The Big Bad II

by John G. Hartness

  “I know that,” he said. “You make emotions, create desires, and change destinies with what you distill.”

  I remained silent, unsure of what he else knew.

  “But unlike the moonshine your kind is so obsessed with,” he continued, “the liquor you create is a much more potent brew, isn’t it?”

  “Perfume is not a beverage, sir.” I kept my voice calm despite my rising ire.

  “No, but you don’t really make scents, do you? At least not only that.” He uncapped a bottle, pulled out a long stopper and sniffed. “Subtle. Coy. What does this liquid do? Bring good luck?”

  My patience was gone. “What do you want, Patterson?”

  “So, you know me?” His grin was a rictus, frozen and tight. “No matter,” he continued. “I have taken a shine to a particular lady, but try as I might, I cannot seem to convince her of my charm.”

  The gossip circles around town were close-knit but when the upper classes came to me for scents, their tongues loosened. Madame Nourti had recently come to Charleston from Europe and the Holy City had taken to the young widow with her snapping black eyes and softly accented words. Her money helped. “So be charming instead of frightening.”

  “I can’t be what I’m not. At least not without help.” He ran a gloved finger over the head of his cane. “I will pay you for your craft, you know.”

  The slight yellowing of his gloves belied his words. He’d been moneyed once, but with the rumor of indiscretion, his family had cut their ties to him. “Then I suggest you send the lady flowers, sugar candy—praline, perhaps—and ask for an audience to discuss her interests.”

  “Done and done to no avail, I’m afraid.”

  “Then she doesn’t have—”

  He slammed his cane down on the hardwood floor. “She has everything and I will have her!” He calmed himself with effort.

  I moved away from Patterson, whose eyes had grown feverish. Perspiration lay heavy on his pallid face and dampened the collar of his shirt, making it lose its starch. The generous application of wax did little to tame his rioting hair. His hands clutched and released the curved head of his beech wood walking stick as if his hands wanted—no, needed—something to grasp. Behind my counter, I felt more secure. “Find yourself someone who wants to share your time, sir. And that someone is not me.”

  “Just as well,” he said, his gaze lingering on the bare expanse of arm showing under my rolled-up sleeves. “My tastes run toward a more elevated woman.” He turned on his heel and stormed out of my shop.

  Bastard, I thought, grateful to have him gone.

  ***

  When I arrived at Voodooesque the next day, there was a dove struggling on the door. As I got closer, I noticed the long thin blade, perhaps one that came from a cane, securing its white breast directly under my sign. It struggled and cooed in fear and pain. A card dangled from the hilt of the blade.

  I examined the bird from the one exposed side but it was no use; I couldn’t save it. Once I removed the blade, it would die quickly. To lessen the cruelty, I broke its neck, removed the knife, and hurried inside.

  The card read: An ingredient, perhaps?

  Fuming, I lay the dove on one of my worktables. Through my anger at Patterson’s actions—putting me at risk of being discovered by the police—I managed to open its fragile chest and extract the still warm heart.

  I shaved away a little of the bone necklace with a sharp knife and let the fragments fall into a mortar. Later I would make the love potion that required a dove’s heart because I didn’t believe in wasting a life. But now, my time would be put toward a potion to satisfy a most difficult customer.

  ***

  Patterson

  I came home to find a box waiting on the stair. Surprised no one had taken it, I brought it inside to the hall table. A design made by paintbrush matched the ones I’d seen in the conjure woman’s shop. Now, I didn’t want to open it. I wanted to savor the moment of this victory, holding the taste in my mouth like an expensive sweet. I removed a penknife from my pocket and cut the indigo twine, careful to avoid a tear in the brown wrapping paper.

  As I removed the box inside, there was a hint of...no, it was gone. A chill ran through me and I decided to delight in my spoils by the fire, glass of cognac at the ready.

  The box was weighty for its size, but I was no stranger to items of cost. When I was in favor with my family, I’d worn a special scent while wooing each of my former acquaintances, and I rid myself of that bottle of fragrance when I disposed of the woman.

  Now that I’d gone through most of my money, I needed another benefactor, another woman with wealth. I’d made a misstep with Catherine and lost her affections before I could marry her substantial fortune. I would be careful not to make the same errors with Madame Nourti.

  I was careful not to purchase at the same place twice. Most of the stores on upper King Street had benefitted from my patronage. Should any of the dimwitted police stumble upon the remains of one of my former romances, they would find the bottles and start to ask questions of those merchants. Voodooesque was further down to lower King Street, on the edge of the privileged shopping district, closer to where the Negroes lived. Since the store opened it had drawn clientele from the upper echelons, promising unique fragrances to suit any taste.

  I opened the box.

  Inside, a glass bottle lay on top of dry, sweet-smelling hay. A stiff card lay on top, obscuring the bottle, and seemed to float above the box’s contents. No name was on the envelope, only the same symbol from the shop’s sign, entwined branches and stars. I lifted the wax seal and removed the instructions. Written in elegant script were the words:

  To Bring Heart’s Desire~

  Two drops only. Every day for seven days. These drops may be placed anywhere on the body. On the eighth day, double this amount.

