Blood Rites (2 page)

Russ let his sister go and started working his way around the boxes piled high in front of them trying not to make a sound.

“Russ?” his sister called anxiously.

“Shut up, you little shit. I’m going out.”

“Russ, he’ll hurt you too.”

He’d answer her later, all right. Now he settled for a quick slap before he went to see what was going on. He left the closet door slightly ajar, tiptoed softly to the bedroom door, and watched the men outside.

Pieces of a living-room chair lay scattered around the room; those near the wall were covered with glass from the shattered windows. His father, his white T-shirt spotted with blood, was brandishing one of the chair legs trying to force a taller man in the black silk suit back outside, probably so he could slam the door and lock it and go back to his bottle while he waited for the kids to surface for air. He had no luck, though. The well-dressed man continued to speak softly with an accent that sounded like Grandpa’s and refused to budge. Russ noted that even though it wasn’t cold outside, the man wore black leather gloves.

Minutes passed until, furious at the standoff, his father swung, aiming for the stranger’s head. Russ was ready to turn and run when the stranger ducked, caught the bar of wood, and jerked on it, pulling his father closer to him, against the blade that had suddenly appeared in his free hand.

A quick upward thrust and his father slumped. The man pushed him backward and he fell. The blood that had started dripping down the blade turned before it reached the handle and spread slowly over his father’s belly.

Russ was old enough to know that he should run back to the closet and pretend that he had never witnessed this crime, but the blood and the need to know for certain that the nightmare was over drew him forward. He walked to his father’s body and knelt beside it as if he were alone with the corpse, as if the killer weren’t standing above him wondering if Russ ought to die too. Russ dipped his fingers in the blood, rubbing them together, feeling how slippery and sticky they’d become. Then he rested a hand on his father’s chest, and feeling no motion of breath in and out, he began to laugh.

The man vanished. Russ kept on laughing until the police came and took him and his sister away.

New York, August 1955

Paul Stoddard stood in the lobby of The Arboretum, his newest creation, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. In the last-minute rush before the reception began, champagne glasses tinkled past on rolling carts, caterers gave quiet orders, a violinist ran his bow over his strings. Paul, in a quiet corner across from the main doors, heard none of these. Instead he watched the expressions on the faces of the afternoon’s early arrivals change from whatever ordinary emotion accompanied them here to wonder, to admiration, to delight as they stepped into the three-story lobby, cooled in part by the massive plantings of bamboo as well as by the pale blue tint of the slanting, soaring walls of glass. Watching these first arrivals was a habit Paul had developed over the years, a way of noting the inaudible “thank yous” of the public that would use his buildings long after the politicians and the critics had vanished.

Even now, now when so many of his lights reflected in New York harbor, now when, at forty, he was famous, he was still waiting for some perfect being to make the pronouncement that, yes, he was as talented as he believed himself to be. He knew he couldn’t find it from the critics, who he privately despised, or in his own taste, which was after all personal. No, he would see it here, in the eyes of people stepping into his building for the first time.

A reporter in the lobby noticed Paul in the corner. Instead of interrupting the architect’s concentration, he merely observed him and took notes. “Paul Stoddard does not create buildings, he builds glass cathedrals and calls them skyscrapers,” the reporter wrote. “Only time will tell if they will stand.”

As the lobby began to fill with men in suits and women in their flowing Dior gowns, the reporter joined his fellow writers for the final news conference, calling out the usual questions, noting the unassuming, almost shy replies. During the half-hour conference, no one noticed how Paul Stoddard’s eyes were constantly drawn to a petite dark-haired woman across the room and the tall man beside her who, from looks and coloring, could only be one of her relatives, how occasionally the woman would wink and smile with shy, closed lips and he would ask someone to repeat their question.

“What are your plans for the future?” an older reporter called out.

“Stoddard Design has a number of commissions for private developments and two hotels in Dallas. However, much of my time will be spent on the final designs for the Atomic Research Center in New Mexico.”

