Chapter Eleven
Daughter of the Storm
“O, wicked wit and gifts that have the power...shameful lust...will sate itself.”
Shakespeare, Hamlet, act 1, scene 5
“What the hell?” Sparky rushed up the hillside and scurried over beside me on the flattened top. “Doc, look at the sky on the horizon—off to the northwest!”
I paused, my crop c****d back behind my shoulder. The curvaceous brunette twisted slowly, suspended in her chains from the crossbeam fastened high on the vertical side posts. She moaned from the pain of the dozen crimson welts on her stomach. Tangled locks of her shimmering black hair spread across her tipped-downward face.
Sparky pointed out to sea. “Those are the worst-looking storm clouds I ever saw!”
“That’s not just a storm, Sparky—that’s a typhoon, heading right for us.”
