Blood and Damnation

  About This Book

  Every town has stories of its past, and Havenwood Falls is no different. And when the town’s residents include a variety of supernatural creatures, those historical tales often become Legends. This is but one . . .

  With the world laid out before him, Marcus St. James enjoyed the many fruits of society, none more so than the women who fell at his feet and lifted their skirts. A few whispered promises and he could have whichever beauty caught his eye. Until the night he led a young gypsy woman into the alleyway, where more than just heated kisses were exchanged.

  Knocked unconscious, Marcus awakens to find his companion dead in his arms, her blood screaming for justice. Before he can uncover the truth, her family arrives—hellbent on punishing the person who murdered their kin. Ignoring his pleas of innocence, they curse him to an existence as a blood drinker.

  In the wake of death, a new purpose is born, transforming Marcus into a monster. Driven by his thirst for vengeance, he focuses on hunting down the gypsies who destroyed his life. But when an innocent girl finds her way into his fortress, Marcus must decide what the true curse is: a life filled with blood and damnation or one void of love and hope. He’ll discover one lasting truth—love can soften even the hardest of hearts. And can also stoke the fires of retribution.

  Blood and Damnation

  A Legends of Havenwood Falls Novella

  Belinda Boring

  Contents

  Legends of Havenwood Falls Books

  Also by Belinda Boring

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Legends of Havenwood Falls Books

  Lost in Time by Tish Thawer

  Dawn of the Witch Hunters by Morgan Wylie

  Redemption’s End by Eric R. Asher

  Trapped Within a Wish by Brynn Myers

  Blood and Damnation by Belinda Boring

  Fated Beginnings by E.J. Fechenda (September 2018)

  Emeline by Katie M. John (October 2018)

  More books releasing on a monthly basis

  Also try the signature New Adult/Adult series, Havenwood Falls, and the YA series, Havenwood Falls High

  Stay up to date at www.HavenwoodFalls.com

  Subscribe to our reader group and receive free stories and more!

  Also by Belinda Boring

  Havenwood Falls

  Nowhere to Hide

  Blood and Damnation

  Mystic Wolves Series

  The Mystic Wolves

  Forget Me Not

  Testing Fate

  Forever Changed

  Savage Possession

  Darkness Unleashed

  Last Wolf Standing

  Blood Oath

  A Very Mystic Christmas

  Damaged Souls Series

  Bittersweet Melody

  Bittersweet Symphony

  Brianna Lane Series

  Broken Promises

  Stand-Alones

  Loving Liberty

  Enchanted Hearts

  Copyright © 2018 Belinda Boring, Ang’dora Productions, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Ang’dora Productions, LLC

  5621 Strand Blvd, Ste 210

  Naples, FL 34110

  Havenwood Falls and Ang’dora Productions and their associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Ang’dora Productions, LLC.

  Cover design by Regina Wamba at MaeIDesign.com

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the owner of this book.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To my sweet little Odie,

  If my love alone could’ve kept you here, you would’ve lived forever.

  To Lin-Manuel Miranda,

  Thank you for being such an inspiration!

  Chapter 1

  1868

  Blood.

  It was everywhere.

  There wasn’t a place I could lay my hand that didn’t come back covered. As I lifted my fingers to my brow, the fading sun caused the redness of the liquid to take on an even more sinister hue.

  As if being bathed in blood could get more sinister, I chuckled silently.

  There really wasn’t anything funny about the situation, but for the life of me, I couldn’t stop the wave of hysteria that threatened to overcome my sensibilities. It started somewhere in the base of my chest and rose with such force that to ignore it, to stifle it, would cause more pain than it was worth.

  So I let it out.

  Ripples of laughter echoed in my ears—sounding completely foreign and unhinged.

  I shuddered to think what would happen should someone stumble by and find us like this. I imagined I would look like a madman sitting in the middle of a dirty, rat-infested alley, quietly cradling the lifeless body of a woman in his arms.

  They may have witnessed the precise moment her heart stopped—the last of her lifeblood trickling slowly from her wounds.

  I knew I looked disheveled, my clothes caked with blood that was already beginning to dry, my exposed skin smeared with the sticky gore. I also knew that people would not stop to ask questions. Instead, they would run screaming for the authorities.

  Sounds slowly filtered back into my awareness, and the abrupt slap of reality returned me to my senses. My bloodstained hands roughly smoothed over fine black hair as if to comfort her in death.

  My victim, I thought without hesitation.

  I had somehow done this. Bile bubbled up into my mouth while I observed my gruesome surroundings, the bitter scent of copper made me gag, and numbness spread through me, shock wrapping its icy fingers around my heart.

