He's close now. His feet leave the ground, and he raises his bat. The Ashley bat is a strange thing: swings once, strikes twice, smells of raw meat and new pennies, subtly different in their metallic tang. His face is a twisted, snarling mask, and the coldness is gone from his grey eyes; they're full of hate, now.

He's heedless of the axe. If she wanted to, she could easily strike him in the shoulder from this angle. Avoiding the bat presents its own challenge.

For just a split second, she'll see something, very brief, no more than an impression. Huge, empty white eyes, a long maw bristling with needle-sharp teeth.

And then it's gone, and there's just the Batter, swinging straight at her head.