The Scent of Desire

He does not float. Grappled by the river’s currents, tumbled in the arms of the river, as he had tumbled in the arms of the demon, he speeds along the silted terrain where suicides have left their bones. He has become a citizen of the dark, turbulent country of the watery dead, deep under the darting fish bellies, under the silver flashes and nonjudgmental eyes of those who regard him merely as provender. But he is not a suicide, nor yet some murderer’s prey. He is a sacrifice on the altar of desire, eager and aghast at once, his heart a delicacy served up in its bloody sauce of folly. He felt it beat just once as she ground it between her teeth, and even then, he reached for her.

***

Tess never wore watches, there was no point. Their delicate workings twisted and ground to a halt after a few hours on her wrist. She knew it was late, though, even without the glaring numerals of the dashboard clock, which had also died from its repeated proximity to her over the years. The grit in her eyes and the heavy, pounding surf in her head told her so. She had meant to arrive hours ago. She switched off the Jeep’s ignition and leaned back in her seat, eyes closed. It would be so easy to drift off to sleep, even with the early December cold sliding into the car with her. Sliding its wintry hands inside her leather jacket, tickling gooseflesh along her ribs, brushing her nipples. With a jolt, Tess sat up, hugging around her what warmth was left. She glanced at the little Edwardian compass on the passenger seat beside her. Its brass filigree dial, reminiscent of a fine clockwork, showed no directional points. Arcane sigils wrought in gold glowed like embers along its perimeter, and the quartz needle at its navel bobbed gently but remained in a neutral position. She pocketed the compass, opened her door, and stepped out onto the cracked concrete of the drive. With more weary trepidation than curiosity, she looked up at the faded green Victorian where her partner slept, then over her shoulder at the dark street. Her fingers twitched, wishing for a fistful of salt for the doorsill.

Nick had left the front door unlocked. Tess eased it shut behind her and slung her battered canvas backpack into the darkness of the vestibule. In the front room, she removed her boots, dropping them by the newel post on her way upstairs. Silent in wool socks, she avoided the creaky spots on the winding stair as though she’d lived there all her life. She stopped on the second-floor landing and listened. From behind a closed door to her right came the sound of Nick asleep, deep even breathing interspersed with the occasional mutter of conversation. Despite the reason for her tardiness, Tess smiled. He always talked in his sleep when he was worried, and she knew she worried him more than most people. She should have called earlier, when she knew she’d be late, but the reason wasn’t something she could deliver over the phone.

Opening the door, she crossed to the bed and looked down on her partner. He had twisted the comforter, and clasped it to him like a wrestler trying to choke out an opponent. One leg, clad in grey sweatpants, pinned the quilted material firmly to the bed. His dark hair made a fan on the pillow above one ear where he pressed his face into the flannel and hung over his visible eye in a hank like a crow’s wing. Tess put out her hand to brush it back but stopped. Instead, she knelt beside the bed and placed her hand on his bare shoulder, her face close to his.

“Nick,” She breathed his name into the dream world.

The blue eye opened, sharp and focused. “Where have you been?” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Nick…” she hesitated, arranging the words in her mind before opting for bluntness, “JD’s dead. I’ve been at the morgue.”

***

The Victorian’s kitchen was long and narrow, brick-floored and wainscoted. It had never been meant to be anything but utilitarian, but someone had tried for modernity with glass fronted cabinetry. At the end of the kitchen, a brick fireplace hung open its sooty mouth, and yawned at Tess as she perched on a stool beside an old butcher’s block. She watched in silence as Nick put the kettle on the gas ring of the stove, and pulled two heavy white mugs from a drying rack beside the enormous soapstone sink.

“Tea or cocoa?” He opened a drawer, and rummaged through a loose jumble of utensils for spoons.

“Nick, it’s not your fault. JD got careless. He knew the risks.”

Nick turned toward her and held up the spoons, one eyebrow raised. “Tea,” he brandished one spoon, “or cocoa?” He wagged the second spoon at her.

She sighed, “Tea. I don’t suppose you have Earl Grey?”

“Of course, I do. I even have lemon.”

He swung open the door of the refrigerator and disappeared behind it. Tess scrubbed her face with both hands and swept her hair back. Nick’s stony composure since they’d listened to the messages on his phone twisted her heart. JD Connelly’s voice had transformed from hearty to terrified in the space of three hours, five messages telling the tale of his demise with greater poignancy than had his body on the slab in the morgue. With her finger, Tess traced the dead man’s initials across the battered oak of the butcher’s block, where they flared with dull fire among the cleaver scars. She glanced at Nick, but his attention was focused on the steeping of tea in the fat white pot, the precise loading of the tea tray. A rich scent of bergamot rose on the air along with sharp lemon and honey, warm and floral, in the little amber jar she’d given him for his birthday—the one shaped like a bee skep. She watched him relax into the simple ritual of making tea, and her hand made a languid sweep across the glimmering letters, extinguishing them.

Nick brought the tray to the ersatz table, and slumped on a second stool. He waved a hand at the tea things.

“Help yourself. There aren’t any cookies. I haven’t had a chance to go to the market this week, sorry.”

Tess, leaning against the wainscoting, studied him for a long moment until he looked away with a soft curse. She straightened, reached for the teapot, and poured for them both. From the inner pocket of her jacket, she withdrew a plain silver flask, and added a generous measure from it to each mug.

“Here,” she said, setting a steaming cup in front of Nick, “drink this.”

He lifted it and sniffed. “What did you put in here?”

“Bushmill’s,” She clinked his cup with her own, lifted it to her lips, and closed her eyes as she savored the rich addition of the whiskey.

“Slainte,” Nick took a deep swallow, “God, that’s the ticket.”

He stared into the depths of his cup as though divining the future.

“We have to find the item JD was bringing here. The perfume jar. You’re sure it wasn’t on him? In a coat pocket?”

Tess sipped the whiskey-laced tea and never took her eyes from Nick.

“He wasn’t wearing a coat. Or any shoes. I looked through his clothes. I went back to the motel and searched his room and his car. The jar isn’t there.” She shifted on the stool, cleared her throat, “I think he hid it.”

Nick sighed, “Why would he do that? It wasn’t anything a thief would think was valuable.”

Tess set her cup down with exaggerated precision. She looked at the tired, drawn expression on her partner’s face. She looked at the wariness in his eyes. He knew what she was going to say, and she knew she would say it anyway.

“I liked JD. He was sweet, you couldn’t help but like him. But I know he hid the jar, because he was also a crooked, thieving little shit who thought he’d soak us a bit for it. He never intended to just retrieve it.” She warmed to her theme, “The greedy bastard broke the seal and opened it, because he just had to see what was in there, in case it was something he could sell to a higher bidder. You know he never believed anything we told him. He thought we had some kind of black-market business in relics going. He was an opportunist, Nick. We should never have trusted him to go on his own.”

Nick stood and gathered up the tea things. His face was set, lips compressed. As he turned to carry the tray to the sink, he said, “It’s late, we’re both tired. We can talk about it in the morning. Guest room’s on the left of the landing. Go to bed, Tess.”

She stood and left the room without another word. As she put her foot on the first tread of the staircase, she heard the smashing of crockery against the kitchen wall.

... To be continued