“Given your views on the subject of disarmament, do you feel comfortable building the Center?” someone else asked him.

Paul knew it would be wise to sidestep a political question, nevertheless he answered truthfully, “Research is always valuable, particularly in this field because it will undoubtedly reveal the futility of another world war.”

“Do you support the disarmament movement?”

“I’ve spent twenty years designing buildings. I would hope they’re still standing at the turn of the century.” He noticed other hands rising, and for the first time, he understood how his idealism could be twisted and used against him. Naming the building that housed his home and office La Paz was natural, for there was an air of deliberate peace in the design. Donating a quarter of the profits from its first year of operations to the World Peace Federation had been too political a gesture. Stephen had advised against it. So had Elizabeth. In this he had imitated Laurence Austra’s pacifist stance and ignored their advice. But the years had shown him the value of caution, and though he still donated funds to pacifist movements, he was careful to spread the money thin, hoping many small contributions would escape the notice one large one would bring. Now, as he felt his heart skip, then double beat, he hid his nervousness and deliberately called on a reporter from an architectural trade magazine, knowing the woman would not ask him anything about politics.

The reporter’s technical question led to another similar one. Paul continued the conference until the orchestra began to play, then excused himself, explaining that he had to join his guests. Again, caution dictated that he pose for a picture with Bob McCoy, a conservative senator from Massachusetts and one of his late parents’ close friends. He stayed only as long as politeness dictated, then left to greet a number of guests, always moving toward the spot where Elizabeth Austra stood beside her cousin Laurence.

Elizabeth had bobbed and straightened her hair and she wore an indigo silk dress she had designed herself, the large armholes and loose sleeves hiding the unnatural length of her arms. Throughout the interview, she had discreetly kept her distance from her lover, letting the photographers snap their pictures and the reporters collect their usual statements. But now that the formal questions were over, she led him onto the dance floor for a slow, awkward waltz. “You must dance. It’s your night,” she told him and kissed the corner of his mouth.

One dance. One dance was all his aching knees would take, all Elizabeth dared to risk before the reporters would descend on both of them, asking questions Elizabeth would never want answered. “Later,” she whispered and left him standing beside the mayor while she joined one of Paul’s shy young associates who looked terribly in need of someone familiar to hold on to.

Through the remainder of the evening, she moved on the edge of the crowd, catching Paul’s attention from time to time, a small inviting smile on her face.

At ten, the reception would take on a more formal air. Paul noticed Laurence Austra nervously talking to the violinist. Later, after the photographers were sent away and darkness would make surreptitious photos impossible, Laurence would take his place at the piano for one of his rare public performances. Laurence, cursed with a musical genius he could never publicly reveal, reveled in these rare opportunities. And if the music he played seemed richer and more complex than the usual Austra pieces played by other soloists, those listening would blame the informal setting or the relationship of the pianist to the composer, never guessing that Laurence Austra’s compositions had been rewritten to accommodate human limitations, that the young son lovingly playing his father’s creation was, in reality, the composer himself.

Tonight he would play “World Harmonics,” the piece recently removed from the schedule of the Chicago Symphony because of its alleged subversive nature. Paul thought of the reporters scattered through the crowd and considered asking Laurence to play a different composition, eventually dismissing the idea as paranoia. The choice of music, after all, was a minor offense, one the papers would most likely blame on the idealism of the performer if they noted it at all. Paul decided to let Laurie have his masterpiece. Besides, it was the perfect music for this room, this night.

The party broke hours later and Paul found Elizabeth stretched out on their bed in the penthouse atop La Paz, a bright red kimono barely covering the tops of her thighs, her dark eyes open watching him as he entered the room, inviting him to satisfy the hunger that experience and empathy allowed him to share. He undressed, leaving his clothes scattered on the floor. He was tipsy from the wine, too fast and inept. He began to slide on top of her when she pulled a chilled bottle of champagne from behind the bed and poured it over both of them. He lapped the pool of it that formed on her stomach and sucked the foaming drops from her hair. She got drunk on his blood and they giggled like children while they loved.

