Bibliographical information of the
Deutsche Nationalbibliothek:
The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek catalogues this publication in
the German National Bibliography; detailed bibliographic
information can be found on the website: www.dnb.de.
© 2019 Sophie Grossalber
This edition © 2020
2
Illustrations: Sophie Grossalber and Rachel Dohain-Lesueur,
@rale-art on instagram
Editor: Benjamin Ressel,
www.ressellektorat.blogspot.com
Proofreader: Nathan Pascu
Layout: Sophie Grossalber
Cover: Lorena Viciconte, www.lion-tales.com
Printing and Publisher: BoD– Books on Demand GmbH,
Norderstedt
ISBN: 978-3-7481-2694-2
As part of the Dark Fantasy genre, Blood and Guilt contains the following depictions, which might be triggering or uncomfortable to read for some:
The Devil of New Orleans:
Sullivan’s Law:
Bloody Traces in the Snow:
For Karo, Esa and Lorena.
Thank you for always having an open ear for me and
helping me fix plot holes at ungodly hours.
The sunlight streaming through the windows left a tingle on his skin and let him guess at the fleeing heat of the day.
Damien Moreau’s gaze landed on the half-naked woman, who had buried her head in the pillows next to him. Her upper arm, which was stretched out in his direction, shoulder showed him the signs of the past hours’ escapades. Marguerite, one of his official donors and said woman, did not move. Cautiously, so as not to wake her – although in her current state not even a meteor could have woken her - he lifted her arm. Two fingers pressed against the pale tender skin on the inside of her wrist. He waited and counted. She still had a pulse, a weak one, but at least he hadn’t killed her.
“Would have been a pity anyway,” Damien murmured. Even if he did not hold humans in high regard, Marguerite was one of the very few whom he had learned to appreciate. And that only because her blood had an exquisite taste. Which in turn meant he couldn’t kill her. Otherwise his favourite source of sustenance would be taken off the menu. Not to mention the thousands of questions and the wretched paperwork that would accompany the death of his donor. Marguerite was a lucky find. The donors, which the Ministry usually assigned to him, were barely average – or below, even. It was no wonder he then tried to keep Marguerite alive as long as he could, or sometimes sampled some of his own wares.
His ringing mobile phone pulled him out of his daydream. Annoyed, he let Marguerite’s arm fall back onto the bed, and grabbed his phone.
“Who is it?” he grumbled when he picked up. A sigh from Marguerite made him frown. He could imagine what the young woman next to him was dreaming but wanted to avoid that at any cost. There was nothing he hated more than the humiliating reality that he had to share a blood bond with his donor.Well, during sex, the mental and emotional connection between vampire and human had its moments, but the rest of the time it distracted him from his business and nearly drove him insane. There was only one problem: the only legal alternative was getting blood bags from the banks.Those did not leave him with a bond through which he felt the emotions of the donor’s almost like his own, but they tasted horrible. No human being would establish an emotional connection with a glass of water.
“It’s Malone. Boss, we’ve got a problem. And you should have a look at it,” a man’s voice answered on the other end of the line. Damien rolled his eyes, absentmindedly got out of his bed and moved to the windows to observe the cars and people on the street below. His eyes wandered to the poorer houses on the other side of the river. He cringed. Algiers had definitely been the better choice.
“Last time you told me there was a problem, you just wasted my time. So, please, be precise and explain it to me on the phone before I hit the road!”
He had raised his voice, leaned against the window with a balled fist. He felt the pressure of his fangs against the rest of his upper jaw as they came forward. His usually dark eyes glowed golden and with slotted pupils in the reflection of the glass. He heard a sleepy “Hm?” from the bed before Marguerite drifted back into her dream world.
“If I find out you were incapable of getting a stupid human under control again, I’ll skin you alive and make you into shoes. M’as-tu compris?” Damien hissed into the phone.
The other end had gone silent and he relaxed with the knowledge that his employees were still afraid of him. Most of them had known him for at least a century by now. And even though they still feared him, he had to remind them time and time again; he did not tolerate incompetence.
“Understood, boss,” Malone replied. Damien still wondered at how the big burly Irish man always looked like a picture of misery if he angered his boss – which, sadly, happened quite often. But former boxers, who were willing to work for a drug lord and human trafficker, were a rarity. Apart from the fact that Malone’s face would never make a nice pair of shoes.
“Well?” Damien asked. He tried very hard not to let his frustration show. The New Orleans Police Department had been sniffing around again in the last few days and they had to be careful. Nevertheless, a fresh batch of humans had arrived yesterday. Impoverished people, who wanted to escape their miserable life in middle or South America. And who then were so naïve to believe they would get a new, better life in the States through the Moreau Foundation. All just a farce to get people, of course. But that did not keep the police from continuously raiding his night clubs. At least the Hunters of the city left him in peace – for a hefty price.
“Well, we…Sir, please, it’s not our fault. If somebody’s to blame, then the idiots in Mexico,” Malone stammered and tried to delay the inevitable. But that did not help Damien’s dwindling patience. On the contrary, the Irish’s desperate attempt to somehow get his head out of the noose only made Damien’s patience ultimately snap. The knuckles of his hand shone white through the skin while he tensed up his arm muscles.
“Malone. What. Happened?” he growled. By now, he didn’t even try to hide his mood anymore. He would pull the Irish’s ears as soon as he got his hands on him, and Damien wanted Malone to be aware of that.
The man on the other end of the phone was quiet for a second, seemed to search for the right words as to not further provoke his superior.
“We found a Huntress among the wares that arrived yesterday,” Malone murmured sheepishly.
“You did WHAT?!” Damien roared into the phone. Every attempt not to wake up his donor and alert his servants was forgotten, buried under the unbridled anger over the incompetence of his employees. The Hunters of New Orleans might tolerate his dealings because they profited off of them too, but that did not apply to Hunters of other countries. If only one of them found out what he was doing, everything he had built for himself in this city over centuries would crumble around him and bury him under the rubble.
“Don’t touch her. I’ll be at the warehouse in thirty minutes. I hope you know this is partially your fault, too.” Damien hung up and would have crushed the smart phone in his hand if Marguerite hadn’t gotten up and moved towards him. Her hands gently stroked his tense shoulders.
“What’s wrong, mon chér?” she asked. Her voice was still rough from sleep and not more than a whisper. He knew she felt his anger and only wanted to calm him down. But he didn’t want to be calmed, didn’t need anybody to quiet him down. He had no time for that. He had to get dressed, go to the warehouse and hope his goons had caught a rookie. Otherwise, they were done for. His heart jumped at the thought of what could happen.