How she dances: swiftly, and gracefully, and lethally.

There are faces morphing into monsters around her, humans who died but didn't lie down in their coffins even after the heart stopped and the soul fled, and they're snarling low and rabid.

River spins, grabs a collar and yanks -- the vampire's face contorts in surprise and anticipation as his fangs near her neck, and then in just plain surprise the instant before he vaporizes. River doesn't blink or hesitate at the ash; just darts forward, eyes narrowed with a clear deadly focus, and reverses her grip in time to stake the one making a grab for her from behind. She didn't even look at that one; she was too busy kicking another in the throat, hard enough to crunch cartilage.

No quarter given, and none asked.

No prisoners.