Dimitri had come alive at that, his flare of anger somewhat disconcerting to Ishmael. (True, their skin was cold, but Ishmael had been alone long enough; his skin was thicker than Lancaster’s, obviously, when it came to a little irreverence.)

So he did spring to his feet, more roughly than usual, but he shot the other vampire a look that still held an echo of mockery in it – because this conversation had made him near-irritated, too. Here Lancaster was, ruining everyone’s moods as well as his own. An excellent use of time. Ugh.

“We’re friends, are we?” Ishmael tutted, shaking his head in derision. “What could you do to me, anyway?” What would Lancaster dare to do?

---