“Sangre?” He paled visibly. Casa de la Sangre was cursed. A brave man would not venture there in the light of day under the full view of God. It was a white-marbled monstrosity that in the fading light of dusk looked as if it were drenched in blood. Terrible things had happened there.

“I see you’ve heard of my home.”

“Take her.” The man wanted nothing further from either of them.

“Your fee?”

“I will take nothing that comes from Sangre. Nothing.” He hurried away, taking the rest of his merchandise with him.

Martine turned his attention to his property. The girl said nothing, though she did not cast her eyes down. She met his stare boldly and unafraid.

“Je vous maudis,” she hissed.

“Speak English.” He struck her casually, drawing blood.

“Je vous maudis,” she hissed again.

Martine Bartlett laughed. “I am the master of Casa de la Sangre. There is no stronger curse.” He paused, studying her for a moment. “I will tell you one more time to speak English.”

“Je ne parle pas anglais.”

“You will. Or will your curses protect you from my wrath?”

He wrapped his hand around a lock of her hair, as if feeling the texture. Her eyes narrowed, as she knew the actions that preceded a man’s lust. But suddenly, he jerked hard and she yelped as he yanked her hair. “Did your gods protect you just then?”

“No.” Her voice was soft, but not defeated.

“I’m not a cruel man. I will be good to you, but you must obey.”

Casa de la Sangre rose up in the distance like some great heavenly tower knifing through the landscape, incongruous against the backdrop of weeping willows draped in Spanish moss and the lush green of the cane fields.

But dusk was falling and Ghislaine peered over her new master’s shoulder as the sunlight faded into dusk and splashed against the glittering marble like so much blood. It was beautiful. There was so much power here. She shivered.