“Great,” Ishmael said, burying the restless part of him sitting here without being able to drink blood or drag him somewhere private to sate a different kind of craving. That had been before he’d had Monty. He gestured for another drink for Kieran and leaned back on his stool, avoiding looking at the arch of anyone’s neck in the bar.

See? He was proving it, erasing all doubt. They were old friends, and there didn’t even have to be strings attached.

---