drawn back into a fixed snarl of concentration and fury and her teeth seemed as sharp as those of a female leopard in a trap.
It was like fighting a leopard; she attacked him with an unrelenting savagery and total lack of fear, no longer human, dedicated only to his total destruction.
The long hair swirled about him, at one moment flicking like a whiplash into his eyes to blind and unbalance him, and she weaved and dodged and struck like a mongoose at the cobra, every movement flowing into the next, her taunting red-tipped breasts dancing and jerking with each blow she hurled at him.
With a jar of disbelief, Peter realized that she was beating him down. So far he had managed barely to survive each blow that he caught on arm and shoulder; each time her bare feet crashed into his thigh or lower belly, each time her knees drove for his groin and jarred against the bone of his pelvis, he felt a little more of his strength dissipate, felt his reactions becoming more rubbery, just that instant slower. He had countered her attack with luck and instinct, but any instant she must land solidly and drop him, for she was never still,
cutting him with hands and feet, keeping him off balance and he had not hurt her yet, had not touched her with any of his counter-strokes.
Still there was no feeling in his hands and fingers. He needed respite, he needed a weapon, and he thought desperately of the knife that had fallen into the cockpit behind him.
He gave ground to her next attack, and the bridge rail caught him in the small of the back; at the same moment another of her strokes aimed at the soft of his throat deflected off his arm and crunched into his nose. Instantly his eyes flooded with tears, and he felt the warm salt flood of blood over his upper lip and down the back of his throat; he doubled over swiftly, then in the same movement he threw himself backwards, like a diver making a one-and-ahalf from the three-metre board. The rail behind him helped his turn in the air, and he had judged it finely. He landed like a cat on both feet on the deck of the cockpit ten feet below the bridge, flexing at the knees to absorb the shock, and flicking the tears from his eyes, wringing his arms to return blood and feeling.
As he spun into a crouch he saw the knife. It had slid down the cockpit into the stern scuppers. He went for it.
The dive had taken her by surprise, just as she was poised for the final killing stroke to the back of his exposed neck, but she swirled to the head of the ladder and gathered herself while below her Peter launched himself across the cockpit for the big ugly Ninja knife.
She went for him feet first, dropping from ten feet, and the bare soles of her feet hit him together, the impetus of her falling body enhanced by the stabbing kick that she released at the moment that she hit him.
She caught him high in the back, hurling him forward so that the top of his head cracked into the bulkhead and darkness rustled through his head. He felt his senses going, and it required all of his resolve to roll over and pull his knees swiftly to his chest, to guard himself against the next killing stroke. He caught it on his shins, and once again launched himself after the knife. His fingers felt swollen and clumsy on the rough cheque red surface of the hilt, and at the moment they touched he unwound his doubled-up body like a steel coil spring,
lashing out with both feet together.
It was a blind stroke, delivered in complete desperation.
It was the first solid blow he had landed; it caught her at the moment when she had already launched herself into her next onslaught;
both his feet slammed into her belly just below the ribs, and had the flesh there been soft or yielding it would have ended it; but she was just able to absorb the force of it with flat hard muscle though it hurled her backwards across the cockpit with the breath hissing from her lungs and the long slim body doubling over in an agonized convulsion.
Peter realized that this was the only chance that he had had, and the only one he would ever have yet his body was racked with such pain that he could hardly drag himself up onto his elbow, and his vision swam and blurred with tears and blood and sweat.
He did not know how he had managed it, some supreme exertion of will, but he was on his feet with the knife in his hand, instinctively extending the blade down the back of his right thigh to keep it protected until the moment it had to be used, crouching as he went in,
left arm raised as a shield and knowing that now he had to end it swiftly, he could not go on longer. “this was his last effort.
Then she had a weapon also. Moving so swiftly that it had happened before she was halfway across the cockpit, she had knocked the retaining clip off the boat hook that stood in the rack beside the cabin entrance.
It was eight feet of heavy varnished ash, with an ornate but vicious brass head, and she cut at him with a low swinging warning blow to hold him off while she forced air back into her empty lungs.
She was recovering swiftly, much more swiftly than Peter himself
He could see the cold killing light rekindle in her eyes. He knew he could not go on much longer, he must risk it all in one last total effort.
He threw the knife, aiming at her head. The Ninja, not designed as a throwing weapon, rolled out of line of flight, hilt foremost but still it forced her to lift the staff of the boat hook and deflect it.
It was the distraction he had wanted.
Peter used the momentum of his throw to go in under the swinging staff, and he hit her with his shoulder while her arms were raised.
Both of them reeled backwards into the cabin bulkhead, and
Peter groped desperately for a grip. He found it in the thick lustrous tresses of her hair, and he wove his fingers into it.
She fought like a dying animal with strength and fury and courage that he could never have believed possible, but now at last he could pit his superior weight and strength directly against hers.
He smothered her against his chest, trapping one arm between their bodies, while he was able to pull her head backwards at an impossible angle, exposing the long smooth curve of her throat.
And then he scissored his thighs across her, so that those lethal feet and legs were unable to reach him, and they crashed over onto the deck.
She managed with an incredible effort to swing her weight so that she landed on top of him, her breasts sliding against his chest,
lubricated by sweat and blood that dribbled down from his nose, but
Peter heaved all his remaining strength into his shoulders and rolled back on top of her.
They were locked breast to chest and groin to groin in some bizarre parody of the act of love, only the stock of the boat hook between them.
Peter twisted down hard on the rope of hair in his left hand,
pinning her head to the deck so that her eyes were only six inches from his and blood from his nose and mouth dripped onto her upturned face.
Neither of them had spoken a word, the only sound the hiss and suck of laboured breathing, the explosive grunt of a blow delivered or the involuntary gasp of pain as it landed.
They glared into each other’s eyes, and at that moment neither of them was a human being, they were two animals fighting to the death,
and Peter shifted quickly so the stock of the boat hook fell across her unprotected throat. She had not been ready for that and she ducked her chin too late.
Peter knew he could not dare to release his grip on her hair, nor the arm around her body, nor the scissors that enfolded her legs. He -could feel the steely tension of her whole body, that required all his own strength to hold. If he relaxed his grip in the slightest, she would twist away, and he would not have the strength to go on after that.
With the elbow of the hand that held her hair, he began to bear down on the ash staff of the boat hook, slowly crushing down into her throat.
She knew it was over then, but still she fought on. As she weakened Peter was able to transfer more and more of his weight onto the stock of the boat hook. Slowly blood suffused her face, turning it dark mottled plum, her lips quivered with each painful rasping breath and a little frothy saliva broke from the corners of her mouth and ran back down her cheek.
Watching her die was the most horrible thing Peter had ever had to do. He shifted cautiously, going for the few extra ounces of weight which would force the heavy wooden Stock down that last eighth of an inch and crush in
