Chapter 7
“You think Luna was a vampire ally?” Bastian asked as they ambled down the cobbled street. He examined the infinity pin, which was now in a clear baggy that De Luca had provided.
A certain kind of person wore pins like that. VAs.
While some people saw a vampire and screamed murderer!
, a growing minority of vampire allies saw oppression.
Prejudice. Struggle—citing the often barbaric way vampires were treated by the general human public.
People threw bricks and glass bottles. Some carried handheld UV lamps to torment them, while others had taken to hunting vampires, exploiting new laws that stated, where the undead were concerned, blood sport was entirely legal.
Often the vampires slain were more docile by nature; they were the ones who didn’t fight back.
VAs argued that vampires were essential members of society who had their own thoughts, feelings, and unique perspectives on the world.
They weren’t innately evil, just different.
Many vampires had adapted to life out of the shadows, curbing their thirst or engaging in consensual bloodletting with willing donors.
Bastian had heard of nightclubs that hosted “Bite Me” parties, called so because humans in attendance wore badges stating “Bite Me” if they didn’t mind vampires feeding on them.
Apparently, it was a mutually beneficial system.
Vampires got to eat without fearing the stake, while humans attained a euphoric high from the blood loss—and there was the added bonus of vampire saliva being a powerful aphrodisiac.
So long as nobody fed to the point of death, it was a win-win situation.
Bastian had never been tempted by such gatherings.
He approached allies with caution. Some had pure intentions, holding marches, setting up petitions, and rolling out social media campaigns in order to fight for vampire rights.
But others objectified vampires in strange and self-serving ways.
Most troubling were the fetishizing hook-up seekers who would do anything to attract a vampire under cover of dark and then kick them into the nuclear sunshine come dawn.
“No, Luna wasn’t involved in vampirism,” De Luca said in answer to Bastian’s question. “She was quiet. An artist in her spare time. She wouldn’t have associated with anything vampire related.”
“You make it sound sordid,” Bastian commented.
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Bastian said, unfazed. “If the girl wasn’t an ally, that means the killer dropped the pin. Maybe her killer was an ally.”
“Perhaps.”
De Luca walked stiffly. His gaze rarely met Bastian’s and he spoke in clipped sentences.
His mood hadn’t improved. He glowered at their surroundings—and he kept looking over his shoulder, as if expecting Commissario Zappa to lunge from the shadows and tear the badge from his shirt.
He was taking a risk allowing Bastian to leave the apartment, and Bastian got the sense that De Luca was a law abider to the core.
He wasn’t accustomed to putting a single toe out of line.
“You said that the dead girl worked in a café?” Bastian asked.
De Luca nodded.
“And it’s called…?”
“Micio Micio.”
Bastian looked at him. “What an unusual name.”
De Luca sniffed. “It’s a cat café.”
A smile played on Bastian’s lips. “Hear that, Whitby? A café for cats!”
“This bad idea just got ten times worse,” the cat grumbled, nearly tripping Bastian as she wove between his legs. She had looked panicked at the mere suggestion she leave her cat bed, but apparently the thought of being alone in the apartment was enough to have her brave the outside world.
“Who’s to say the dead girl’s colleagues know anything about her death?” the cat said. “I’m telling you, we should leave town while we have the chance.”
“You know we can’t do that, love. If nothing else, the inspector will rugby tackle me, and nobody needs to see that. Can you imagine the scandal?”
Bastian smiled at De Luca, who scowled and checked over his shoulder again.
So serious, Bastian wanted to shake him.
They were outside. Sightseeing! Sure, they were also attempting to clear his name, catch a killer, and save the town from certain destruction, but still.
This was a hundred times better than house arrest. The feel of the breeze across his skin was divine.
“Why don’t you try a protection enchantment?” he told Whitby. “See if you can’t keep us from harm or bad luck or both?”
The cat leveled a long stare at him, seeming uncertain if he was teasing her. Then she started reciting words under her breath, and he realized she had taken his advice. If nothing else, it was a good distraction for her.
Bastian noticed that De Luca was squinting at him with a sharp kind of curiosity in his eyes.
“Yes, Inspector?”
The poliziotto looked away. He glared at the cobbles, jaw clenched.
“The inspector has questions but he doesn’t want to ask them,” Bastian said, thinking out loud.
“What a fun game! Hmm, you were looking at Whitby, which leads me to believe you’re curious about familiars.