Much later, Paul looked up and saw his face echoing in the tiny pieces of glass and he thought of his picture in the next day’s papers. His fame had never stopped thrilling him but it made him uneasy as well and he wished he could just plunk a building down on its site—one morning the city would wake and it would be in place without any fanfare when the design was announced or the bid accepted, without any need for the crowd and the wine and the music.

—But this is your night, beloved,—Elizabeth purred in his mind. —And for the rest of it you dance with me.—

Paul slept until the sun rose painting the room in sea mist and rainbows through the patterned emerald skylight. Then, in spite of his lack of sleep, he woke at his usual time and looked down at Elizabeth. Though her eyes were closed and her mind locked in the deep sleep of dawn, she smiled like a child full of mischief.

Yes, yes
, Paul thought as he lay awake and waited for the newsboy’s light knock on the outside door.
The Austras knew the ultimate secret . . . not merely eternity but eternal youth
!

When he heard the signal that his papers had come, he went into the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffiie. Only after he had a cup poured and had positioned his chair so the sunshine from the eastern windows would fall across his stiff knees, did he open the newspapers and read the reports of last night’s reception, a columnist’s review of The Arboretum that accompanied it. He’d expected the praise for both, that had been clear last night, but he was more concerned with the damage. It was always there, but this time it didn’t seem too glaring. Two brief, and glowing, mentions were made of Laurence Austra’s playing, none of his choice of music.

And none of Elizabeth.

He expected the last for no one ever mentioned her, but he wondered how they could avoid doing so since she dominated every room she entered. He sometimes thought she had the gift of making herself invisible, like the legendary vampires who could not be seen in a mirror. Yet people had not stared curiously when he had danced at the reception, so the crowd must have noticed a woman—nothing more—in his arms.

She had the power to deal with them, just as she had the power to give him confidence and strength. And health, he mentally added, as he reached into the covered porcelain dish on the table, pulling out an iron pill and two of the long grey vitamin capsules Elizabeth mixed for him. Their relationship made demands on his body, demands that Elizabeth had centuries to learn how to meet. Indeed, though he should have been anemic and prone to illness, he hadn’t seen a doctor in years. Sometimes he wondered if he even needed one.

Paul laid the papers aside, the reviews that mentioned Laurence’s playing on top of the stack so Laurence could read them when he woke. He had just pushed himself to his feet, intending to rejoin Elizabeth in bed, when he heard Laurence cry out from the guest room, his own bedroom door open. In a moment Elizabeth stood in the kitchen doorway, her expression one of sharp and sudden misery. “What’s wrong, Elizabeth?” he asked.

She didn’t answer, only pressed against him, trembling.

“Is it Stephen?” Paul asked, with more concern.

Laurence joined them as Paul had been speaking, his expression mirroring his cousin’s as he answered for her, “My father is dead.”

Charles Austra dead! Unlike Elizabeth and Laurence who thought of themselves and their family as immortal, Paul had a human perspective. Though he had only known Charles Austra for a few weeks, he had somehow always expected to hear this news. And though it had been over ten years since he and Laurence had last seen Charles Austra, he did not question how the two, with their psychic family bond, could know he was gone.

“And something else has happened. Something so wonderful I feel it even through my grief.” Elizabeth pushed back, gripping Paul’s arms. “Your work here can be postponed for a little while,
oui
? Please, beloved, we must go home. Come with us.”

He hugged her again, sharing her sadness, certain she was not the only one who would need him now. “Of course, Elizabeth,” he said.

Chaves, Portugal

August 1955

I

The first memory Helen would recall with the perfection of her newborn mind was Charles Austra’s funeral fire. She smelled the coal gas leaking through cracks in the firebrick the instant before the burners ignited, saw the orange brilliance of the flames, felt their heat when she rested her hand against the furnace grate and held it there, held it until she felt something, some pain to equal what she sensed in the handful of the Austra family surrounding her.