Chapter 4
Whitby was waiting for Bastian outside the station, just as he had expected.
“Bastian!” she cried, standing on a low wall, her tail pointing at the night sky. In the darkness, she was almost invisible, her yellow eyes floating like a pair of fireflies. “What happened in there? Are you free to go?”
“Who’s there?” De Luca demanded, dragging Bastian behind him. His grip on Bastian’s arm was strong, and the warmth of his hand seeped through the fabric of Bastian’s shirt, heating his skin. It did little to distract from the insistent sting of the silver cuffs around Bastian’s wrists.
“Calm down, Inspector,” Bastian said. “It’s just my cat.”
“You’re still cuffed,” Whitby said. “Are you—”
De Luca emitted a strangled shout. “Il gatto! It spoke!”
Bastian nodded. “She does that. Too much, actually.”
“Says the chattiest vampire who ever lived,” Whitby said.
“Another wonderful compliment, dear.”
De Luca’s mouth hung open, but no sound emerged. He stared at Whitby with eyes that shone with shock and distrust.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never met a talking cat before, Inspector?” Bastian said. “They’re all the rage in London.”
The joke appeared to be lost on De Luca. While he continued to gape, Bastian told Whitby, “I’m being escorted back to the apartment. House arrest.”
The cat swiped the air with her paw. “I said this would happen! Didn’t I say this would happen?! We should have left when we still had the chance. There must be something we can—”
“We’re going to comply,” Bastian said firmly. “It’s the only way to prove I’m not a criminal. Shall I lead the way, Inspector, if you’re finished catching flies?”
De Luca closed his mouth, blinking hard at the cat, his eyes glittering in the shadows cast by his blue polizia ball cap. Finally, he shook himself and glowered at Bastian. He nodded.
Bastian’s mind turned somersaults the whole way home. Through the pain of his wrists, he tried to come up with a plan that would get him released, but he couldn’t think clearly. Every thought circled back to the agony of the silver.
The inspector’s hand never left his arm, his grip as unwavering as any shackle. The poliziotto shot guarded glances at the cat as she scurried alongside them, muttering Latin phrases under her breath. She must be trying another incantation.
Outside the apartment, the inspector grunted, “Key?”
“In my pocket, dear.”
Bastian felt the man’s fingers enter his pocket, grazing his thigh. Neither of them acknowledged the contact, but Bastian was certain De Luca’s cheeks flushed as he pushed the key into the lock.
Inside, De Luca ordered Bastian to stand in the kitchen while he checked the rest of the apartment, no doubt picturing a vampire nest crammed with ravenous bloodsuckers.
Good at his job, Bastian noted as he waited, then fought a fresh wave of dizziness.
When they had left the apartment earlier that evening, it had been with a head full of hope and excitement for the holiday.
Now, he was being accused of murder, his imminent death all but assured.
He felt dog-tired, and it was only partly because of the silver chewing through his flesh.
He grimaced at the knowledge that, soon, it would reach bone, and the agony would increase tenfold.
De Luca returned, his face grim and his high cheekbones almost skeletal in the gloom. He dragged a chair from the kitchen table and gestured for Bastian to sit. Bastian blinked at the chair.
“Darling, you can’t be serious. These cuffs are punishment enough without denying me my bed—”
“You will address me as ‘Inspector’ or ‘Ispettore De Luca.’ Not darling.”
“What? Oh, of course,” Bastian said. “Please, darling, I mean, Inspector. I only ask that I be permitted to lie down. Believe me, I’m not going anywhere. How could I, with you as my guard?”
The man’s jaw tensed and his fingers drummed the chair back.
Bastian shifted his own grip, trying to get comfortable, but pain flared in his wrists, so intense that black spotted his vision.
Darkness dropped a curtain over his eyes.
For a blessed moment, he felt nothing. No pain.
Then he blinked, surging back to consciousness, and found he was slumped against the kitchen table.
The silver must have scraped a nerve. He struggled upright.
“Have a heart, man!” Whitby cried at the inspector, baring her teeth as she stood on the tabletop, a paw resting against Bastian’s arm.
De Luca’s gaze flickered over Bastian, his brow furrowed. He swallowed, and his voice was hoarse as he said, “Sì, okay. Where?”
Bastian staggered down the hall to the bedroom, certain that his legs were about to buckle.
He made it to the bed just as all strength left him.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he winced as his shoulders pinched, his wrists on fire.
Whitby hopped up beside him and sat stiffly, her tail twitching with agitation.
“A fine mess,” she muttered. “A fine, fine mess this is.”
“Quiet, love.”
They watched as De Luca set the kitchen chair in the hall facing the bedroom door.
“Inspector, is there any chance you could…?” Bastian asked, flashing the cuffs at him.
De Luca ignored him. He reached for the bedroom door handle, gave Bastian and Whitby a final heated glare, then shut them in.
“He’s awfully angry for somebody so pretty,” Bastian murmured.
Alone with Whitby, he sank back against a pillow, struggling to get comfortable. Every joint in his body felt swollen. The silver was poisoning him, slowly but surely. By morning, he would be a slave to the pain. Bloated and raving.
The unfairness struck him like a hammer. He had done nothing wrong. He had already suffered for five years taming the hunger, becoming a better person, atoning for all the people he had killed. And now this?
“A fine mess,” Whitby repeated, padding angry circles on the bedspread.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Bastian said.
The cat squinted at him. “What don’t I know?”
“They’ve summoned the vampire council.”
“They what?” the cat hissed, hackles rising.
“Quiet, love.” Bastian’s head ached.
“But the council. That’s like trying to stop a fire by throwing gasoline on it.” Whitby paused her pacing and looked up at Bastian, taking in the state of him. “You look awful, by the way.”
Bastian smiled. “Your compliments are heaven, darling. Let’s talk about this tomorrow. I need to rest.”
“But the council—”
“Won’t be here for at least another couple of days,” Bastian said. “They’re tomorrow’s problem.”
There was silence for a moment, and Bastian could almost feel the cat’s stare. He understood her shock, because he was shocked, too. Calling in the vampire council was extreme, and Bastian wondered what specific dark impulse had spurred the commissario into such vicious action.
Bastian couldn’t speak anymore, though. The silver was robbing him of his faculties. Shutting him down.
“Please, Whitby,” he managed to whisper. “Everything will be better tomorrow.”
Silence, then—
“Fine,” the cat said, “you rest. But roll over so I can take a look at those cuffs.”