Chapter 20
“GET HIM!” Matteo cried.
The mob surged forward, the crowd larger than before, easily twenty men and women, their faces grim, teeth clenched. At their front, Matteo looked like he was ready for blood. His eyes were hollow, his lips thin. His right arm was in a plaster cast, thanks to his previous encounter with Bastian.
While Bastian had overpowered him then, he wasn’t sure he could do it again now, with the sun beating down on his shoulders and pricking his eyes. Besides, he didn’t want to fight. He wanted to dance. The sun kept urging him on, like a mother pushing a kid to the front of class.
Bastian knew the feeling. Sun sickness. He had to get a grip before it took over. He struggled to his feet with De Luca’s help. As he steadied himself, De Luca put himself between Bastian and the mob.
“Matteo, whatever you’re thinking,” he shouted, “I urge you to reconsider before it’s too late.”
Matteo’s stare gleamed with hatred as he spat, “Still protecting the murderer. You don’t deserve to wear that badge.”
“You will not attack this man,” De Luca said.
“He’s not a man, he’s a vampire! He killed Luna and Emilio.”
“He’s innocent!” Whitby cried, and the crowd exchanged confused glances, apparently unsure who had spoken.
The cat jumped into Bastian’s arms, and he held her tight, grateful that she was there to help center him.
He wished there was something he could say to pacify the crowd.
To show them he was innocent. Maybe another song on the piano?
His head was spinning. One second he felt elated, basking in the warmth of the sun; the next he was certain he felt his skin cracking. Drying. Wicked of moisture. He whetted his lips, watching heat waves ripple around him.
“Everybody, listen to me,” De Luca said, addressing the crowd. “Matteo is wanted for questioning in relation to the deaths of two Vernazza residents. I suggest you disband immediately and let me do my job.”
“Me?!” Matteo cried. “Are you crazy?!”
“Where were you the night Luna was killed?” De Luca asked.
Matteo looked like he’d been slapped. “I loved her. I would never hurt her!”
“Answer the question.”
Matteo spat on the ground. “I was at Pinocchio’s. Ask anybody.”
“Did he just say he was at a puppet’s house?” Bastian asked.
“Pinocchio’s,” De Luca said. “It’s a bar in town.”
That made more sense. And also it put a pretty big hole in their original theory that Matteo was the killer, if witnesses could place him at that bar.
If he wasn’t the killer, though—
“Listen, Zappa junior, if you really are innocent, your life could be in danger,” Bastian said. “Your colleagues are both dead, and you could be next.”
Matteo reeled back. “Did everybody hear that? The vampire just threatened me.”
The air filled with outraged cries. Bastian spoke over them.
“Both victims worked at Micio Micio. Somebody could be targeting you—”
“You don’t scare me!” Matteo yelled. “We won’t let you kill anybody else. GET HIM!”
The mob surged forward. De Luca raised his hands in a placating gesture, but a couple of guys seized his arms and dragged him to one side.
“De Luca!” Bastian cried, but the mob tightened around him, and he lost sight of the inspector.
“Run, Bastian!” Whitby yowled, her claws piercing his right shoulder as she watched the townspeople at his back.
“No, not without De Luca.”
Bastian cast his gaze around the mob, but the air was shimmering, making it difficult to see.
“This isn’t going to fix anything,” he said. “If you’ll just—”
“QUIET, VAMPIRE!”
A woman seized his hair. Bastian’s eyes watered at the pain, but he wouldn’t fight them. He wouldn’t be provoked.
“Hair-pulling is so playground,” he said, but then he staggered backward, his lip throbbing. Somebody had punched him. His scalp burned where hair had been ripped free. His eyes watered even more, because his Wayfarers had been knocked loose, exposing him to the full glare of the sun.
He squinted up at a bleary sea of furious faces. Matteo had done a great job riling them up. Bastian smelled their sweat, heard two dozen hammering heartbeats, like drums announcing an imminent death.
“Bastian?” Whitby’s voice came somewhere to his left and panic gripped Bastian’s chest. He’d dropped her in the scuffle.
“Whitby?” he called.
