Chapter 3
The interrogation room had cracks in the walls.
A ceiling fan turned lazy circles above Bastian’s head.
And the cuffs were still slowly eating through the flesh of his wrists.
Sitting at a small table with his knuckles knotted together behind him, Bastian tried to focus on the poliziotto sitting facing him.
All he had to do was explain what happened on the beach, clear his name, and get out of there.
Then, he could go back to his holiday—and Whitby.
She must be outside the station right now, scared in the dark, losing her mind with worry.
He knew that she needed him. Despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat hated being alone.
“Parli italiano?” the poliziotto asked.
He was large but not fat. Solid, like a rhino. Silver hair thinning at the crown. His shirt strained to contain his large arms and chest. A gym fan in his youth, Bastian guessed, but now in his late fifties, teeth nicotine-yellowed, skin acne-scarred. His eyes were bloodshot and devoid of empathy.
“Italian?” the man prompted.
“A little,” Bastian said, trying to think through the sting in his wrists. The silver was excruciating. It was all he could focus on.
“Let’s get this over with,” the man grunted in accented English. “I am Commissario Aldo Zappa, and this is my colleague Ispettore Nicolas De Luca.”
Behind him, a second officer stood against the wall.
He was younger, clean-shaven, with a straight nose and unsmiling mouth.
Bastian estimated he was in his late twenties.
Pretty for a cop, his dark hair combed in waves against his clear olive skin.
He wore a dark blue polo shirt and combat trousers, and his expression was stern, but Bastian could tell from the sweat beading his upper lip that he was nervous.
Perhaps he had never been this close to a vampire.
Bastian assembled the best smile he could, given the pain in his wrists—dashing with a sprig of flirtation.
“It’s wonderful to meet you both,” he said, “despite the unfortunate circumstances. I don’t suppose you could loosen the cuffs? They’re chafing something awful and I’m finding it difficult to concentrate—”
“For the record,” Zappa said, as if Bastian hadn’t spoken, “you will state clearly that you confess to the killing of Luna Esposito.”
Bastian frowned. “You’ve identified her already?”
“I know everybody in this town,” Zappa snapped.
“I’m sorry,” Bastian said, then worried his words would be taken as a confession, and added, “for your loss. I’m sorry the girl is dead. But I didn’t touch her.”
Zappa slapped a large hand against the table. “You are a vampire.”
“I don’t eat people, though. I’m a vegetarian vampire, love.”
Bastian tried to smile again through the discomfort, projecting innocence and virtue, but Zappa’s glare was as cold as gunmetal.
“Confess, and we will proceed,” he said.
“You’ve got this all wrong,” Bastian said. “I came here on holiday, just arrived, in fact. Your town is beautiful and—”
“And you got hungry on the trip. We’ve seen it time and again in the Cinque Terre.” Zappa’s eyes narrowed. “But Vernazza has been vampire-free for over twenty years, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“Yes, I noticed the hardware.” Bastian grimaced as he moved his hands and the silver cuffs scored fresh, agonizing lines into his skin. “But I don’t eat people, dear. I’ve been clean for five years. It’s strictly farm animals for me.”
“You buying this, De Luca?” Zappa sneered over his shoulder. The younger poliziotto glanced at Bastian, his stare piercing. So blue, it sent a chill through him.
“No, sir.”
The man’s voice was satin smooth compared to the commissario’s burr, the accent less pronounced.
“You have an accomplice,” Zappa said. “You will surrender her name and address immediately.”
“Accomplice?” Bastian was thrown by the suggestion, until he remembered the commissario’s confusion when Whitby spoke on the beach. “That wasn’t my accomplice, darling. It was my cat.”
“You think this is funny?” Zappa snapped.
“Far from it, Signore.”
Zappa didn’t blink. He slid a file across the desk toward Bastian.
“You will sign this document, which states what we already know, that you murdered a resident of Vernazza, one Luna Esposito—”
“I’m not signing anything!” Bastian interrupted. He frowned at the poliziotto. “Isn’t this above your pay grade, Commissario? A magistrate should be here, and you should be offering me a lawyer. I’ve seen enough Italian cop shows to know that.”
Zappa’s teeth clenched as he said, “The Vampire Accords supersede such legal processes. You are a vampire who killed on protected ground. You have no right to a magistrate or a lawyer. Now, you will sign—”
“Are you listening to me?” Bastian interrupted, frustration heating his voice. “If I was going to kill somebody and try to get away with it, do you really think I’d do it like that?”
Zappa’s top lip peeled back from his teeth. “I wouldn’t like to imagine how you think, vampire.”
Bastian emitted an irritated cry.
“Jesus, yes, love, I know I’m a vampire, we’re all aware I’m a vampire, but I’m not a killer.”
