"Silver lining; I like to think I'm good company."

Deacon doesn't offer to get all up on hunting out the dickweed who sold her out; both Mitchell and Hasibe are more than capable of making blood run off the walls, or so he assumes of the latter whether metaphorically or literally, and it's more or less a self-solving problem.

He glances over a shoulder in a sort of automatic once over of the club to see if anything is particularly amiss. The smell of blood is cloying in the air and the music is all deep bass that makes the floor buzz, and that is the standard sort of evening. "While you're hanging out with the bloodsuckers," he says, and yes, he had thought of this before this moment, even before she texted him for the evening, "I was wondering if you'd help me take care of something."

Another longer pull from his beer goes here.