped over, revealing a grasping corpse; a headstone turned around, flowers replaced by a grinning skull. A wraith appeared on the right of the church, while on the left of the church something with a half-glimpsed, pointed, unsettlingly birdlike face, a pale, Boschian nightmare, glided smoothly from a headstone into the shadows and was gone. Then the church door opened, a priest came out, and the ghosts, haunts, and corpses vanished, and only the priest and the drunk were left alone in the graveyard. The priest looked down at the drunk disdainfully, and backed through the open door, which closed behind him, leaving the drunk on his own.

  The clockwork story was deeply unsettling. Much more unsettling, thought Shadow, than clockwork has any right to be.

  “You know why I show that to you?” asked Czernobog.

  “No.”

  “That is the world as it is. That is the real world. It is there, in that box.”

  Red currant and labdanum with opoponax, vetiver, grave moss, white sandalwood, and khus.

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  Oblivion Perfume Oil

  Salvation found in darkness beyond darkness, the blessed sleep of nothingness. Dark musk, wood spice, labdanum, patchouli, dark African woods, and saffron.

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  The Buffalo Man Perfume Oil

  Darkness; a sensation of falling—as if he were tumbling down a great hole, like Alice. He fell for a hundred years into darkness. Faces passed him, swimming out of the black, then each face was ripped up and away before he could touch it . . .

  Abruptly, and without transition, he was not falling. Now he was in a cave, and he was no longer alone. Shadow stared into familiar eyes: huge, liquid black eyes. They blinked.

  Under the earth: yes. He remembered this place. The stink of wet cow. Firelight flickered on the wet cave walls, illuminating the buffalo head, the man’s body, skin the color of brick clay.

  “Can’t you people leave me be?” asked Shadow. “I just want to sleep.”

  The buffalo man nodded, slowly. His lips did not move, but a voice in Shadow’s head said, “Where are you going, Shadow?”

  “Cairo.”

  “Why?”

  “Where else have I got to go? It’s where Wednesday wants me to go. I drank his mead.” In Shadow’s dream, with the power of dream logic behind it, the obligation seemed unarguable: he drank Wednesday’s mead three times, and sealed the pact—what other choice of action did he have?

  The buffalo-headed man reached a hand into the fire, stirring the embers and the broken branches into a blaze. “The storm is coming,” he said. Now there was ash on his hands, and he wiped it onto his hairless chest, leaving soot-black streaks.

  “So you people keep telling me. Can I ask you a question?”

  There was a pause. A fly settled on the furry forehead. The buffalo man flicked it away. “Ask.”

  “Is this true? Are these people really gods? It’s all so . . .” He paused. Then he said, “impossible,” which was not exactly the word he had been going for but seemed to be the best he could do.

  “What are gods?” asked the buffalo man.

  “I don’t know,” said Shadow.

  Warm dark brown musk, woodsmoke, and deep pools of labdanum.

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