Thompson took a deep breath, coming back to reality as his team surrounded him. It seemed he'd been right when he told Audra he might need protection from himself. "Thanks, Corporal. And the rest of you." "No problem, sir. Sergeant King said this might happen." The Count smiled ruefully. "You have a very well trained team, Captain Thompson--but they cannot be around you all the time. Sooner or later, you will give in to your own desire." He'd already come too close for comfort, Thompson thought bitterly. The worst part of it was that it was himself he was fighting, not the Count--and whichever way the fight went, he lost. "That may be, my Lady, but they're here now. And they'll keep me from doing anything I'd regret later." "Indeed," the Count said politely. "Then you will stay and enjoy the rest of the party." That was an order, Thompson knew, not a request. "As my Lady Count wishes," he said, trying to conceal resentment from the others, if not from the Count herself. "Good." The Count signalled a waiter, who approached carrying a tray loaded with foam-topped mugs. "Your records say you have a fondness for New Bavarian beer, something I doubt you can find very often. I can recommend this; it is their Oktoberfest Doppelbock, a brew I enjoyed myself before becoming a Kin." Thompson didn't doubt that; it was a brew he'd heard quite a lot about, though he'd never been able to afford any. He reached for a mug, shaking his head when Nkomo tried to restrain him. "It's okay, Corporal. I'm in danger of becoming a Kin, not being poisoned. But if it'd make you feel better, you can taste it before I have any." "I'll do that, sir." Nkomo took a deep drink, then handed the mug to Thompson, shaking his head. "Whoo! That's beer?" "It certainly is," the Count said with obvious amusement. "Rather potent beer, I might add, though it is also quite smooth. Feel free to drink all you wish; my medcenter has considerable experience treating hangovers." With that, the group of Kins broke up and began circulating. Thompson took a hearty drink from the mug he held, while the rest of the team took advantage of the Count's offer, accepting mugs of their own from the waiter. Not at all to his surprise, he saw that all of them had fang marks on their throats; when Nkomo lowered his mug, Thompson indicated the marks. "How was it?" Nkomo rubbed the marks, grinning. "It was great, sir--like nothing I've ever felt before. I'm going to do it again, as often as they'll let me." He gestured resignation. "Not as often as I'd like, but the one who fed on me says they don't take chances on their donors' health; even if I dose with rapid-heal, which I intend to, I'm not allowed to donate more than once every four tendays. What they call a Class Four Donor."