Still, it was a loss. The remaining children were milling on one side of the pen, pacing, snarling, but at his presence they cowered back, always uncertain of his mood until he produced food or a demand. Many of them had been wounded, repeatedly it seemed.
Arms at odd angles, some limping. There was torn flesh that would mend in a day or two, perhaps longer, because even with the conversion, children did not heal as fast as adult vampires. One or two had been blinded, eyes gouged out. These whined piteously, even as they hissed at their brethren who came too close and tried to take advantage of their weakness. She was a nastier fighter than he’d given her credit for, and of course some of them had taken the easier route of satisfying their hunger on their fallen brethren.
That was the problem he couldn’t surmount, that he’d had when chasing her servant. They were scavengers primarily, and would take a fresh kill over pursuing the stronger, moving trophy. But older children had more of the craving for the hunt in them, so he’d made sure the newer ones were older. Ten and twelve years of age. With satisfaction, he saw those were still prowling, looking for an opening against her. Though she was a vampire, they still knew the rich aroma of prey.
She’d struggled to her feet at the sound of the door rolling back, for there was straw sticking to the back of her shirt and trousers, though that could have been from her struggles throughout the night. Her hair was an unruly mess, no longer the soft style that had made her face look so deceptively angelic when she’d stepped from the car. Remembering how she’d disdained his hand on his front porch, his lip curled. She wasn’t getting the opportunity to scorn him, ever again.
If she’d shown him one moment of favor, bowed to his authority, he might have entertained the idea of an alliance, for her standing was strong among the vampire world. And she did have her appeal. When she turned her face to him, the defiance in her eyes aroused as much as angered him. The latter was mollified by her pallor. They hadn’t let her feed. Good pets. He would make sure his vampires tossed them a whore from town tonight or a swagman drifting through that no one would miss. While they fed on the blood, he would feed on the screams of the confused and terrified humans. Better than sex, practically. Able to be enjoyed by oneself, fully. When he had such thoughts, he knew he was meant to be a king. Perfect isolation in one’s own mind, while dominating the world around him. He didn’t need Lady Daniela or anyone else.
The blood on her clothes, copious amounts of it, told him she’d likely been wounded numerous times. While she was almost two hundred and her healing was swift, vitality had to be restored with blood. Blood she wouldn’t get.
What had happened with that servant of hers? Why wasn’t he with her? He would have enjoyed tormenting him in ways that could stretch on for days, but he put that dissatisfaction aside when he noted some of her struggles had landed her in the waste often left in the pen by frightened human victims. They had it mucked out once a week for that reason. However, he didn’t want the stench to distract him from the pleasure of bringing her to her knees. Because while he had her down there, he’d make her suck him off. Yes, he liked that idea exceedingly well. Once she was under his control, he’d even fit her with a permanent bit, stretching and tearing those pouty lips, so she would have to service him whenever he desired, with no ability to dismember him with her teeth. It made him hard, just thinking about it, and he was almost impatient with the duel, wanting it out of the way.
“Take her to a room, let her clean herself up and prepare her weapons.”
“Coward.”
Danny stepped out of the corner after Lord Ruskin issued the command, causing him to stop and turn. Sending a warning look to the two circling vampire children, she made it clear they’d regret making another move forward. Probably because they’d had enough of her blood to be halfway sensible, they hung back. Still, they were opportunists, so she proceeded carefully to the front of the big pen. “My mother told me you were not even man enough to stay in Darwin during the war, when it was bombed. You fled, like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.” Thinking of Dev, the battle wounds he’d sustained, her voice strengthened. “While Aussies and Brits alike went toe-to-toe with the Japanese.”
“Why do I care who wins human wars?” He scoffed. “We’re far superior to them. It affects me not at all.”
“No, you wouldn’t care. Any more than you care what true honor and courage are.” She spat then. The tomboy skill she hadn’t exercised in years kicked in enough to win her the small victory of the saliva striking the front of his perfect linen shirt. “You wouldn’t know true nobility if it bit you on the backside, Lord Charles.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said after a long moment, when it was obvious that fury had robbed him of speech. “Take her out in the yard, strip and hose her down like you would stock.”
When she saw the imagining of it flash through his eyes, she sickened at the visible swell in the front of his breeches. “Let her change into the appropriate clothes out there and give her the blades she’s brought,” he continued. “Don’t leave her alone for any reason.”