  I turned the woman’s face so her lifeless eyes stared back at me, as if in death she continued to accuse me. Her name had been Primrose, or was it simply Rosa? Letting out a hasty breath, I cursed my stupidity for not remembering her name.

  Whoever she was, she had been beautiful, her skin still holding a slight warmth from being held so close.

  She’d caught my eye earlier in the evening as I strolled through the crowds attending the annual town fair. With her long raven-colored tresses and green twinkling eyes, I’d spent the better half of the evening exchanging glances and sensual flirtations.

  London gossiped about my “rakish” ways. I had a useful talent of layering my seductive charms on so thick that it always guaranteed me getting what I wanted—whoever I wanted. My goal was that before the night was over, she’d be beneath me, writhing as I drew out every ounce of pleasure within her.

  She’d responded so freely to my suggestions that it wasn’t long before she’d led me to this very alley, secluded from prying eyes. I’d immediately pressed her up against the wall as my mouth devoured hers.

  Her eagerness had stoked a fire in me. Gone was the frigidity I often met from my own fellow countrywomen, and my urgency was met with her own brand
of fire.

  With each caress, each flick of her tongue, she sent me careening out of control. When she’d softly moaned over my touching her covered breast, I’d instinctively deepened our passionate kiss.

  She’d tasted of mead and sunshine.

  Even now, the thought of that fevered kiss made my mouth water.

  She’d felt so good and responded so well to my attentions that I’d lost track of time. One moment she was racing toward release and the next she was lying in my arms.

  Dead.

  I frowned, my mind desperately trying to piece the events together, but all I could sense was an oppressive fog—one that was unwilling to succumb to my frantic probing.

  Something had happened, but still it remained elusive.

  Shock wouldn’t hold it from me forever.

  Moments passed, and more sounds filled the night air.

  “They’ll discover us soon,” I murmured, still unable to do anything but stare down at the woman who had previously set my entire body aflame.

  My skin pebbled from the chill now settling over me. The sweat clinging to my once pristine shirt caused a slight tremble to begin.

  Where was my coat?

  My hands slowly released her, and that’s when I discovered I’d taken it off to cover Rosa.

  Primrose?

  The body.

  Muscles groaned from suddenly being forced to move, and I gingerly pushed the weight from my lap, careful to not disturb the woman further. This caused another chuckle to erupt.

  The time for gentleness and consideration had passed with her last breath, but still I couldn’t bring myself to think of her as dead. It felt wiser for my dwindling sanity to consider her asleep, and as if to prove that point, I leaned over one more time and tentatively laid my lips to her cool forehead for one last kiss.

  My lips came back wet, no doubt glistening from her blood.

  That was all the truth and reality I needed.

  As my resolve snapped, I toppled to the side and began violently heaving.

  “Dear God,” I groaned, too weak to wipe at my mouth.

  The feeble contents of my stomach mingled with the drying pool of blood as if taunting me, forming a macabre mixture.

  The smells of the alley—the smell of her—assaulted my senses again, driving me to purge my stomach until all that was left was a repeated gag.

  I gasped for air, my chest struggling to drag in enough oxygen to compensate for the violence. My stomach screamed from my muscles being roughly contracted.

  It took everything I had to stand, staggering slightly as the world began to spin. Unable to take my eyes away from the body, I suddenly realized that I’d lingered too long.

  With the alley open at both ends, a channel between two streets, it was only a matter of time before someone else would seek to use it. I had to flee. I couldn’t be found here . . . not like this.

  I’d made it a mere two steps before a hysterical shriek pierced the air.

  Panic blasted through me as the scream evolved into guttural sobbing, revealing two strangers. One of the women threw herself to the ground and scooped Primrose up into her arms, pinning the now stiff body to her chest. Tears cascaded down her wrinkled cheeks.

  Words flew out of the older woman’s mouth in short spurts of some foreign language, one that sounded familiar. She wore a haunted expression, her hands frantically searching over the person I assumed was someone she knew and loved.

  She was feeling for the fatal wound.

  I stood transfixed, held tightly by the women’s grief. Chivalry screamed for me to go comfort her, but even I knew how badly this appeared. Her loved one was dead and there I stood—smeared with her blood.

  The other woman, much younger in appearance, maybe a sister or cousin, finally reached the spot of despair and flung her arms around the rocking figure. She added her sobs to the melee, and something within me jolted.

  I shouldn’t be watching this. This was too private, too intimate, and it wasn’t for me to witness.

  My traitorous foot crunched on discarded litter as I took a step away. The movement caused the air to suddenly silence as two pairs of tear-filled eyes snapped on me.

