I got to my feet. "How you doing, Jason?"
"I'm okay," he said.
Yvette jerked the leash tighter, so he couldn't talk. I realized that the inside of the collar had metal spikes on it, a choke collar. Great.
"He is my wolf, Yvette. Mine to protect. You cannot have him," Jean-Claude said.
"I have already had him," she said. "But I will have him again. I have not hurt him yet. The bruises are not my doing. He got that in defense of this place. In defense of you. Ask him yourself." She eased the collar, and then the leash itself.
Jason took a long breath and looked at us.
"Did she hurt you?" Jean-Claude asked.
"No," he said.
"You have shown great restraint," Jean-Claude said to Yvette. "Or have your tastes changed since last we embraced?"
She laughed. "Oh, no, my tastes are the same as they always were. I will torment him now in front of you and you will be powerless to stop me. This way I torment several people for the price of one." She smiled. She looked better than she had at the restaurant. Not quite so pale.
"Who'd you feed off of?" I asked.
Her eyes flicked to me. "You'll see soon enough." She turned her attention to Warrick. He didn't exactly cringe, but he seemed suddenly smaller, less shining. "Warrick, you failed me."
Warrick stood against the wall, Damian's sword still in his hand. "I did not mean to hurt him, mistress."
"Oh, I don't mean that. You guarded them while they brought him back."
"You said I would be punished if he died."
"So I did, but would you really have used that great sword on me?"
He dropped to his knees. "No, mistress."
"Then how could you guard them?"
Warrick shook his head. "I did not think . . ."
"You never do." She pulled Jason in against her legs, cradling his face against her thigh. "Watch, Jason, watch and see what I do to bad little boys."
Warrick got to his feet, putting his back to the wall. He dropped the sword, clattering on the stones. "Please, mistress, please do not do this."
Yvette took in a deep breath, head back, eyes closed, caressing Jason's face. She was anticipating.
"What's she going to do?" I asked.
"Watch" was all Jean-Claude would say.
Warrick was kneeling close enough for me to touch. Whatever was about to happen, we were going to have a ringside seat. Which was the point, I suppose.
Warrick stared at the far wall, past us, ignoring us as much as he could. A white film spread across his pale blue eyes, until they were cloudy, blind. If I hadn't been standing within arm's reach, it would have been too subtle to see.
His eyes collapsed inward, crumbling with rot. His face was still perfect, strong, heroic, like an engraving of St. George, but his eyes were empty, rotting holes. Thick greenish pus trailed down his cheeks, like thick tears.
"Is she doing that to him?" I asked.
"Yes," Jean-Claude said, almost too soft to hear.
Warrick made a small sound low in his throat. Black fluid burst from his mouth, pouring down his lips. He tried to scream, and all that came out was a deep, choking gurgle. He fell forward onto hands and knees. The pus-filled liquid poured from his mouth, eyes, ears. It flowed in a puddle of liquid thicker than blood.