Once the cleaver touched his throat, he moved.  He'd lain there long enough for his various injuries to knit and heal; he had no reason for pretense any longer.  Only his right arm moved, but that blindingly fast, bringing the Bowie knife up in an arc over his body.  It met the blade of the cleaver, and passed right through without slowing, and the blade of the cleaver fell against his chest, useless, the severed edge mirror-bright.  The arm reversed its sweep just as Naomi backed out of the way, slicing through the air where she had been.  He was up and on his feet in an eyeblink after that, coming toward her, the knife held in a very professional grip; he was clearly an experienced blade fighter.  His face was still behind the ski mask and goggles, but the smile was evident in his voice, now that his vocal chords had healed.<br/><br/>"And I, dear Naomi, know what you are.  You think you know what I'm capable of, just because you know I'm undead?"  He let the mocking tone of his question carry the rebuke.