Danny knew it was a futile expenditure of energy and a telling one, for she should have been able to give considerable trouble to vampires under the age of fifty, as these “sons” of Charles’s were. However, she wouldn’t capitulate, strip before those leering male eyes. So they closed in on her and she struggled while they tore her clothes from her, rolling her over in the dirt of the yard, kicking at her, punching when needed, groping whenever they could get lucky, while she screamed and fought back. She landed a few blows of her own that, like the children, had them somewhat wary by the end, but only the way men around a calf were, knowing they would overpower the poor beast with only a certain amount of caution.
At least the water was not cold, but the humiliation made her wish for Dev’s ability to block things out as she stood in the center and they washed her down like cattle, then made her stand, naked and shivering while they retrieved her travel bag with her blades and fencing clothes.
In those long daylight hours, she’d been bitten numerous times, had bones broken, skin ripped from her. Once or twice, they’d piled up on her so skillfully that several had been able to get nice long drinks before she could struggle free. Of course it had all healed back, but there were some places, closer to dusk, she’d not allowed to heal fully, conserving her strength. While she’d managed to catch one or two a couple times, reclaim some of that blood, there were too many. Before she could get too much sustenance, her flank and back were attacked and she’d had to fight again. They might have no true feeling for one another, but they’d learned the laws of being a pack.
She blocked out the faces she was smashing, arms she twisted, eyes she gouged. Nine-year-old boys, ten-year-old girls. One girl, perhaps six, who couldn’t possibly survive long in this mob, for the other children were much stronger.
She’d understood why it haunted Dev, but she couldn’t deal with that right now. It didn’t matter that she was weak, that she’d lost so much blood. She was going to fight the bastard, and she was going to win, on strength of will alone if she had to. There were soldiers, or diggers as Dev’d call them, who’d fought and won battles far past the point when their bodies should have given out, when something far more elemental kicked in and said, “Bugger it, I’m not going to stand for it.” The thought of the bushman brought the yearning that had recurred through the night. Hell, she hadn’t been able to push it away since he’d left. If she’d thought he was close enough, she’d have reached out to him. She’d been tempted to try to locate him, but what would it avail her to find he was still in Queensland, probably trying to erase her memory with a fat-arsed whore with a kind heart and soft hands? Or that he was deep in the bush again?
He’d made his choice, and she’d respect it. If she tried to reach out to him now, it wouldn’t be fair anyway. She couldn’t let him know what was going on. The noble daft bastard would feel he had some obligation to her, though nothing could be farther from the truth. But she couldn’t help but long for the sound of his voice, that relaxed drawl. The dry, self-deprecating humor that made her picture his half smile, the Gallic shrug.
It had been wrong, what she’d done to him that night. Didn’t change the fact that it had given her such pleasure, or that, to be her servant, he’d have been subjected to more and worse at future vampire gatherings. Particularly if she was going to subject herself to the politics of being a Region Master. He wasn’t cut out for it, never had been.
Which brought her back to the present. Probably knowing it didn’t take much to get on Ruskin’s entertainment agenda for the evening, most of the staff moving about their daily business between the outbuildings didn’t linger. Except for one.
Aapti stood on the back porch, the servant motionless and watching. Danny suspected Charles had her there so she could give him a play-by-play without him appearing to have vulgar curiosity. Remembering Chiyoko, she pushed the bitterness about that away, and locked gazes with the woman.
“I’m sorry,” Danny said. “Not for what I intend to do to him, but for what it will do to you.” The servant’s dark eyes flickered. Without a word, she turned and went back into the main house.
Her bag was tossed to her. The vampires stood, arms crossed, staring at her with hungry eyes, anticipating what Ruskin might yet allow them to do to her. Ignoring them, she imagined she was in her bedroom back in the station as best she could as she wrung out her hair. She dearly would have liked a brush. Her hands wanted to tremble as she lifted them to tie it back. Weakness in her arms, her wrists. Damn it, she could not lose this.
She’d brought a snug top, no loose sleeves. Cotton pants that clung indecently for a woman, as Dev might think, but stretched and moved with her as if she wore nothing. Slippers with traction on the soles, making it easy to spin and lunge, regardless of the surface. She blotted her face dry and then turned to the case that held her blades. When she closed her hands on the hilts of the two sabers, she saw the gleam of the silver on the curve, a reflection of the moonlight above. Thinking of it glimmering with the crimson of Ruskin’s blood gave her some extra energy. As well as the fact his men had come to attention, watching her closely. She spun, arcing the blade out, and the four either ducked or jumped back. Her lips curved in a feral smile.