Okay, Inspector, familiars come in all forms and, frankly, I’m glad mine is a cat, even if she does go on a bit.
I knew a vampire once who had an alligator for a familiar.
Nightmare to control something with that many teeth. Does that answer your question?”
De Luca’s throat had reddened. His eyes shone with irritation.
“Oh!” Bastian cried. “Perhaps you were curious about her attempts at magic? Okay, well, yes, I can confirm that Whitby is attempting to connect with her magical potential. Has been for some time now.”
“She really thinks she can…” De Luca broke off.
“Do magic?” Bastian finished for him. “She does.”
“Why?”
Bastian shrugged lightly. “She has her reasons.”
“I just need to shift this infernal block,” Whitby muttered.
At De Luca’s stare, Bastian explained, “She believes something is blocking her from tapping into her true magical potential, like a stopper in a wine bottle. Ah, this is just perfect wine weather. Are you a red or white man, Inspector?”
De Luca looked away.
So stern, Bastian thought. He was only trying to lighten the mood.
It helped distract from things he’d prefer not to think about, like the vampire council.
And the commissario. Thinking about them felt like tapping a rotten tooth with his tongue, sending a jag of anger through him that he had to keep under control.
“We can’t be outside for long,” Whitby said. “You know what you get like, Bastian, when the sun sickness sets in. Utterly impossible to be around.”
Another nervous flicker from De Luca.
Bastian waved a hand. “It’s nothing, darling, uh, Inspector. She worries too much.”
De Luca cleared his throat and looked behind them a third time.
“Ispettore!” a female voice trilled. “Buongiorno!”
A woman beckoned to them from outside a quaint store with a red awning. De Luca flashed Bastian a stony look that seemed to say behave, then stiffly went over.
“Buongiorno, Aunt Agata,” De Luca said.
The woman was large and pretty, wearing a floating pink dress and a silk headscarf.
She sat in a wicker chair, her small hands moving rhythmically before her, causing silver to flash in the sun.
Bastian realized she was knitting. A ball of orange wool rested in her lap, alongside a patchwork creation that could be either a scarf or the beginnings of a sweater.
She said something to De Luca in Italian about Luna. It seemed she was offering him her condolences. The knitting needles flashed in her hands, the sound punctuating their conversation. Clickity-clackity, clickity-clackity.
Bastian frowned. How exactly did De Luca know the dead girl? Were they friends? It would explain his sour mood.
“Grazie mille,” De Luca said.
Aunt Agata’s shrewd gaze fell upon Bastian.
“Welcome to Vernazza,” she said in English. “Aunt Agata knows everybody in this town, but I don’t recognize you. It must be your first time.”
“It is,” Bastian said. “You speak wonderful English.”
Aunt Agata giggled and paused knitting to wave a hand. “You rogue!”
“Is this your store?” Bastian asked. He ignored De Luca’s fraught gaze as he admired crates filled with apples, bananas, and clementines, plus spinning racks of books, postcards, and paper fans.
There was an entire display of little red chilis, which must be a local specialty.
The store stood on the corner and leaned alarmingly, as if it were attempting to peer back up the hill behind it.
“It has been for thirty years,” the shopkeeper said. “Everybody comes to Aunt Agata when they need groceries and advice. There’s nothing that can’t be solved with an espresso and a friendly ear.”
“Every town needs a wise woman,” Whitby said in agreement. Aunt Agata looked at her in astonishment, then she erupted with laughter.
“Buon Dio! A talking cat! Will wonders never cease? Now, this is what Aunt Agata loves about life. Surprises around every corner.”
Bastian smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”
The woman resumed knitting. The needles were as long as her forearm and seemed to be fashioned from wood, apart from the tips, which were capped in either steel or silver.
He wouldn’t know unless he touched them.
There was something hypnotic about the way they worked—clickity-clackity, clickity-clackity—and Bastian found his vision zeroing in on those silver tips as they flashed, almost like teeth in the sunlight.
He shook himself to regain focus.
“You knew the dead girl,” he said.
“Luna,” De Luca grunted.
The sparkle dimmed in Aunt Agata’s eyes. “Since she was a child. Terrible what happened.”
“Do you have any idea who would want to hurt her?”
“I have a fair idea. In fact, I saw her leave work yesterday. I’m probably one of the last people to see her alive.”
