A Forever Kind Of Thing Sharon Cullen RuneStone Publishing Prologue Northern France, 1798 The babe was dying. The mother, struggling on the soft blankets to expel the infant from her body, knew it. The grandmother, helping the infant along his journey as best she could, and the father, sitting outside the tent, listening to the pitiful cries of his wife, knew it. No one could do anything except watch and pray for a quick ending. It came, as everyone knew it would. And with it came the death of the infant?s mother. Mikael Giovanni, King of the Giovanni Gypsy tribe, shuddered once and let his head fall into his hands. Another infant dead, another wife gone in the birthing. An old man sat far from the flickering flames of the small campfire. His black eyes whipped back and forth, tendrils of white hair stuck out from his head in odd directions. His closed mouth moved in a continuous back and forth motion while gnarled, arthritic fingers lay twisted in his lap. No one paid him any mind. The mother of King Mikael stepped from the colorful tent, Sharon Cullen clutching a small bundle of cloth. Mikael took it and looked into the still face of his daughter. After a moment he handed the dead infant to his mother, stood, and walked away. ?It is a curse, I tell you.? The old man came to stand beside the woman. He reached one gnarled, crooked finger out to touch the cold skin. ?The Tremonts have cursed our family. Mikael?s children are doomed to die before they can even breathe, and the Giovanni blood will die with them. Amriya.? He whispered the word for ?curse? in the language of his father. ?Shut up, Papa.? The woman stared with a worried frown at the retreating back of her son. ?It is no curse. The babies were big, their mothers small. The women could not endure such large babes.? The old man shook his head. Wisps of white hair billowed around his ears. ?No. Our enemy has cursed us.? * ** Later that night the old man crept into the tent of his sleeping grandson and stared down at him. The King of the tribe Giovanni, lay curled into a tight ball, a bottle of spirits cuddled close to his stomach. He did not move, the alcohol doing what time eventually would, dulling his pain. The old man crouched next to his grandson, his brittle knees popping their protest. In the still of the night he muttered words no mortal had ever spoken out loud. He raised both arthritic hands over his people?s King until they hovered mere centimeters from the warm skin, but not touching. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightening slashed through a cloudless sky. He would do what he had to. He would save his grandson and the Giovanni blood line. Damn the gods to hell. Damn the Tremonts with the gods. Finished, he stood, his joints creaking in the silence, and took one last look at his grandson. ?I am sorry chaveske chikno.? Grandson. He turned and walked out. The King did not move. The woman met the old man on the other side of the tent. ?What have you done?? Panic laced her words. His gaze slid away from hers. ?I have ensured our survival.? ?There is no curse, old man.? She shook his thin shoulders. ?It is nature?s way. There will be more children.? The old man refused to meet the woman?s eyes. ?We are cursed. The Giovannis will live forever now.? The woman?s eyes went wide in horror. She took a step back, one hand dropping to her side, the other covering her mouth. ?No,? she whispered. A small smile formed on the old man?s wrinkled face. ?Mikael will live to guarantee the survival of the Giovannis.? The woman stifled a cry. ?Take it back.? ?I can not.? ?Reverse it. Break it.? ?There is no reversal. It can not be broken.? Sharon Cullen Chapter 1 Present Day Mikael cut the low purr of the Harley?s engine. With the heel of his leather boot he pushed the kickstand down, swung one leather-clad leg over the seat and yanked the helmet off his head. The warm, fall breeze ruffled his hair and cooled his face. The wild ride on the motorcycle didn?t rid him of his foul mood. He shouldn?t have been surprised; the mood had dogged his every step for the last several decades. The time had come to retreat to Marimay, his estate in England, his sanctuary when a mood such as this descended. Given time, the great weight of emotions resting on his chest would suffocate him. At Marimay the weight would lift. The squat, two-story building in front of him looked almost as old as he, but the date carved into the stone above the front doors proved him wrong. The structure was built in 1820. He smirked. ?A mere infant.? He set the motorcycle helmet on the seat of the bike, jogged up the steps and pulled open the front door. He moved without sound through the few people congregating in the entranceway of the tiny museum of Patience, Maine, a town so small it didn?t even merit a dot