Novelas y relatos de Perfume Of The Murderer

Her perfume, citric and sharp, hit me before she stepped closer. "Well, if it isn't Damien's little murderer," she purred, stopping inches from me. Her smile was all teeth. "I always knew you’d drag him down. A gutter rat playing Cinderella. Adorable, really." She flicked imaginary dust off my shoulder. "Tell me, did you use the fireplace poker? Or just your grubby journalist hands?" My knuckles whitened around my purse strap. "Get out, Seraphina."

One day the man who murdered someone like it was nothing will remember every goddamn lie I told. And I’ll be fucked. We pay—well, he pays—and we walk out. The Milan night air is cooler now. I breathe in deeply—until it hits. That scent. Cologne. Cheap and sharp. Cedarwood and bile. I stop in my tracks. Someone brushes past me and I quickly turn. Eyes. Those eyes again. Goosebumps rise in my skin and bile climbs up my throat. The man from the grocery store. Lucien. It’s him again.

My ankle protested as I put my weight on it, but I ignored the pain and kept walking. I made it two steps when something fell against the floor. Shattered beneath my shoe before I could stop myself. And immediately, the air became filled with a potent, unmistakable scent. Slowly, I lifted my foot to see a tiny vial, the very same one I’d put the perfume in, sitting in shards amongst a puddle of clear liquid. Everyone froze as the intoxicating scent wafted up from the floorboards. It was sweet and musky, like flowers mixed with delicate sweat. Every wolf in that room went still, then began to bristle, buzzing in the air with an electricity that was undeniably irresistible.

It had to be something else. He pulled the crumpled lab report from his pocket and scanned it again. This time, a particular chemical name jumped out at him, one he had overlooked earlier. His jaw tightened. “Those bastards,” he growled under his breath. “They need to die for this.” “Shit. Those guys need to be killed,” he muttered aloud. “Why would they create a perfume so harmful? Are they trying to kill Amber? This bottle must have been a prank. They couldn’t have sold this to customers… right?”

It was Patchouli. Deep, woody, and expensive—the kind of scent that felt grounded but distant. It was exactly what Mortimer had smelled like for years. "Oh! Sorry about that!" Dr. Smith scrambled to hide the bottle, instantly snapping back into his "serious doctor" persona. "Miss Hale, my apologies. I didn't see you come in. I didn't mean to get that on you." He gave her a sheepish grin. "It's fine," Seraphina said, shaking it off.

I lower my eyes and try to walk past him, but he moves into my path. “What happened to you?” he asks, already smiling. “You smell horrible. Is that fish?” I don’t bother answering. “Definitely fish,” he says, laughing horribly. “I don’t know what they did to you, but whatever it was, they did you a favor. Maybe now nobody will have to smell that weird perfume you always wear.” I look at him. “That perfume was my mother’s.” His expression doesn’t change. “Still smells weird.” I feel another tear roll down my cheek and quickly wipe it away.

"I owe her a favor you see? And even if you're prettier than her. I never... break my promises..." Just before he can make another move to kill me, with measured timing, I move quickly, spraying a bottle of perfume I have been silently getting from my pocket. As best I could, I tried to slow his pace towards me, let him talk for as long as he wanted so I would have enough to be ready with the perfume. It's one of my creations also with a special function. It's laced with hallucinogenic ingredients, inducing those who inhale it into a psychedelic state that makes them hallucinate for thirty minutes.

The terror of dying closed in on me. So, this was what it felt like to be murdered with perfume. What a… Creative way to die. Terence caught the scent. He snatched the bottle, brought it to his nose, and took a sharp sniff. In that instant, his face shifted from pale to ashen to a horrifying shade of red. "Tess!" He let out a scream so raw it tore through the room. "This is fucking perfume!" That single sentence detonated like a bomb.

"Why do you... smell like rain and wild jasmine?" Hope flared in my chest, hot and bright. "Yes! That's me! You used to say that—" His expression slammed shut, the shutters coming down with the force of a steel trap. The confusion hardened instantly into revulsion. He shook his head as if physically clearing a fog, then glared at me with renewed hatred. "Perfume," he spat. "That's all it is. A trick. A witch's glamour to make a rogue resemble a dead woman."

She was a flame—one that refused to die even as the wind turned cruel. One wonders why accept this suffering when she can just open up about who she is? Everyone would go silent. I wonder the same, and I admit, this intrigues me. I loosened my tie, my eyes never leaving her. Her perfume clung faintly to the air: sandalwood and lavender—fresh and magnificent, I must say.