The Strangely, Darkly Beautiful Guide to Absinthe by Phaeton Black

Excerpt from Chapter One

The year is 1889, and Phaeton Black has recently taken up 

residence in London's most notorious brothel...

“Well, well. Scotland Yard's most celebrated agent, Zander Farrell come calling.” Phaeton buttoned his pants and settled back with a grin. "Something desperate has happened to bring you here, below stairs.”  

     “I admit it took a bit of ferreting about.” Farrell ducked under a sagging floor joist. “You’ve made quite a comfortable nest for yourself down here.” He lifted an aquiline nose and sniffed the air. “A bit moldy in winter, perhaps.”

     “Due to my recent loss of employment, I have found it necessary, indeed, prudent to conserve resources.”
     Never one for small talk, which Phaeton greatly appreciated, Farrell got straight to it. “We appear to have another monstrous character about on a killing spree. Chilcott wants the case solved before the bloody press clobbers us. He'll not have another debacle like the Ripper.”

     “I can assure you Jack is gone. I took a stroll through Whitechapel just yesterday. Not a trace of the fiend's miasma.” 

     Zander glared. “Exactly the kind of green fairy talk that got your contract cancelled.”

     “Chilcott doesn’t like me. Never has.” Phaeton noted the barely perceptible clench in the man’s jaw. Farrell seemed strangely unnerved, a rare state of being for him. “Something’s got you rattled, what is it?”

 Absinthe is commonly referred to in historical literature as "la fée verte" the green fairy.

     “There is some kind of beast or––vampire stalking the Strand.”

     Phaeton never laughed, a self-imposed rule that had remained unbroken for years. Otherwise, he would be rolling all over the cold stone floor of his new flat at this very moment.

     So he grinned. “Perhaps an actor costumed as Varney the Vampire? Or an Empusa. Might I look forward to a seduction by a bewitching female blood sucker?”  

     Zander’s glower gave way to a wide-eyed blink. “I thought you’d be pleased. You claim to believe in fairies and all that undead rubbish.”

     “My interest in the occult is not a matter of faith, actually.” He rose off the couch and signaled Farrell to follow. Rummaging through a set of pantry cabinets, he withdrew a bottle of liquor. “Nevertheless, I am honored and amused that Scotland Yard appears ready to consult the fey world.”

     He sensed darker undercurrents and listened momentarily to a fog of whispers. “The notion of an unearthly murderous evildoer is intriguing.” He pulled out a chair. “Why don't you brief me while I louche us a glass?”
   “Whiskey for me.”

     He swung back and raised a brow. “Certain about that? A bit of absinthe might help the investigation right about now.” 

     Zander exhaled a bit too loudly. “As you wish, Mr. Black.” 

     Phaeton set up two glasses and poured the dark green distillate. He angled slotted silver spoons etched with the likeness of a naked flying nymph across the rim of each vessel, and placed a lump of sugar on top.

     The number two Yard man leaned back in his chair. “Quite an elaborate ritual.”

     “H-mm, yes. I suppose it falls somewhere between a witches’ Sabbath and the Eucharist.” He retrieved a pitcher of iced water from a makeshift cold closet. “Just as the water looses the spirit of absinthe, so does the absinthe free the mind.” 

     As the chilled liquid dripped slowly over the sugar cube, Zander’s glass changed from deep emerald to a delicate, cloudy swirl of pale green elixir. “Ah, the transformation, when essential oils bloom and the fairy is released. To quote Rimbaud––”

     “A meandering, scatological French poet.” Zander huffed.

     Undaunted, Phaeton poured a last splash over nearly dissolved sugar. "As I was saying: ‘the poet's pain is soothed by a liquid jewel held in the sacred chalice, sanity surrendered, the soul spirals toward the murky depths, wherein lies the beautiful madness––absinthe.’”

     He settled down and lifted his glass. “I know what they say about me at the Yard. Eccentric, when they’re feeling charitable, a menace or madman otherwise.”

     “That’s not true. Gabriel thinks the world of you.”

     “Then you and he are the only ones.”

     “Not me, just Gabe.” Zander sipped a taste before taking a swallow. “Frankly, I can’t say enough about a man who can step into a crisis situation and disarm a Fenian bomb without a care. I don’t know where that kind of courage comes from, Phaeton, and neither do a lot of other agents who would rather call you mad than try to understand a man who invites death and fears nothing.”

     Phaeton shrugged. More pale green potion slipped down his throat. “I miss those small hours of the morning. You know as well as I do, from all our stakeouts, the coldest chill of night happens at the edge of dawn.” His hazy gaze landed on Zander. “The time when shadows are not deep enough for spirits and abominations to hide in.”

     Zander leaned forward. “I need you back on the job. Murdering hobgoblin, vampire––whatever or whoever the killer turns out to be. Take the assignment, Phaeton. But don’t do it to prove the other agents wrong.”

    Taken aback, he blinked. “Why not?”

    “Because you are mad.”

Absinthe is an anise-flavoured licorice spirit derived from botanicals, including the flowers and leaves of Artemisia absinthium (grand wormwood), together with green anise, sweet fennel, and other medicinal and culinary herbs. Absinthe traditionally has a natural green color.

Question:

 Would you try a glass of absinthe? If not, what's your favorite drink? 

(If you don't drink you can make it can be a virgin Appletini.)

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