The shopkeeper jabbed a knitting needle, using it to point down the street to a building with windows that were illustrated with smiling feline faces. It must be the cat café that De Luca had mentioned.
“She was accosted as she crossed the street,” Aunt Agata said.
“Accosted?” De Luca asked. “By who?”
“Whom,” Whitby said.
“Salvador Silvestri,” Aunt Agata said, her top lip tugging up in a show of displeasure.
Bastian looked between her and De Luca. “Who’s Salvador?”
“A local,” De Luca said, while at the same time, Aunt Agata said, “A nuisance.”
“A local nuisance,” Bastian concluded. “A nuisance how?”
Aunt Agata blew air through her lips. The needles worked faster, flashing and clacking.
“Always scamming tourists, pretending he can read their fortune,” she said. “He peddles phony tarot readings and tells people they’re going to win the lotto. He is a disgrace to this town. We would be better off without him.”
The sudden darkness in her tone took Bastian by surprise. The shopkeeper’s initial friendliness had thinned into a sneer.
“What happened between him and Luna?” De Luca asked.
“He spoke to her,” Aunt Agata said, needles chewing the wool hungrily. “I couldn’t hear what was being said, but Luna looked upset. He took hold of her, and she pushed him away and hurried off.”
“What time was this?” Bastian asked. De Luca glared at him, and Bastian raised his hands to show he understood that this was De Luca’s territory. But Bastian had his own questions, too. It was his unlife at stake.
“Around seven p.m.,” Aunt Agata said.
“She was found dead just an hour later.” Bastian looked at De Luca, who appeared deep in thought.
“You are certain of the time?” the inspector asked.
“Sì.”
“Grazie,” Bastian said. He was struck by what the shopkeeper’s statement appeared to suggest. Was the girl’s death nothing to do with vampires or allies, but everything to do with a dangerous human?
Aunt Agata’s needles were moving almost on their own now. Weaving around and stabbing at the wool. Clickity-clackity, clickity—
Bastian looked closer at them, noting the violence in their motion. They were easily large enough to weaponize—perhaps even to open a throat.
He saw that Aunt Agata had noticed his attention and offered an innocent smile to mask the suspicion.
“What are you making?” he asked, nodding at the garment in her lap.
“There’s no need to—” De Luca began, but Aunt Agata exclaimed over him.
“Oh! Let me show you!” She lifted the garment and tugged it over her head, pulling it down so that it circled her neck like a scarf.
“It’s a cowl. I sell them in the winter.
They’re all the rage in Vernazza. The nights can get chilly during the off-season and there’s nothing worse than feeling the cold on your neck. ”
Bastian felt a thump in his gullet. The red-and-orange fabric reminded him of the dead girl’s throat and for a second he was back on the beach, fighting his ugly urges.
The sound of De Luca curtly thanking Aunt Agata broke him from the daze.
“You’re welcome, Inspector,” she said. “Salvador Silvestri has been a blight upon this town for too long. He deserves everything coming to him and more.” She glowered for a moment, then, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, her smile returned as she looked at Bastian.
“Be sure to stop by any time. I’m always here and my prices are very reasonable. ”
“Grazie,” Bastian said, attempting to suppress a frown as they carried on down the street toward Micio Micio. It was clear the shopkeeper wasn’t a fan of Salvador, but did that make him a killer?
And had the shopkeeper been a little too quick in pointing the finger? Those needles could certainly be responsible for what happened to the girl on the beach. All that blood, her neck ripped open like a perfect fleshy pinata—
Bastian pursed his lips and ran a hand through his hair. It was going to be a long day if he suspected every person they met of murder.
“You are not a detective,” De Luca said, and Bastian realized he was addressing him.
“No, dear, I’m not.”
De Luca gritted his teeth. “You will not question witnesses. You will remain silent and respectful while I do my job.”
Bastian frowned. How had he been disrespectful? He had simply been trying to find out the facts. If that irritated the inspector, well, that was his problem.
“How did you know Luna?” he asked.
De Luca’s shoulders stiffened, which was impressive, given how stiffly he was already carrying himself.
“We went to school together.”
“Were you close?” Bastian asked.
“Once.”
Bastian wondered if that was the reason for the man’s gruff demeanor. Perhaps he was grieving. He felt his irritation at the inspector softening.
“So, this is personal,” Bastian said.
De Luca didn’t look at him as he said, “Everything that happens in Vernazza is personal.”