  Do not see your love before day eight.

  I opened the stopper and sniffed at the unrecognizable scent. There was no time for me to go through this trial. My need was so great there would be no rest for me until Madame Nourti’s pulse stopped under my tightening hand.

  No, eight days was too much. I placed the bottle back in the box. I needed to see the conjure woman again. Not at the shop this time, but in her home.

  ***

  I first learned of Lillian Moultrie some years before in one of the seedier areas of town my family would be horrified to associate me with. It was said in these circles that if you needed a situation addressed in a particular manner, she was the person upon whom to call. For the right amount of coin, she would take the matter into her own hands, while you busied yourself elsewhere.

  Ten years passed before I needed to avail myself of her talents. My parents had refused to continue to fund my dalliances and my wealthy fiancée had refused my visits ever since she had caught a whiff of my improprieties. Unfortunately, I’d indulged in too much drink and did not take my usual precautions to hide my randy behavior from her wide-eyed innocence.

  To my chagrin, when I arrived at the woman’s residence it was dark and without movement, even though the sun had not yet dipped below the trees.

  “Eugene!” The sound of the hearty voice to my left made me grimace and I had to cover my response hastily. Roger Pettigrew crossed the street, niftily avoiding carriage horses and their waste. He puffed up beside me. “How go things?”

  “As well as ever, I expect.” Roger had always been lucky in business and I felt envy creep upon me whenever we talked. His paunch spoke to the fact that he’d never had to eat a lean meal.

  “Yes, the same here. Just came from a fitting for my formal dinner jacket. Are you going to Madame Nourti’s ball?”

  I had wheedled an invitation by calling in the last of my favors from family ties. “I would never miss it.”

  Pettigrew adjusted his lapels and opened his mouth to speak some effervescent nonsense. It was then
that the lights went on and I saw a silhouette move inside the carriage house.

  “Another time, Roger,” I said to his stunned visage. “I’ve remembered an appointment.”

  ***

  Lillian

  I set the glass bottle in the young quadroon girl’s trembling hands.

  “Dampen your fingertip with this liquid everyday and touch it behind your ears.” She nodded as I continued, eyes downcast. “It smells quite elegant, but it will cause him to lose his desire for you and maybe you will find some peace. Don’t drop it,” I warned.

  “Nah, Miz Lillian.” The girl started at the sound of her thickened drawl that hadn’t been present when she arrived. She’d been trying to pass for white and had made a mistake that in the right—or wrong—circumstances meant grave danger. The fear in her eyes as she lifted them to mine made my heart seize.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, as I pressed her cold hands closer around the perfume bottle. “I say nothing of what I see.”

  She gave me a halting smile.

  “Go on home now,” I urged, a prickling sensation climbing up my spine. It crawled up my back to my neck, making my very flesh itch. “I’m about to have a visitor.”

  ***

  Patterson

  Lillian poured the sherry herself. I’d always thought it the height of hypocrisy that when darkies began to make their own money, the first thing they doled out for was a servant of their own. Ridiculous.

  “I’ve given Ling the day off. Since she has taken to Catholicism, she never misses a Sunday mass.” She sipped from her glass. “Funny how recent converts seem to be the most devout.”

  I had to agree as I looked around her drawing room. Couches covered in silks, paintings of long-whiskered men fawning over slant-eyed women in long cloak dresses. The artwork on the walls had elaborate lettering I could not decipher.

  “Now, Mister Patterson. You wanted to visit me. You are here. What may I do for you?”

  Her voice was in no manner different from the educated, formal address I received from stately ladies when I called to visit their daughters. I wondered how she had come by such training. Probably as a slave girl brought up alongside the daughter of a well-to-do family.

  But they had not paid much attention to her other upkeep. She saw nothing wrong with taking company bare of foot. Even her palms and soles were the same deep brown of polished wood.

  My mind lingered for a moment on other places that might be of such a shade and when I glanced at her again, a knowing look lay upon her face. Her manners allowed her to make no comment on my distracted state. Instead, she repeated her question.

  “It is a delicate matter, Madame.”

  “Miss,” she corrected and refilled my glass.

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback. But I supposed such women didn’t marry.

  “Nonsense. Please continue.”

  “Shall I cut to the chase then? This...magicality you possess allows one to have questionable things done and remain far removed from the deed itself.”

  She did not respond. So after another swig of sherry I continued. “This,” I said, taking the card from my pocket. “Seems to take time that I do not have.”

  Miss Moultrie shrugged.

  Warmth from the sherry flew through my body. With the decanter half-empty, my tongue loosened. “A lady of your class should only wet her lips with sweetened wine.”

  “You have certainly changed your tune,” she said.

  “Oh?” I sipped my sherry slowly, the knife in my breast pocket a swift motion away. I could have it out, flicked open, and at her throat in a matter of moments. There would be no need for ceremony this time. A thrill raced through me as I contemplated my first time claiming a life this way. An elevation of my talents, perhaps? No crushing of a tender swanlike neck. This would be piercing, plunging into soft tissues.

