Joscelin lowers himself into a chair with a visable wince as his body stitches itself back together. He is covered in blood, most of it not his, but a vampire drunk on fae blood had gotten in a lucky shot before Joss had been able to finish her off. But the pain is fleeting, and within seconds the tear in his shoulder has mended. The same cannot be said for the rip in his favorite tuxedo jacket. Ah, well. Sacrifices must be made in times of war.

He spies a familiar face nearby and motions her over to his table.

"Miss Romanoff."