Blood Rites by Elaine Bergstrom Read Free Book Online Page A

some paternal pride in Philippe’s voice until he added, “I suppose she gets her ambition from her mother.‘’
    “Why are you so hard on her?”
    “I’ll tell you why because you’ll probably dig around until you find out anyway. If I were her age and we weren’t related, I’d be all over her. As it is, I have trouble thinking of her as a relation, let alone my daughter.“
    Helen noticed Hillary returning with the wine and moved the conversation in a different direction. “Have you been that lonely?” she asked.
    “I’m a romantic. I have dreams. Do you pity me, Helen Wells?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I should. Or maybe I should assume this is some sort of complicated seduction.”
    “No, just the truth disguised as a convenient lie. Besides you’re the one seducing me. Isn’t seduction the Austra game?” He filled the new glasses, then his own, put down the bottle, and handed one glass to Helen, then held out the second for his daughter. Hillary refused to take it, staring at him with stony disapproval. “That’s good wine,” he bellowed. “Show some respect for your French blood!”
    A few faces at other tables turned to see what the commotion was about, then returned to their own conversations. Hillary, her eyes filling with tears, lifted her glass, tasted the wine, and shuddered. Apparently satisfied, Philippe turned his attention back to Helen.
    As Helen sipped her wine, her control began to weaken. The din in the room increased. The bodies added to her confusion. She noticed their scents, their heartbeats, her own desire. She put down her glass too quickly and it fell, spilling the wine. She didn’t care. Panicked, uncertain, she began a mental call to Stephen, then halted, understanding. She could handle this problem herself. All she had to do was leave the café and stay away until her head cleared. “I’ll take Hillary home,” she said, surprised at how evenly she could speak. Phil drained his glass and grabbed the bottle. “I think I’ll call it a night myself,” he said and followed the two women outside.
    Stephen had heard the beginning of Helen’s cry, merged with her thoughts for a moment, then withdrew. Her courage, her independence, made him strangely sad. No matter how the night ended, Helen would never be completely his again.
    He wove his way around the edge of the dancers, pulling Emma onto the floor, hiding his concern. Alex Massier was here. There were others in the crowd who also knew Helen’s secret. Any would be safer than Philippe Dutiel. The anger in the man troubled him, as did Philippe’s long-standing dislike of him. He dismissed the worry, thinking that he probably wouldn’t wholly approve of any independent choice Helen made. He wanted so much to control her and now he tried so desperately to let her go.
    As he watched Helen leave with the Dutiels, he thought it strange that he no longer wanted another woman. Coming home each evening, he would find a new surprise in paint on canvas, would share whatever joys and frustrations her work and his had brought, or just sit without need of speech and hold her. He did not cherish these things any longer; rather, he expected them.
    Perhaps it was habit that made him so possessive of her. Yes, that must be what made her different from the rest of his family. He never considered romantic love. Familial love-that he knew—but centuries of experience had convinced him that he was incapable of any other.

SIX

    I

    The Dutiels’ cottage lay on the edge of the Colony. It seemed older than the rest of the buildings. Someone had remodeled it, adding the modern necessities pouring time into finishing the old beams and floors, repairing the plaster, and sealing the cracks in the outside wood. But that had been done years ago and the house once more showed neglect. There were new cracks in the plaster, windows in need of repair. But everything a child could do had been done. The worn fabric in the furniture had