Free Blood Rites by Elaine Bergstrom Page A

ground floor of La Paz, Paul Stoddard’s finest creation. It was held in the lobby, the great expanses of smoke-colored glass turning the early spring afternoon to evening, the modern elegance of the marble floors and walls a perfect backdrop for her work. The show drew crowds not because of Helen’s work but because it included pieces from the Austra private collection. But the critics who came to see the eighteenth-century glass sculptures of Steven Austra, the fourteenth-century wood carvings of Edward Austra, the display of the initial sketch for the west rose of Notre Dame and the accompanying glass samples, as well as the other rarely exhibited treasures, studied Helen’s works just as carefully. Unlike the other pieces, Helen’s paintings were for sale. And the fact that the show had been sponsored by AustraGlass only meant that the price asked for a Wells painting today would be a fraction of its value in the future. The small “sold” tags began appearing on pieces almost immediately.
    As the crowd began to grow, Helen slowly moved away from the front doors to a quiet alcove near the elevator where the crowd did not press so close and where she could watch for the rare friends amid the sea of strangers. She had built the wall around her psychic powers, afraid to touch the guests around her and learn how much they really valued her work.
    Paul Stoddard joined her. “You shouldn’t be hiding today,” he said.
    “The London exhibit was so small compared to this. It’s frightening,” she confessed.
    He nodded. “When this building was opened to the public, Elizabeth stood here beside me and showed me the thoughts of the guests entering it for the first time. Don’t be afraid to meet your public, Helen. They’re the critics who really count. Try now. I’ll stay with you.”
    She looked doubtfully out at the crowd, finally choosing an older woman in a severe black suit staring at an Andalusian landscape as romantic as her past. She entered the minds of a pair of collectors in awe of the wildflowers she had completed during her changing. Excited, she moved on and on. Her work. Their praise. Her self. All melted into a drink more powerful than wine or blood. She fed on it until, dizzied by excess, she lowered the mental wall that held back their thoughts. Only then did she become aware that Paul had moved in front of her, hiding her face from the glances of the inquisitive crowd.
    “In the future you might wish to settle for observing expressions ,” he said with dry good humor.
    His pale blue eyes and white-blond hair made him seem more her kind than the Austras. He had certainly become her closest human friend in the last few months. “Thank you,” she said and kissed his cheek.
    When she pulled back, he saw the hint of tears in her eyes and understood. “You made the right decision. Though Stephen will probably not admit it, he needs you far more than you do him.”
    “I know,” she responded, her eyes already scanning the crowd looking for him.

    Dick Wells arrived an hour after the exhibit opened. He should have been in town the night before, but as the chief investigator in a complicated murder case, he’d had to testify at a trial this morning before catching a flight from Cleveland to New York. He’d come alone. After the tragedies surrounding Helen’s changing, Judy Preuss might never be able to relax in the company of Stephen Austra. His children, Carol and Alan, seemed to have mercifully forgotten much of the summer and he didn’t wish to bring them and remind them of it. He’d thought of staying home as well but Judy had insisted he come. “Family is important,” she told him. “Don’t break the tie because of me.”
    He’d hugged Judy and thanked her. Yes, he had wanted to come. He liked Stephen and he loved his niece and he did not wish to lose touch with either of them.
    Dick glanced at the program he’d been given when he’d arrived. He had a frugal nature—to him a numbered