Vampire Zlatina-Blood Rose, photo by VampHunter777 on DeviantArt
Chapter One
A thin breeze barely blowing the curtains as the clock chimes dully from down the long hallway. Outside, the sky darkens purple and grey as the sun sinks into the clouds. Night creatures begin to scuttle. She rises from her dressing table, touching her wrists with a shrouded scent. A soft step of velvet and the slim, mineral tang of blood. She turns with a small intake of breath. He stands in the doorway, black roses in his begloved hand. Darkness accompanies him; the smell of turned earth and the old, dusty reek of oud. From the fading blooms, the thick carnality of roses spreads itself and hangs in the air like an unspoken word. Neil Morris Fragrances Rose Vampyr steps in the room, invited.
Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Dracula, image via Syfy Channel
Chapter 2
Time travels backwards for Rose Vampyr. There is no top, no lightness with which to begin this story. It is all base notes, the aromas of fresh-turned soil, of ancient trees. Rising from the ground, moss and patchouli vine around each other, the odors of a forest that has not seen sunlight. Oud rises like flame smoke; ashen, full of dark wood, medicinal oils and soot. Green coming back to the fallen leaves, wind stirring flowers where the ground was bare. But now the roses open, gathering in the center. Life…stirs.
photo by Neil Morris Fragrances
Chapter 3
As time breathes and the clock ticks, inky rose expands joined by its mossy cousin and the sweet silkiness of tonka bean. The two roses bloom alongside each other, heady and sensual. Narcissus seeps into mandarin juice like a memory of Caron Narcisse Noir twined with blackened rose. A small metallic glint of salt and subtle hedione lift the deep florals off the skin, and the immediate air blooms with the fragrance of captive, overripe flowers.
Image via Wallpaper Access
Chapter 4
The roses spread on the skin like wine stain. In a reversal of its usual introductory role, aldehyde comes late, more pronounced as time inches forward, its sparkle muted. Dawn is coming, and with it, the warm, fleshy redolence of labdanum and musk after the breathless night. She stirs beneath the bed linens; he retreats into his cloak, a backward glance at the sky beyond the window, a sliver of crimson at the horizon. Traces of rose, the strangeness of oud, of marl and moss, cling to his skin.
Photo by Willy Vanderperre for Vogue China November 2012
Chapter 5
As her heavy lids part, he is gone. The room is aslant. This was fever, she tells herself. As morning rises, and light creeps across the floor, her hand moves instinctively to her throat where she feels a pinprick of pain. There is a smell of roses and earth still.
Lauryn Beer, Senior Editor