“Mr. Smythe? Hey, whoever. I’m locked in here. Please unlock the door. Please,” her request being more pathetic than she intended.
A key entered the lock. The door swung open and she saw a man. It wasn’t Mr. Smythe. He wore all black including slicked back dark hair, a black pointed beard over a narrow sallow face with dark beady eyes that cast a menacing evil look. “Who are you?” he growled at her, grabbing both her arms.
“I’m a guest of Mr. Smythe. He was supposed to be back to let me out hours ago. I’m doing research for my thesis. Let go of me! NOW!” she answered with rising anger outweighing her fear.
“That bastard Smythe! What are you looking for? How much did he tell you? Did you find it?” he screamed, eyes growing larger as he started to shake her.
“None of your damn business if he told me anything.” Then in a slow deliberate voice said, “ NOW. TAKE. YOUR. DAMNED. HANDS. OFF. ME. I WILL. NOT. ASK. AGAIN.”
He just glared at her, tightening his hold, snearing, “I know he’s trying to break the spell. Tell me what he said, Bitch! Did you find it? Tell me!” He began to shake her.
She stared him in the eyes, “Okay asshole! I warned you!”
Emma did not appear to be a formidable woman, with her five foot six inch slight build and unruly shock of curly blond hair. Wrong. She took three deep breaths, centering her focus, relaxing her body. Completely relaxed, she said very calmly, “Sorry,” and brought all her now focused energy into the quick upthrust of her arms between his, breaking his grip, simultaneously releasing a quick but deadly centered kick to the man’s groin. Her kick was dead on. He looked at her in surprise, then bent over blowing out a breath, his eyes bulging, like they might blast out of their sockets. His hands moved to his groin area. Freed from his grasp, Emma did a quick step back and executed a snap kick to his nose, hearing bone crack, seeing blood immediately spurting out. Not finished, she did a quick spin on her right foot, left leg cocked to release another quick and devastating kick to the side of his head, sending him to the floor in a crumpled heap retching and gasping for air. Then he went limp and his breathing slowly began to quiet. Good. Guess I didn’t kill the asshole. I warned him.
She dragged his limp body all the way into the room, calmly gathered her things, closed and locked the door behind her. There was no one behind the reception desk. Wondering what happened to Miss Pritchard, but not really caring, she left the building, locked the front door, dropped the keys through the mail slot and walked back to her hotel wondering what had just happened.
Remembering Miss Pritchard had her lodging information, she checked out of her hotel, fearful that that guy might know more wackos and send them looking for her. She went three London blocks where she found another hotel. While more upscale and expensive than she wanted, she didn’t care. She knew she’d be safer there.
Securely in her room, she ran a tub of water with some bubble bath from the array of soap and lotion provided by the hotel, She got two of the small bottles of chardonnay from the mini bar and settled in to soak away the day.
Her brain finally settling down, she thought back to growing up in Salem, Massachusetts and her early childhood obsession with the Salem Witch Trails that took place there in the late 1600s. From her early years she had read any book on the subject she could find. She had studied history in college with the sole purpose of going on to earn a PhD in history with a focus on witchcraft so she might dispel the myths surrounding it, especially with the myths surrounding so called witches.
Two bottles finished, she showered off, dressed and went out to a nearby pub for some dinner. Famished, she downed a huge order of fish and chips and two pints. Satiated and slightly tipsy, she went to her room, stripped and fell into bed, soon enjoying a dreamless sleep.
To be continuied . . .