  Anguished.

  Wretched.

  Furious.

  Frozen by the honesty I couldn’t ignore, I willed myself to move, to break contact with the piercing gazes that scrutinized me. It wasn’t difficult to read the judgment filling their faces. They took everything in—my appearance, the blood, what I assumed was my guilt-stricken expression.

  The younger woman gasped as she made the sign of the cross, her hands trembling with strong emotion. Even though she was at a distance, the word mulo reached my ears.

  Death.

  That word. I knew it. It meant death.

  Pieces clicked together as my brief lover’s face flashed through my mind. Primrose had been my escort for the evening. I would’ve recognized her heritage, had I not been so fixated on bedding her.

  Guilt. Waves of guilt pulsed through my veins as memories finally surfaced.

  The spell that held me broke, and without thinking, I stepped forward, moving toward the women with my hands outstretched in a sign of submission. There was no denying my sense of survival begged me to run, but honor compelled me to stay. There were explanations to be made, questions to be answered, and somewhere amongst the emotions churning thickly in the air, I hoped to uncover some of my own.

  Evidence be damned. I couldn’t have done this. My lust ran toward the flesh and losing myself between a pair of willingly spread legs. It wasn’t in death, murder, and violence.

  It was with these thoughts that my confidence slowly strengthened. Romani people were often present on my family’s estate when I was growing up. I’d spent many a childhood summer running and playing with the children of different traveling families, so dealing with the two women wouldn’t pose too difficult a problem.

  “Hello.” My voice croaked from being unused.

  Angry stares answered. Neither woman spoke, which caused me to stop mid-step.

  Perhaps I’d underestimated the situation. How could this be resolved if they refused to acknowledge me?

  I did the only thing I knew to do—I tilted my head forward in a respectful bow. We English prided ourselves on having impeccable manners.

  With a scratchy throat and my mouth feeling as though I was trying to swallow fireplace ash, I tried again. For a brief second, I wished I had a tankard of mead, anything that would help so I could make this speech and leave.

  I took in a deep breath, and thankfully my voice didn’t hold the weakness from before. I sounded strong, diplomatic, trustworthy even.

  “My name is Marcus. Lord Marcus St. James of Smithersby Field . . .”

  A cold tone interrupted my friendly introduction.

  “We know who you are.” It was the older woman, the grandmother, if I’d judged correctly, who spoke. She then punctuated her statement with a sharp noise as she spat on the ground angrily.

  “We know exactly who you are. Chor.”

  My brow crinkled as I hurriedly tried to translate the foreign word. Something tugged at a distant memory. I was sure I’d heard it before, but the stress of the evening was causing me to draw an annoying blank.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that word means,” I mumbled in response.

  Again, the woman interrupted.

  “CHOR.” The word rang out with a blistering force as her finger shot out, pointing straight at me. Accusation and hatred exploded across her face.

  There was no withstanding the vehemence of her verbal attack. Stuttering, struggling to find a way to placate her, all I could do was stand there—speechless. For the life of me, I had no idea what she was saying.

  “She’s calling you a thief,” the grief-stricken voice of the younger female revealed. She must’ve been a few years older than Primrose.

  “I assure you, I am no thief. Allow me to say again . . . my name is Marcus St. James. Believe m
e, there’s an explanation for this. This is not what it seems.”

  “It matters not what your name is. It’s your actions that label you a thief. You stand there covered in the blood of our beloved, hoping to slip away into the night after stealing the life of sweet Primrose. You are a thief, a black-hearted stealer of innocence.”

  “Please, let me continue.” I took another step forward. “I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill her. I’m not quite sure what happened. One moment we were becoming . . . acquainted, and then she was dead.”

  The moment it passed through my lips, I knew how dubious and feeble my explanation sounded. Even the most uneducated of commoners could poke a hole through it with enough certainty to convict and then hang me.

  “What do you mean acquainted?” The question thundered brashly in the alley.

  My face flushed, and I tried loosening the tightness of my shirt collar, only to find blood flaking away when I pulled my fingers back. The small pieces fluttered to the ground, some snagging the thigh of my trousers. Repulsed, I jerked violently as I tried to brush them away.

  Some would say it was a compelling act of guilt—the killer unable to face the truths of his sins.

  Everywhere I looked, I saw blood. Her blood. In some places it was so thick, it caused my clothing to stick and dry to my skin.

  I gagged again, quickly covering my mouth. This wasn’t a moment to show weakness, but there was no helping it. With each passing breath, my hope of escaping this nightmare grew dimmer.