on the map. What brought him to the museum was the display of antique weapons the town somehow convinced the Smithsonian to loan them. What brought him to the town of Patience was a different story entirely. One he wasn?t even sure he knew himself. He stopped to stare at a broadsword nestled under protective glass. Lost in his memories, it could have been minutes, it could have been an hour that he stared. There were times he ran from the memories and times he searched them out. Today he searched them out. ?It?s beautiful, isn?t it?? He tore his gaze from the weapon to look down into the purest green eyes he had ever seen. They reminded him of new grass in the springtime. Cinnamon colored hair was pulled back in a blue velvet headband held cinnamon colored hair away from a small, pale face. At six foot three, Mikael stood a good foot taller, feeling like a giant in her presence. Her green eyes twinkled and she shifted them to the weapon in the display case. ?The broadsword. It?s beautiful, isn?t it?? She glanced at him, and he felt himself falling into those pure emerald depths. He turned back to the sword, afraid to look at her any longer. Afraid to feel, to want, to need. ?It?s a weapon of war, an instrument of death.? She shrugged. ?True. But imagine the history behind it. The wars fought with it, the people who held it. That?s what makes it beautiful.? He didn?t have to imagine. He had his memories to guide him. But he could see her point. Looked at in that light he supposed Sharon Cullen the weapon was beautiful though he had seen more intricately carved broadswords and in fact owned a few himself. She stuck her hand out and once again he pulled his attention from the glass case. ?My name?s Allison. But most people call me Allie.? His callused, dark hand engulfed hers. He quickly released her and shoved his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. Was it his imagination or had his skin tingled when they?d touched? ?I?m on my lunch hour and had to run over here to see the display,? she continued, apparently not fazed that he had touched her as little as possible. ?I helped the museum committee in drafting their proposal to the Smithsonian to get the display here. I?m the town librarian.? An eyebrow rose in surprise. He?d always pictured town librarians as old, with gray hair pulled back in a bun, wearing ill-fitting dresses and sour expressions. He?d never before encountered a green-eyed, cinnamon-haired, pixie librarian. ?Are you interested in weapons such as these?? He indicated the broadsword with a tip of his head. Her eyes swung to the glass case. ?Yes. I?m interested in lots of things. I almost have to, being a librarian and all.? ?Perhaps you could show me the rest of the weapons.? He wanted to snatch the words back as soon as they left his mouth. He didn?t need a red-haired pixie in his life. Ever. She smiled and Mikael had to remind himself to breathe. Her smile lit up her whole face. This woman enjoyed life, wringing from it everything she could and then some. He?d never met anyone like her before. Considering how very long he had lived and the many places he had been, that said a lot. ?I would love to, but I have to get back.? She waved to a doorway behind him. ?If you go through there you?ll find daggers and maces. I love the daggers the best.? She wiggled her fingers in the air and turned, leaving him alone beside the broadsword. He tracked her movements as she pushed open the doors and walked out. October sunshine lit her hair on fire and his body hummed with something he didn?t want to identify. He snorted and turned away. He?d gone too long without female companionship. His gaze strayed to the glass doors, searching the sidewalk outside for a woman with a bounce to her step. * ** Allie flipped through the large book, her eyes skimming the small print, her chin resting in her hand, her mind three blocks away on the strange man she?d met. She still couldn?t believe she?d done that. She?d never done anything so bold in her life. Rarely did she approach men and never had she approached a dark, dangerous looking man wearing leather and a silver hoop in his ear. Pleased with herself for taking the initiative, she was also mortified. He probably had women approaching him all the time. But still, that black hair that shot sparks of blue at her when it caught the light, oohh, mama. When he?d turned those baby blues on her, she?d been lost. They were like crystal ice, almost transparent. She?d never seen eyes that color before. A big guy with massive shoulders, slim hips and long legs, his tall, athletic physique practically dwarfed her and she found she liked the feeling of protectiveness he evoked. He?d been brooding. She could tell that right away by the faraway look in his expression. But that hadn?t sto...
widez2