Read Online American Gothic by Michael Romkey - Free Book Online Page A

curious,” she said.
    “Yes, I am. That is why I am here. How long has Safian not been a man?”
    “For centuries.”
    “How can that be possible?”
    “You cannot begin to guess all the things that are possible,” she said, and started slowly toward him.
    Peregrine held himself still and upright as she walked slowly around him, looking at him the way one might appraise a horse at auction. She did not seem big or strong enough to be a threat to Peregrine, who had killed men in battle with his bare hands. Still, he knew she was a killer; he could feel it in his bones. But he wasn’t afraid. Fear was an emotion he could no longer experience, perhaps because his reasons for living had themselves been dead this past year.
    “If he’s not a man, what is this Safian, besides old enough to be my grandfather’s grandfather?”
    “One of us, my child,” she said from behind him.
    “Us?”
    “Yes,” she said, turning the word into a purr.
    She came around in front of him and looked up into his face as if interested in him in an unexpected way. “You are not afraid.”
    He did not deny it.
    “You should be afraid.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Most people who want to die are weak.” She leaned close and put her cheek against him. He could feel her warmth through his tunic and shirt. She drew in a breath through her nose. “You do not have the stink of cowardice. Do you want to die?”
    “I don’t know how to answer your question. I no longer have any interest in life, but it might be more accurate to say I’m indifferent on the subject. The one thing I do want is to understand what this is all about—you, the others, the woman who introduced me to all of this.”
    She spun away from him, giving Peregrine the impression that she did not want him to see whatever was in her eyes.
    “She is of no concern.”
    “She brought me here tonight, although I can’t explain how she did it.”
    “She brings many here,” the gypsy said, her new smile so bright that Peregrine thought it had to be false. “That is what she does, you know; she brings people here. She is like a flower drawing insects here to the nectar.”
    “Or is it just the reverse—she draws the nectar here to the insects?”
    “You have a quick wit.”
    “Take me to meet her,” Peregrine said.
    The smile flickered but only just. “That would not be wise. You know what happens when the moth flies too near the flame.”
    She put her hand on his breast before he could speak. Desire came flooding into Peregrine then, catching him unawares, possessing him, setting him on fire from inside. How could she do this to him, with a touch of the hand?
    Peregrine saw his yearning mirrored in the gypsy’s gamine eyes, and though he knew it was only her hunger for his blood, he could not make himself resist. An inexplicable paralysis robbed him of control over his body, so that all he could do was stare down at that hand, smooth and white as the marble fireplace, the long fingers tapering to nails the color of blood. She wore a ring of an antique design, the gold setting holding a square-cut ruby. The jewel glowed with the same sensual fire burning within him.
    “A lover gave it to me,” her voice said, sounding very far away, as in a dream. “He is dead now. I keep it as a memento mori.”
    Her hand began to move across his chest, the caress making his heart race. She slipped her fingers inside the edge of his tunic and drew him to her, pulling them both backward until she was against the table. She released him long enough to raise herself up onto the marble surface. Peregrine found himself standing between her legs, looking down to see that she had raised her dress up to her hips.
    Peregrine put one hand on her arm, the other around her back. He did not know what he was doing or why he was doing it, only that he had no control. They were face-to-face, eye to eye, Peregrine leaning forward until there was no more than a breath separating their lips.
    A glitter of