Berenice pulled her knife from Olafsen’s thigh. He shrieked and clasped his hands over the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He wobbled and sank to his knees. Berenice regarded him for a moment and then kicked him solidly in the face. He sprawled, whimpering, onto his back. His right hand clutched his gushing nose while his left put pressure on the opening in his leg.
“Very good, Berenice,” I said. “Leave him for the police. We have other monsters to pursue.”