Fevre Dream by George R.R. Martin

touched her cheek, drew a finger down the side of her face in a tender caress, then caught her under the chin and made her look at him. “Are you so timid now, Valerie? Must I remind you of who you are? Have you been listening to Jean again? Is he the master now? Is he bloodmaster?”
    “No,” she said, her deep violet eyes wider than ever, her voice afraid. “No.”
    “Who is the bloodmaster, dear Valerie?” Julian asked. His eyes were lambent and heavy and bored right into her.
    “You are, Damon,” she whispered. “You.”
    “Look at me, Valerie. Do you think I need fear any tales told by a pack of slaves? What do I care what they say of me?”
    Valerie opened her mouth. No words came out.
    Satisfied, Damon Julian released his hold on her. There were deep red marks on her flesh where his fingers had pressed. He smiled at Sour Billy as Valerie drew back. “What do you think, Billy?”
    Sour Billy Tipton looked down at his feet and shuffled nervously. He knew what he ought to say, but he’d been doing some figuring lately, and there were things he had to tell Julian that Julian wouldn’t take kindly to hearing. He’d been putting it off, but now he didn’t see as how he had any more choice. “I don’t know, Mister Julian,” he said weakly.
    “You don’t know, Billy? What is it you don’t know?” The tone was cold and vaguely threatening.
    Sour Billy plunged on regardless. “I don’t know how long we can go on, Mister Julian,” he said boldly. “I been thinking on this some, and there’s things I don’t like. This here plantation brought in a lot of money when Garoux was runnin’ it, but it’s near worthless now. You know I can get work out of any slave, damned if I can’t, but them what’s dead or run off I can’t work. When you and your friends started takin’ kids from them shanties, or ordering the likely wenches up to the big house where they never come out, that was the start of our troubles. You ain’t had no slaves for more’n a year now, excepting those fancy girls, and they sure don’t stay around long.” He laughed nervously. “We don’t got no crops. We sold half the plantation, all the best parcels of land. And them fancy girls, Mister Julian, they’re expensive. We got us bad money troubles.
    “And that ain’t all. Doing in niggers is one thing, but using white folks for the thirst, that’s dangerous. In New Orleans, well, maybe that’s safe enough, but you and I know it was Cara killed Henri Cassand’s youngest boy. He’s a neighbor, Mister Julian. They all know there’s somethin’ peculiar over here anyway; if their slaves and children start to dyin’ we’re goin’ to have us real trouble.”
    “Trouble?” said Damon Julian. “We are almost twenty strong, with you. What can the cattle do to us?”
    “Mister Julian,” said Sour Billy, “what if they come by day?”
    Julian waved a hand casually. “It will not happen. If it does, we will deal with them as they deserve.”
    Sour Billy grimaced. Julian might be unconcerned, but it was Sour Billy took the biggest risks. “I think maybe she’s right, Mister Julian,” he said unhappily. “I think we ought to go somewheres. We’ve drained this place. It’s dangerous to stay on.”
    “I am comfortable here, Billy,” Julian said. “I feed on the cattle. I do not run from them.”
    “Money, then. Where we goin’ to get money?”
    “Our guests left horses. Take them to New Orleans tomorrow, sell them. See that they aren’t traced. You may sell off more of the land as well. Neville of Bayou Cross will want to buy again. Call on him, Billy.” Julian smiled. “You might even invite him to dinner here, to discuss my proposition. Ask him to bring along his lovely wife and that lithe young son of theirs. Sam and Lily can serve. It will be just as it used to be, before the slaves ran off.”
    He was taunting, Sour Billy thought. But it was never safe to treat any of Julian’s words lightly. “The house,”