  Her servant did not concern me. As it was with the Negroes and their freedom, the Oriental would flee once her mistress was dead. And if I were accused? Killing a darkie was no crime. I could say anything. That she’d tried to assault me. That she offered her body and then tried to refuse. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. I would only mourn the loss of her knowledge of the black arts, not the woman. Never the woman.

  She nodded. “Before you did not find me—what was it—elevated enough for your tastes.”

  “I’ve seen the error of my ways. Now I would like to extend my apologies for my manner earlier and ask a question.”

  She looked at me shrewdly. “Question?”

  “Is there a way to shorten the duration of this process?”

  “Process? Hm. I suppose it is. But no.”

  “No way at all to make this happen more quickly? I am eager to court Madame.”

  “For what you want to accomplish, there is no faster way that does not involve bloodshed.”

  Once the thought of blood sickened me. But I had grown, learned, and the idea of its heat and thickness thrilled the beast that lay inside of me. I felt it, straining like a dog about to be fed. Eager for the meal that lay out of reach in the hands of its master.

  “Another?” she asked.

  “Please.” Her attention on playing hostess, I took the opportunity to slip the knife from my pocket. My hand was damp with perspiration. I had removed my gloves when I entered and I wished I had them now to steady my grip.

  She was talking about...something. I couldn’t hear it through the blood rushing in my own brain. My heart throbbed with an anticipation I had never known. Excitement swelled within me until I was full to bursting. A glance around the room told me that the best approach was to quickly move behind her and insert my blade into her softest places: belly...breasts...

  I stood and the room tilted askew. I felt myself falling...falling, surrounded by heat and darkness and the scent of charcoal and amber.

  ***

  When I awoke, I was alone in the house with the scent of a newly dead fire surrounding me. While I had no concept of how long I’d been dead to the world, it had been long enough for the woman and her servant to clear out the house. I sat up, realizing that they’d left me here on the floor while they moved everything around me. I searched the entire carriage house. And there was nothing. Not even the bottle of potion. Confused and angry, I returned to Voodooesque.

  While the women had left me with my money, the store now stood empty and unlocked. Every jar, every shelf, had been cleared and dusted and polished. How had they had the time for this? The smell of cooled ash lingered in the air. My footsteps left jarring echoes as I walked the length of the room looking for a clue as to where they might have fled. They must have had help to move both house and business in one day and night. If I could find someone to persuade, I could locate her. And when I did... My hand clutched my cane so tightly that I heard the wood splinter.

  As I strode up King Street to Broad, I ran again into James Pettigrew, rushing as usual to some meeting or event.

  He caught sight of me and brought his squat frame up to pace with my longer strides. “Seems you disappear frequently these days, Eugene. It’s longer and longer between sightings of you.” He laughed.

  I had hoped to extend the time between our meetings even further, but I forced a sheepish look. “My time has been needed elsewhere, I’m afraid. Busy times, these.”

  “True,” he agreed. “But I am surprised that you would miss Madame Nourti’s ball. You seemed so keen on attending.”

  “Madame’s ball? That isn’t until the nineteenth.”

  “Which was two days ago, old man.”

  Two days... Then I had been out for six days. A red haze of fury clouded my vision and I clenched my fists, already able to feel the witch’s neck snapping under my fingers. Desperate to control my fury, I asked, “Did she mention my absence?”

  “Not to me,” he said. “But if you were formally invited and did
not attend, I think you must make apologies to her. You’ll never receive another invitation again if you don’t.”

  “Quite right.” My anger receded, allowing me to calculate the next step. I slapped Pettigrew on the back and he winced. “Thanks to you. I will do exactly that.”

  Returning to my rooms, I bathed and changed into fresh clothes, then used some of my dwindling funds to hire a carriage to her home.

  I struggled to prepare a response, a reason for my absence from her party. As I stood in her lavish foyer, one had still not emerged.

  “Madame Nourti,” a servant announced.

  Madame descended a long spiral staircase toward me and her beauty took my breath as she extended her hand.

  “Mister Patterson,” she said, her voice a barely above a whisper. I detected a slight accent, reminiscent of the frozen countries north of England. “I hope you are well.”

  “That is the thing, Madame. I was not well and unable to attend your party. I felt it necessary to extend my apologies.”

  She waved it away. “No matter. You seem in full health now.” She tilted her head and a surge of heat rose in me that I might yet accomplish my goal. “Come into the sitting room.”

  I followed her into the sitting room, where a fire waited. She relaxed into a chair and I took one across from her. Three, maybe four meetings, I thought. A horse-drawn carriage ride at dusk where I would present her with a ring. Not cut glass, but the real one that I slid off Catherine’s cold finger. But I will need a special way to end her sweet life...

  “I have a gift for you, Madame. Part of my apology I hope you will accept.” I presented the box of rich divinities with a flourish.

  “How lovely.” She opened the box and smiled at its contents. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.” She replaced the cover.

  “Do you not want to try a taste?” Most women could not resist the lure of a sweet.