Dev’s inquiries of the household staff revealed he’d once been a duke close to the monarchy, if his remarks about it were to be believed. Until he was turned, a made vampire, and of course had to fake his death, since it became difficult to explain the lack of aging. Like many British outcasts, he’d ended up in Australia.

He could have made overlord in Europe by now, but he’s not willing to kiss arses that low on the totem pole to position himself accordingly to get back into England. He wants them to hand it to him like a damned royal scepter.

Better to reign in hell, hmm?

Something like that.

It was remarkable, how she had no trouble participating in animated conversation with Ian and Charles at the same time she was tuning in to Dev’s thoughts. He was doing his own tracking as well. She sounded as if she were at tea in her own garden, all gracious beauty and seductive appeal. Apparently, their physical exercise before dinner had helped. He was glad for it, though he was going to have bruises the size of fists.

I’ll kiss every one of them.

Promises, promises.

He’d also discovered the station wasn’t completely a nest of testosterone, besides the maids. The staff had indicated Ian’s and Charles’s full servants were both female, though he’d not yet seen either.

For reasons that should be rather obvious to you, vampires choose full servants that mesh with their sexual preferences.

While Ian and Ruskin can be adventurous, their primary preference is women.

Well, that’s less than comforting, love. I’d much rather worry about my throat being ripped out than being buggered.

Stepping out onto the porch, he saw an old swagman stacking wood next to it. Every staff member he’d encountered was as wary as a beaten dog. However, when the man looked up at him, Dev was surprised to see a straight glance. The old man nodded. “It’s good to have the lady D home again,” he said in a voice made of gravel. His eyes were squinted and watery, a sign of permanent sun blight. “She finally got herself a human servant. Good. I’m Jim.”

“Dev. But I’m not her servant,” he replied. The man gave him a narrow look; then his shoulders rose in a shrug.

“Dim-witted girl. Shoulda known.”

“Hold up.” Dev arrested him in midshuffle, heading back to the shadows. “You’ve known her awhile, then. And Lady Daniela has never taken a full servant?”

“Not that anyone’s heard about.” Jim scratched at some blistered skin on his nose. “I came onto this place when I was barely twenty, stayed to work for her mother and then her. Knew she’d be back, so I stayed. For her.” His tone made it clear he didn’t give a spit about any of Ian’s lot. Dev bit back a smile and wondered how the old bloke had lived to his current age, but then realized he was making it clear where his loyalties lay, the first staff member with the guts to do it. He sharpened his attention.

“Her mother used to get after her about it, said it was dangerous not to have one,” the old man continued. “But that girl, she was always a free spirit. Kind of like a bloke about marriage, way she acted about it. Keeps herself shielded on all sides, that one.”

“Well, you keep yourself protected on all sides, can’t be buggered by no one, can you?” Jim gave him a tobacco-stained and mostly toothless smile. “Except yourself, mate. That’s the rat bastard you really have to look out for.”

Before Dev could respond, he hiked off, one bum leg making it more of a hop. Ian’s man materialized at his elbow, fast enough that Dev spun in defense, knife half drawn. The man halted, eased back. “Truce, mate. Ain’t no call for any mischief until they finish their dinner. I wanted to know what old Jim had to say to you.”

“He’s planning to stake the lot of them and take over the place at midnight. He’ll give us the go signal by cackling like a kookaburra.”

“Think you’re a smart bloke? You haven’t been among ’em long, have you?” The man grinned, showing yellow teeth, but his eyes were shrewd and dark, not entirely unpleasant. While Dev didn’t take his hand away from it, he slid the knife back in place, putting a hip on the rail.

“Not in a place like this. Only out there.” He nodded into the darkness, toward the desert and hills. “They’re serious about their dinner, then?”

“Oh, yeah. Aren’t we all? Name’s Bill.” Bill glanced toward the windows where the maids were lighting the candles at the dinner table. “If they don’t kill one another or someone else as the predinner sport, they have a pretty reasonable meal and tea and cakes afterward. Then they have their games at the end. Though those don’t involve killing.” He flashed a grin, gave Dev a quick once-over in his formal clothing. “If you’re going to be in there, you’ll find out what I mean soon enough. Hell, mate, you may even get to be part of it. Don’t know if that means you’re a lucky or sorry bastard.”

“Hey, Bill. Rattle your dags, mate. Don’t want to handle this on my own.” The voice came from the square of light of the open barn. Bill gave Dev a nod and headed in that direction. Dev heard the shrill whinny of a horse, and Bill’s pace increased, as if he had cause for alarm. But he called out something brusquely and entered the barn without any apparent concern, so Dev relaxed.

