"No. You cannot." He ignores the words about his temper-- Etrigan finds them hilarious, laughs softly (the heat gets worse--), curls up to watch the scene bright-eyed.

Sweet pet Jason... this alley-cat is sniffing round
The mouth to hell, with not the wit to flee the reek of sulfur.
Permit me leave, and I shall play the triple-headed hound:
Chase her-- catch her-- gape my jaws wide, and engulf her.

Be. Silent. Jason's hand tightens on the edge of the table, white-knuckled.

"Do you happen to be fluent in ecclesiastical Latin, Miss Kyle? I find it unlikely. Please leave."