At the end, it was Nikki Supanova’s crochet skills that kept her alive.
Her father, wealthy entreponeur and the last true adventurer, Max Supanova, hadn’t demanded much in young Nikki’s life. This largely attributed to the Supanova daughter being ecstatic over the lessons her father taught her. Guns, knives, hand to hand and a variety of sundry skills that would ensure her survival. Crochet had been at the instistance of one of her stepmothers before her timely, though nevertheless disturbing, demise at the teeth of a great white shark after she’d revealed her plans to do away with the Supanova bloodline and inherit their outrageously huge estate.
Something about being a lady, if only in one respect, Nikki remembered as she looked past her dangling feet and down, down down at the jagged rocks that protruded out of the abyssal depths. She’d only agreed to learn such a domestic skill to quiet her father and she suspected that her father had nagged her to quiet his delightfully departed wife.
“You always did hang on by a thread!” The cackling crow of Launcestor Skullgrave took a deeper manly quality that was quite unusual on the ridiculously gaunt skeletal figure. He perched at the lip of the chasm where he and Nikki had fought; his voice carried up to the rock ceiling of the cave. Nikki’s refused to follow that voice up. She knew what Skullgrave would do.
As if confirmed by a higher power, the kalaidescopic collection of threads jerked suddenly and while she only fell an inch, her bowels plummeted to her feet while her heart lept to her throat. Around that throat was her lifeline; a scarf she would work at during the quieter times where her life would allow. A scarf she had worked on since she could ride bareback on a camel while shooting a rifle at full gallop. In other words – five.
“Oops, you’ve dropped a stitch!” The cravenly crackly cacaphony made the notion of a swift plummeting death almost appealing. But Supanovas were known for tenancity.
She hoped her scarf was as well.
To be continued…