I was standing inside the cell with my back to the open door. This was the kind of opportunity Azraal would not be passing up. I spun, gripping his dagger tightly, and faced his attack. As he charged, teeth bared, eyes ablaze, I swiftly reached out and plunged the dagger into his neck with all the force I could muster. The blade was so sharp and I’d stabbed so hard that my hand actually went through his neck.
For an awkward, gruesome moment, we stood there in shock. I was staring at the bizarre way in which my wrist disappeared into his throat. He was gurgling, glaring at me and struggling to stand, as immobilized as a cat grabbed by the scruff of its neck. I saw movement behind him. Niven was rushing at full speed from down the hallway.
I gripped Azraal by the spiny exuse for hair on the top of his sweaty crimson head, and, with an effort I’d have never managed in my old body, I ripped his head clean off. Well—actually, there was nothing clean about it.
His now-disembodied head screamed shrilly. I pushed his body back so that it collapsed outside the door and slammed the door shut before the charging Niven could get in.
That left me in a fortunately inmate-free jail cell in Hell with a demon who was about to pass out, a demon who was about to piss himself, and the still-living head of the demon who hated me the most.
Life was so much simpler when I was actually alive.