Daniel lunged for Baldwin's wrist with both of his hands, pushing the knife up and way from Shoshi. Lowering his head, he drove it hard into Baldwin's oily abdomen, pushing the monster back.
Monster was heavy, a twenty-kilo advantage. Rock-hard. Thick wrists, A head taller. Two good hands.
Daniel injected the full force of his rage into the attack. Baldwin stumbled backward, against the wall racks, The baths vibrated. A jar tilted fell, shattered. Something wet and glossy skidded across the floor.
Earrings tinkling.
Baldwin opened his mouth, roared, charged, swinging the knife.
Daniel backed away from the death-arcs. Baldwin stabbed air several times in succession. The inertia threw him off-balance.
Big and strong, but no trained fighter.
Daniel used the moment to head-butt Baldwin again, drove his fists into the monster's belly and groin, kicking at naked shins, reaching upward, grabbing a wrist, struggling to gain possession of the knife.
Baldwin fought free. Stab, miss. Stepped on broken glass, cried out.
Daniel stomped on the wounded foot, went for the knife with his good hand, tried to claw Baldwin's chest with his bad one. The fingernails made contact with oily flesh, slid off ineffectually.
He looked for the gun. Too far. Kicked at Baldwin's knee. Punishing, but not damaging. Got both hands around Baldwin's hand, felt the smooth pearl of the knife handle.
Go for the fingers, stuffed with nerve endings.
He tried to bend back Baldwin's index finger, but Baldwin held fast. Daniel's leverage was poor, his hand slipped, came perilously rose to the knife blade. Before he could regain his hold on the handle, Baldwin yanked upward, gear-shifting the knife, up and down, back and forth, stabbing, wrenching, controlling it, as Daniel held on and pivoted to avoid being slashed.
The pinkie of Daniel's bad hand grazed the blade. The nail split open, then the soft flesh under it. Electric pain. A warm bath of blood.
He kept his good hand on the handle, gouging at Baldwin's fingers.
Baldwin saw the blood. Laughed, was renewed.
He lowered his teeth to Daniel's shoulder, sank them in.
Daniel twisted away, torn, on fire. A deep wound, more blood-his shirt began soaking up scarlet dye. No problem, he had plenty to spare, wouldn't stop until he was drained.
But escaping from Baldwin's bite had caused him to lose his grip on the knife.
Baldwin raised the giant blade.
Daniel held out his bad hand, palm-first.
The knife came down.
Enough nerves left to register pain.
Old pain, memory pain.
Back on the hillside. Back in the Butcher's Theater.
Baldwin twisted the knife, both hands on the handle, the big blade eating muscle, severing tendons, threatening to separate the metacarpal bones, split the hand clear up to the finger webs.
The monster growling. Gnashing his teeth. The eyes empty, obscene.
Intent on destroying him.
Baldwin drew himself up to his full height, bearing down on the knife. Pushing, churning, forcing Daniel down.
Tremendous pressure, crushing, relentless. Daniel felt his knees bend, buckle. He sank, skewered.
Baldwin's grin was wider than ever. Triumphant. He pressed down, painting, sweating, the oil mixing with the sweat, running down his body in viscous streams.
Daniel looked up at him, saw the swastika brands.
The crowbar-too far away.
Baldwin laughing, shouting, churning the knife.
Daniel pushed up with all his strength; the knife blade continued devouring his hand, extended its scarlet dominion.
He bit back screams, locked onto Baldwin's eyes, held the monster fast, refused to succumb.
'You? first? her? for? dessert.'
Daniel felt the blood leave him, the strength leeching out of his muscles, and knew he couldn't hold out much longer.
He pushed up again, harder, made his arm a rigid, jointless length of steel. Held his own, then let go suddenly, ceasing all resistance, falling backward in a paratrooper's roll, the impaled hand slamming to the ground, the knife pursuing it, but purposelessly, fueled by gravity, not intent.
The tension-release caught Baldwin off guard. He stum bled, held on to the knife, and went down after it, bending awkwardly at the waist to maintain his grip on the weapon.
