Her grip fails as he transforms back, so she just throws herself over him, less deliberate, more desperate. The sound of his cry has painted the air and she's smiling again. He screams like a man, a snake that screams like a man. It's like a fairy tale. She's enjoying this too much to give up now.

She doesn't pull the knife out straightaway, she tries to ride the transformation, tries to drag it, first across, then up as she realises where his heart ought to be. The cut doesn't go where she wants, ribs thickening to block her, so she twists it as she drags it out, rolls forward and reaches to press her fingers in the wound, trying to halt any attempt at fighting back, trying to cause as much pain as possible. She wants to hear him scream again. Blood has spilt over the clothes, over the ground, a glorious mess.