We’re ready for dinner, Dev. Come meet me at my chair and see me seated.

Dev took another look around in the dark. For some reason, facing blood-crazed dingoes and her raving, violent delirium seemed more appealing after Bill’s unsettling comments.

Ah, fond memories. Come to me, bushman. This is just dinner.

When he came into the dining area, the vampires were entering from the opposite hallway, Danny preceding them, courtesy to a lady. He didn’t realize he’d stopped dead in his tracks until his lady’s soft voice spoke in his mind.

Dev? You look like a gaping trout. Only she didn’t seem entirely displeased, considering she was the cause of it.

He hadn’t seen her when she came down from her bath, before she went into the library. She and her mother had shared the same build, because the dress she wore fit her perfectly. The silk gold taffeta skirt fell to midcalf. Strapless with a neckline that had a scalloped plunge between her breasts, there was a tiny row of decorative buttons down the front that had a sparkle to them. She’d piled her hair on her head except for one artful lock that fell to her shoulder and lay in a curl above her right breast, rounded and high from the hold of the wiring of the dress’s bodice. She also wore another opal centerpiece at her throat and matching teardrops.

The white dress gloves she’d donned fit her fingers and arms tightly, erotic in the way they molded her flesh but hid it, the candlelight reflecting a light sheen all the way to her upper arms.

In the service, he’d occasionally had the opportunity to view one of the scratchy films for entertainment they got through the supply lines. She was Grace Kelly, that timeless perfection, coupled with a danger that lovely lady had never projected.

She’d reached her chair now and laid a hand on his arm. Smelling like some kind of exotic perfume, she’d touched her mouth with a wet lipstick that urged him to suck on her lips, bruise them to even riper fullness. And that couldn’t help but make him think of the ways he could cause the lips between her legs to swell with arousal. With a sudden hunger that was uncanny, he imagined hearing that rich taffeta rustle as he pushed it out of his way.

She’d wanted him embarrassingly erect. She’d managed it, and he hadn’t even needed the memory she’d given him. However, as he should have expected, she wouldn’t be satisfied until he was about to explode out of his britches.

Everything beneath is bare flesh. Just garters and stockings. When he dumbly pulled out her chair and she swept her skirt around her, he saw small heeled slippers. A tiny bow on the top of each, with a scattering of diamondlike beads dangling from them over the toe. My feet are still thinking of you. Your mouth upon them, your body kneeling beneath me, that fine broad back of yours serving as a prop for my foot.

Strewth, she was fair killing him. When she took her seat, he brought her up to the table. He noted then that Ian wasn’t looking particularly pleased, probably because she’d taken the seat at the head of the table, and Ruskin had taken the other head.

However, he settled and rang the bell for the first course.

The two female servants had been behind their Masters, and now Dev emulated them, taking a step back to the wall behind his lady’s chair. With the vampires engaged in light discourse, it gave him the chance to give them the once-over, the way they were doing to him, with covert glances. He tried to ignore the fact that his interest went beyond simple information gathering. He wanted to know what a third-mark servant looked like, how they acted.

Did vampires choose their full servants for their beauty, or was that a side effect of getting that third mark, like a vampire’s unearthly good looks? Because the two women were stunning. Ruskin’s was an Asian Indian named Aapti, according to the staff.

She had dark hair nearly to her knees and wore a sapphire and silver sari with matching jewels that made her appear as a princess, except for her submissive pose behind his chair, her long-lashed eyes down, hands folded. It took him a moment, still recovering from the shock of Danny, to notice the sari she wore was sheer, as was the halter piece beneath, so there was the suggestion of her sex and nipples beneath the flowing garments.

When he shifted his gaze to the other, he recalled Ian had called her Chiyoko, and registered for the first time that Ian’s servant was Japanese. An unusual sight in Oz, when anti-Nip feeling still ran so high. He didn’t have much problem with it, though, because he’d met enough Japanese villagers during his tour to know there was a difference between the enemy you fought and the people caught in between. Though in war, he acknowledged there was often no time to sort out the difference, for either side.

Again, silky black hair, and she wore a black cheongsam with gold and crimson dragons embroidered on it. The cheongsam was cut all the way up beyond the thigh to the waist, so that when she moved, it was possible to see the neat curve of naked arse, the dusky crease to her sex. The frog clasp neckline followed the shoulder, but the front bodice was open cut, her breasts completely bare to a man’s gaze. A crisscross of ribbon over them held the shape of the dress and served to lift the small curves. It appeared there were some kind of clamps on her nipples, screwed in to hold them taut, with a delicate beaded chain running between them.