Page 2 of Bluebeard’s Key

To this, he added a final coup de grâce to the letterhead: a miniscule drop of pure liquid pleasure. That single drop would certainly set his offer apart from the many others Thomas Dalton was currently receiving. Judging the letters acceptable, he sealed the envelopes, carefully locked his laboratory with the Key, and mounted the stairs to satisfy his complaining stomach.

CHAPTER 1

Once he opened the envelope, it could never be sealed again. There was nothing to do but accept the offer. How could he not?

Tom’s professor stepped up to his desk as he packed the last of his books. The ink was still drying on his thesis, his diploma sheltered safely in its leatherette display folder, and his cap and gown were packed away, never to be used again. He didn’t begrudge the cost—the graduation ceremony was a rite of passage, and he’d worked hard for it. It seemed beyond belief, but he was Doctor Thomas Dalton now! He only wished his parents could have been there to see it, but he was certain they were watching over him in spirit.

“We’ll miss you, Thomas,” his professor said, taking him by the shoulders. “You’re sure about this?”

“I think so. No, I know so. It’s too good to pass up. At the very least, I need to go to the interview and see if it’s as good as it sounds.” It was an unparalleled opportunity, offering enough money to build a laboratory and continue the work he loved. It seemed almost too good to be true. “You must understand,” he said to his advisor, certain she did. She had the same drive that he did, the drive to explore the unexplored, and the puzzle posed by the letter was a mystery beyond compare.

“I don’t want to see you throw your career away,” she said, revisiting the argument they’d been having ever since the letter arrived. “Your work is groundbreaking, and you have your pick of universities. Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard…any would be lucky to get you.”

Tom still couldn’t quite believe that, but the stack of acceptance letters argued in her favor. Assistant professorships straight out of grad school, many with hefty startup packages and laughably light teaching requirements. But none of them sparked his interest like that one letter. It posed a challenge he couldn’t ignore.

He set all that aside and instead asked, “Do you want to take one last crack at it before I go?”

She couldn’t quite say yes, but the look in her eyes was enough. Tom handed her the plastic bag, and she pulled out the letter, taking a deep whiff. Then she closed her eyes. A smile crept across her lips, and her shoulders softened with a happy, melancholy sigh.

“Any last-minute insights, Prof?”

She laughed, zipping the bag closed, and answered, “Afraid not. It’s clear the biological response is fading, but strangely, it’s even more appealing now, like a warm hug. Frankly, in your position, I’d do exactly what you’re doing. I hope, someday, you’ll be able to tell me how it’s done. I’ll let you finish your packing, but again, please know I couldn’t be more proud.”

The packing was almost trivial—his entire doctoral career fit neatly into two small boxes—but this was just the physical ephemera of his work. The major fruit of his labor was knowledge, and that had winged its way out into the scientific world in seven articles covering the synthesis and biochemical action of odorant enhancers. He was inordinately proud of those articles, since they laid the foundation for his entire scientific career. They made him feel more solid, like he’d made a lasting mark on the world. But then the doubts intruded again. If he took this position, his days of academic transparency were probably over. This new gig promised to be secretive in the extreme, given the mystery posed by that letter.

The entire laboratory had thrown everything they had at it and ended up virtually empty-handed. The letter itself was professional but unremarkable, on cream stationary with an engraved logo for the company, Elixir Wellness. Some easy sleuthing on the internet revealed a series of high-end wellness spas dotted around the world—New York, London, Paris, Tokyo—but no hints to shed light on the miraculous aspect of the letter: its scent.

It arrived by normal university post and languished on Tom’s desk for two full days before he got to it, immersed (as always) in a tricky chemical synthesis. The pile of letters that day included a tenure-track Assistant Professorship from UCLA and a very generous offer from the Natural Products subgroup of a new startup called Scengene Bioactives. He dutifully slotted them into his burgeoning folder of offers before turning to the Elixir letter. The text held no big surprises, but he couldn’t help but smile. Even two months after officially receiving his degree, it was still a thrill to be called Doctor Dalton.

The letter was brief, offering a position that fit his expertise and promising a competitive salary and laboratory. Nothing stood out from his stack of other offers, until he caught a whiff.

In his studies, Tom had built his life, and his future career, around odorants, the chemical compounds that stimulate the sense of smell. In his careful experiments, he built his reputation around these molecules and the biological mechanisms used to detect them. He had studied the varied odors of perfumery, the molecules used by flowers to attract pollinators, the subtle phytohormones that plants used to communicate. That is to say, even after these few short years of study, his diligence and natural curiosity had built a broad and deep body of knowledge of the subject, but the scent of this letter revealed that his knowledge had barely scratched the surface of possibility.

