"Ah, so you know of that particular establishment, do you? My, my, we are well-informed, aren't we?" Joss gives the American his sweetest smile. "Alas, my apparent age makes it rather difficult for me to be served there. Nearly seven centuries, and youth and beauty are still so maligned." Which is why he needs to get himself sorted with a new foster family, lickity-split.

When he sees the American casting about for potential weapons, he laughs his childish, delighted laugh and produces a well-worn, centuries-old wooden stake from inside his coat. "Looking for this? It really does pay to carry some protection with oneself at all possible times. You'd like to use it on me, wouldn't you? I don't sense anything particularly magical or spectacular about you, so you must be someone who is familiar with killing kind."

He sighs. "That hurts my feelings, you know. I'm sure you've got your reasons and they're probably awfully noble ones, but now you're not going to want to hear the deal I was about to propose. One which might benefit both of us."