Blood Rites by Elaine Bergstrom Read Free Book Online

without pointing. “He’s there.”
    “Shall I come with you?” Helen asked.
    “Please. He won’t listen to me. Maybe if you talk to him.”
    As Helen followed Hillary along the edge of the dance floor and through the tables, Hillary’s father noticed them coming. He was alone, sprawled at a table in the darkest corner of the room. An empty wine bottle sat in front of him along with an almost full glass.
    He was attractive enough for a man twice her age and Helen sensed a certain smugness in the way he watched her. She looked directly at him and brushed his mind. Yes, he would be one of the safe choices. He knew exactly what she’d become.
    She returned his inviting smile as she and Hillary took empty seats on either side of him.
    “Are you prowling, Helen Wells?” he asked, his voice so soft she wouldn’t have heard his words before her changing, the tone of his voice combined with his French accent to make the question sound like a lovers’ secret. He held out his left hand, and as she took it, she noticed his right arm was missing. He’d positioned himself in the room so this would not be seen, though in a place as intimate as the AustraGlass Colony, everyone must have known about . . . about. She tried to touch his mind and failed.
    “Please don’t,” he said, whispering close to her ear now so Hillary wouldn’t hear. “If we’re going to share the intimate details of my life, I prefer to edit them through speech.”
    She wondered if he always talked so softly. She imagined him when he was younger, whispering to his would-be conquests so they would have to move close to him to listen, close enough to steal a kiss. “You have me at a disadvantage,” she said and asked, “You are?”
    “Philippe Dutiel.” He turned to his daughter. “Hillary, go ask the bartender for another bottle and two more glasses.”
    “Papa!”
    “Go!” he ordered and the girl, flushed and angry, obeyed.
    “She’s worried about you,” Helen said. “She said you’ve been ill.”
    “She always worries. It gives her something to do.”
    “Is her mother here?”
    “Her mother died.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “No sympathy, please. I only knew the woman for one night. One night was enough.”
    “Who was she?” Helen asked.
    “Whores shouldn’t have names.”
    Direct. So direct he almost seemed rude. Helen envied him for that. “If you never knew her, why does Hillary live with you?” she asked.
    “The woman died early last year. She named me as father. Someone gave the girl some money and sent her to me on the train.”
    Helen tried to picture Hillary traveling all alone with her grief to a man who, if Helen perceived correctly, didn’t care about her. “Do you think you’re her father?” Helen asked. Though she saw a family resemblance, she almost hoped he’d say no.
    Philippe shrugged, a gesture much like Hillary’s. “Probably. She looks like me. Besides, the whore would have made up a better name.” Noting Helen’s shocked expression, he added, “Though I only used her once, I remember her. She was my first lay after I lost my arm. She laughed when I put on the condom. I was so clumsy. I’d never done it left-handed before. My stump was still raw. There was blood on the sheets from it when we were through . . . and semen where she wanted it least. She swore at me for both the blood and the break. I remember thinking that she deserved her uneasy nights. Thirteen years later, I discovered I had a daughter. How am I supposed to feel?”
    “Perhaps thankful. Some people never have anyone to love,” she said, an automatic but sincere cliché.
    “I destroyed my own family. One was enough.”
    “She’s quite a worker for someone so young.” Helen meant the compliment. She tried to picture her niece Carol up at dawn to clean someone else’s house. Never!
    “She’s intelligent enough to know that she ought to go to school and that I can’t give her the money.” For the first time, Helen detected