The letter exuded a faint woodsy odor, like a wet forest trail and decaying leaves. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it felt familiar. The aroma deepened as he lifted the letter to his nose, adding additional notes reminiscent of the pungent smell of a locker room. That’s when the full effect hit. He felt it, starting in his sinuses and spreading through his head. A wave of pure pleasure, shimmering behind his eyes and prickling along his scalp. After another breath, the pleasure spread down his spine and into his chest, further to his root and tingling around his more private regions. He somehow knew that a third breath would take him all the way over the precipice, and he let it, feeling the orgasm crash through his body.

He dropped the letter as ecstasy consumed him, and it fluttered to the floor, patiently waiting for him to come to his senses.

“Everything okay there, Tom?” his office mate asked.

“I think so,” Tom said. “Could you try this and tell me if I’m going crazy?”

The whole lab jumped into the project and banged their collective heads against it with almost no insight. It was all so new, so completely without precedent, that they made up a new term for it: erotogenic. Remarkably, the letter was dosed with an erotogenic scent that could generate an orgasm, instantly and on demand. All his lab partners, male and female alike, had the same response to the “Big-O Letter,” as it came to be called, but the secret of the erotogenic scent didn’t succumb to any of their reverse engineering. The problem, of course, was that the odorant compound—pheromone, allomone, or whatever it was—was present in vanishingly small amounts, making it virtually impossible to study in detail. Basically, their noses, along with their raging hormones, were the only real tools sensitive enough to give any results. It was infuriating and intoxicating, a true chemical mystery.

Tom soon came to realize the deft way the writer of this letter, one Giles Fortescue, had manipulated him. Instantly, after one whiff, this letter went to the top of the stack and stayed there. If the chemists at Elixir Wellness were already able to do this with their proprietary compounds, what could be possible if he were allowed to tinker with them? It was infuriating to be played in this way, but at the same time, he couldn’t be more excited. This was something entirely new, and he was determined to get in on the ground floor.

CHAPTER 2

Needless to say, on a graduate student’s salary, Zayan had never flown business class in his life. When he attended scientific conferences, he’d always flown economy, shared rooms with other students, taken public transportation, and choked down inexpensive meals that fit within his modest per diem allowance. Alas, it was all part of the joy of living within the limits of an academic budget, mired in student loans, cut off from any shred of support from your disapproving parents…but none of that was an issue any longer. The letter from the mysterious owner of Elixir Wellness came mere days after he was summarily drummed out of the chemistry department. What was the big deal? So what if he synthesized a few controlled substances…who didn’t? Rules were made to be broken, or at least bent, and if you had the talent, you might as well use it. The rent bill didn’t pay itself.

For the entire flight, sipping champagne and nibbling brie, he obsessed about his strategy for salary negotiation. The letter included an impressive figure, far more than he ever expected to warrant even if he’d been allowed the chance to finish his degree. His future employer, if he survived the job interview, must have deep pockets. Beginning the moment the tickets arrived, he wondered if this extravagance was subtle, or maybe overt, manipulation by his host. He was well used to manipulation, both mental and physical, from his father. Coming out to his family had been the best decision of his life, despite the bruises. He was rid of the entire loathsome lot of them and forging a life of his own, on his own terms. He was prepared to ride this wave as far as it would carry him. If the situation got too egregious, he could always pack up his test tubes and leave. It’s not like he hadn’t done it before.

In keeping with the extravagance, a driver waited at baggage claim, holding a small sign with his name on it. She was lovely, with close-cropped dark hair and a smartly tailored navy-blue uniform, whisking Zayan off to a sleek black limousine before he had a chance to catch his breath.

“My name is Charlie,” she said as she pulled out of the terminal into the pouring rain. “Please make yourself comfortable. The drive will last about an hour. If you’re still hungry after the flight, there are some provisions in the fridge. Please feel free to help yourself.”

There wasn’t much to watch out the window apart from streaming rivulets of water dancing across the glass, so he settled back, closed his eyes, and submitted to his jet lag.

He bumped awake when the window jarred against his head and the car rattled down a cobblestone street, slick with rain. Picturesque shops lined the way—an apothecary, a bakery, a junk store, a bistro—and the sidewalks bustled with a colorful assortment of people under umbrellas. It seemed a typical tourist destination, with enough charm to warrant an afternoon of shopping and a coffee, but maybe not more than that.