More Bitter Than Death: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,109

I could get to my feet. I couldn’t see anything but blurred shadows—the snow stuck to the window helped block out some of the light from the outside—but I could follow motion pretty well. My attacker moved toward me, lunged, and I kicked out, catching a leg, just above the knee, by the feel of it. I was rewarded with a muffled exclamation inspired by pain and surprise. My shoe got snagged in the trouser fabric and was pulled off as he—it was a man, from the size of him—backed away. I kicked off the other shoe, scootched over, and got up—nice, clean, and technical, swinging my leg around my hand, which was firmly planted on the floor—just in time to realize that my opponent was swinging at the left side of my head.

I muffed the block—I didn’t bring my arm up fast enough—and got caught on the cheekbone with his fist.

Several things happened then.

The blow hurt like hell, but not as badly as I’d feared. I’d had my head tucked behind my shoulder, too. My assailant was wearing gloves.

I took the punch and kept going, loading up my counter. I launched a sweet right cross and caught him square on the side of the head. I felt skin give. If I could have seen better, I might have landed it right on the nose, but was pleased as, well, punch, to land anything at all. I heard another curse, and he backed off a step.

At the same time, I realized that not only was I not hurt so much as I was mad—and I was truly pissed—but also that the guy wasn’t expecting me to fight back. And I was fighting, I understood, with a shock. I had actually blocked a punch, against someone who meant to hurt me. He wasn’t even very good at this, and if I could keep my act together for a few minutes—

He was still between me and the doorway, and with the back of my legs brushing the bedspread, I had no choice but to follow up, bring the fight to him.

He threw another wild roundhouse, and I slipped it. I tried a quick jab, but he was out of range, so I hauled back and let loose with a front kick that connected solidly with his stomach.

With nothing but nylon stockings on my feet, I lost my purchase on the carpeting as I connected with him, and I hit the ground. He went back, hard, slamming into the door, making a sick wheezing sound.

The noise of him hitting the door brought an angry protest and knocking on the wall from the occupant of the room next to mine. This reminded me that there were other people nearby, and as I was getting up again, I did what I should have done in the first place.

I screamed. Long, loud, and unladylike.

My assailant was fumbling with the door at this point. I tripped over my shoes, landing against the bathroom door just as he slid out into the hallway. I regained my footing, screamed again, putting every bit of my outrage and pain into it, and scrambled to follow.

Maybe I wouldn’t actually attack him again, but I sure as hell wanted to see who it was, if I could.

“What the hell is going on out here?” A woman I recognized but couldn’t name immediately was clutching a parka over her pajamas. She stepped in my way.

“I was attacked!” It was all I could do to keep from shoving her aside. “I have to—”

She put her hand on my arm, restraining me. “Omigod, you mean it’s happened again!”

I shook her off, more vigorously than I meant. “I have to—”

I got past her and across the hall, to where the door to the stairs was. I stuck my head in and listened: nothing, not a sound except for the blood pounding in my own ears. Both the elevators were moving, too, and so I was out of luck there. I looked up and down the hall, but the doors that were opened framed other sleepy or drunken archaeologists, in various stages of undress. There were no parties on this floor, that I could hear, so I was pretty sure I’d lost my man.

I had to turn and, once again, saw the curious glances following me.

The woman didn’t seem to notice that I’d shaken her off so rudely, as she kept talking the whole time I was looking for my quarry. “…and now…were you broken into, too?