Elbows on the table and in a comfortable slouch designed to nurse embered cigarette, Deacon offers lighter to Hasibe in open enough gesture; she can either take the thing or lean in for flame. Either way, Deacon isn't paying any mind to the quasi-willing feeding going on, the way hard, cold hands rough-handle and re-position warmer human body between them to dig fangs into throats and arms. It's the kind of thing he sees every night.

No, instead, he watches Mitchell watch them, something not quite adding up for him when it comes to the age drop and the tension signals. His fingernails score along his jaw in fidgeted contemplation. By the time Mitchell is forcing his attention back onto the conversation, Deacon greets him with a wide enough smile.

"Must've been easy for them. They got it into the blood, after all. It's why we serve it fresh around here. Your friend, Ivan, agrees."