Not anymore. He hadn’t taken a life in years, and it felt good to shatter that stereotype. He had gone against plenty of grains in his time, but this was different. A vampire who valued human life was the definition of enlightened.
“Can you hear me?” he said. “I didn’t do this. I’d have to be stupid to tear a person’s throat out and expect to get away with it.”
“Yes.” Zappa sneered. “You would.”
In his eyes, Bastian saw judgment. He saw prejudice, disgust, and fierce, hard certainty.
It had been a while since somebody had looked at him like that, and the sight sparked fire in Bastian’s chest. It stirred memories that threatened to catch light and smolder through him.
He felt the razor’s edge of an old rage that he thought he had tamed, and he almost smiled as he imagined puncturing the commissario’s jugular with his fangs.
It would feel good to wipe that bigoted look from his face.
But no, he had to remain calm. Civil. He would gain nothing from losing his temper.
“I know how this looks—” he began to say, but Zappa jabbed the table with a thick finger.
“We both know you did this, vampire, so just save us a lot of time and confess.”
“Have you ever met a vampire before, Commissario?” Bastian asked, his patience thinning, the pain in his wrists unrelenting. “Any other vampire would be throwing themselves around this room attempting to reach your throat.”
Zappa’s face stiffened. “Is that a threat?”
“I wish!” Bastian cried. “I wish! But that isn’t me.
That’s what I’m telling you. I’m different.
I’m a fluffy kitten compared to most vampires.
” He emitted a plaintive mew to illustrate his point.
“And, look, do you really think I’d kill somebody wearing linen?
Absolute nightmare to get blood out of, and there’s not a speck on me. ”
“Enough!” Zappa yelled. He shook his head and scratched his fingers through his silver hair, muttering something in Italian that sounded like, “No conscience. Complete monster.”
Bastian sensed his time was almost up. The judgment was already passed. But that couldn’t be right. It wasn’t fair.
“Take all the samples you want,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ll spit or pee or bleed into any cup you like, if it proves I didn’t kill that girl. And it will prove that because I didn’t—”
“You will spend the rest of your time in Vernazza in a cell,” Zappa said, his chair screeching back from the table as he stood. “In a couple of days, the vampire council will arrive, and you will answer to them.”
Bastian felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right. It almost sounded like—
“You summoned the vampire council?” he asked, his voice cracking.
Zappa’s smile was brittle with triumph. “Scared now, are you?”
Bastian’s mouth opened a fraction, shock clanging through him, overwhelming even the pain of the cuffs. Zappa had to be bluffing. There was no way he wasn’t. But the look on his face told him Zappa was deadly serious. Eager, even.
“That’s insane!” Bastian said. “You suspect a vampire of murder and the first thing you do is summon the council?”
“We have a zero-tolerance policy regarding vampire crimes in Vernazza,” Zappa said.
“Zero-tolerance policy!” Bastian emitted an astonished laugh. “My god. Do you know a single thing about the vampire council? If you did, I can only assume you’d be less trigger-happy. Do you know what the council do?”
Zappa was already at the door.
“Take him to a cell,” he ordered the inspector, preparing to leave.
The younger poliziotto, De Luca, stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Uh, there’s a slight problem, sir.”
“Problem?”
“The key to the cell is missing. Lombardi said he—”
“Lombardi!” Zappa’s hands clenched. Through the open door, Bastian saw a scrawny officer in a rumpled uniform fall out of his chair at Zappa’s shout. Bastian got the sense he’d been dozing on the job.
“Figlio di puttana!” Zappa spat. “Incompetente!”
Lombardi began throwing paper around the desk, presumably in search of the missing key. After a moment, he gave the commissario an apologetic shrug.
“Cretino!”
Zappa rubbed his face and coughed. His hand trembled and Bastian wondered if it was a sign of stress, nicotine withdrawal, or something more serious. All that muscle must be a strain on his heart.
“Ispettore De Luca will escort you back to your apartment,” Zappa told Bastian. “He will remain with you until the council arrive in Vernazza.”
“Commissario, with the greatest respect,” De Luca said, eyes wide, “you can’t expect me to—”
“I expect you to do your job!”
De Luca fell silent. His mouth closed and he nodded, clasping hands behind his back.
Zappa set his bleary gaze on Bastian, bloodshot eyes brimming with hatred.
“Listen to me now, vampire. You are under town arrest. If you try to escape, or run, or kill again, rest assured that De Luca is authorized to terminate you. You so much as look at him funny, and the vampire council will be escorting a pile of dust out of Vernazza.”
He went through the door. “Get this devil out of my station.”
Bastian found himself alone with the inspector. He noted the startled look in the man’s cold blue eyes, as if he’d been struck, unable to comprehend the task he’d been set. His damp upper lip trembled.
“Looks like it’s just you and me now, darling,” Bastian said, raising a pained smile. De Luca didn’t smile back.