Her voice was distant. “Bastian, don’t do anything stupid. Just run!”
But he couldn’t. He was penned in. He tried to push his way through the crowd, but he was jostled to one side, then the other.
They tore at his clothes, ripping his shirt.
He looked up just as a fist swung at his face, connecting with his jaw.
The blow sent Bastian to his knees. A boot dug into his back, and he went down.
“I liked this shirt,” he muttered into the cobbles. His arms were tugged behind him. Something coarse wound around his wrists. Rope. They were binding his wrists.
Kinky.
Except not, because the rope was tight. And itchy.
Bastian struggled to free himself, but the rope was already knotted and he felt oddly drained.
Bit by bit, his strength was failing. He should be able to free himself from the rope without any problem, but he felt weak.
He tugged his wrists apart, expecting the rope to snap, but it held firm.
Drinking blood would help him regain a little strength, but the sun was unforgiving and where would he get pig’s blood at a time like this?
Besides, no amount of blood would revive him if he didn’t get out of the glare.
Jubilant cries echoed around him, and Bastian found himself being dragged over the cobbles. The sun blinded him, his hair getting in his face, and he got the sense he was being hauled into the piazzetta. Alarm clanged through him.
This dirt is going to be hell to wash out.
Hands seized his arms and legs. The world tilted. Bastian found himself sprawled on his back like an upturned turtle. He lay propped on his elbows on a set of stone steps. Above him towered the Church of St. Margaret of Antioch, its bell tower looming like an old god, the sun sparkling at its apex.
Sofia di Vernazza, Bastian inwardly pleaded, attempting to summon the saint with his mind. Show them they’re wrong. Remind them how to be good.
“Not so cocky now, are you?” Matteo spat, standing over Bastian.
Bastian shook hair out of his face. The commotion had drawn even more of a crowd.
Instead of twenty, there must be fifty people, some having wandered in from the beach, others drawn from the shops and bars.
It was only a matter of time, surely, until the furor attracted the attention of Commissario Zappa, but Bastian felt certain the poliziotto wouldn’t stop them. He would join his son’s mob.
The sun glared from the sky, and Bastian blinked a couple of times, because everything was too bright. Earrings winked like starbursts and teeth flashed neon white.
It made it impossible for him to find Whitby or—
“De Luca,” Bastian murmured.
Through the oscillating light, he found the inspector. De Luca stood at the front of the crowd, and he looked perfect. Skin glowing, blue eyes sparkling at Bastian in a way that said I see you, beautiful man.
No, that didn’t make sense. Why would De Luca be smiling at a time like this?
Bastian narrowed his eyes, tried to focus, and the hallucination cleared. Now, he saw De Luca’s cheek was grazed. His eyes were dull with despair. His cap was gone and his uniform was torn; a man who had no discernible neck held De Luca’s arms behind his back.
“De Luca, no,” Bastian choked.
They could do what they liked to him, but De Luca didn’t deserve this. He was good and pure and he only wanted the best for the people of Vernazza.
Bastian tried to stand but couldn’t, bound hands throwing him off-balance. It didn’t help that the sun continued to cook him. Bastian felt like the contents of his skull were sizzling.
“Are you listening to me, vampire?” Matteo yelled, and his face swam in and out of focus. He turned to address the crowd. “He doesn’t even care that he’s caught!”
He raised the stake, and sudden quiet fell over the piazzetta. “It’s time to end this, vamp. Once and for all.”
A hush, like the crowd was holding its breath.
Some people were licking their lips with anticipation.
Others seemed unsure what they had stumbled into.
A splinter of fear spiked the delirium that had settled over Bastian.
What if this was the end? What if he never got to cook salmon for Whitby again, or kiss De Luca?
The thoughts collided, bouncing off each other, and Bastian lost track of them.
Where was he? Why were his hands bound? He looked at the sea of faces and frowned.
“Everybody’s so serious all of a sudden,” he said. “Quick, somebody tell a joke.”
Nobody spoke.
“Now you’ll know how Luna felt,” Matteo said, bringing the stake down.
The next moments came in slow motion.
A black blur shot through the air.
Matteo cried out as the blur wrapped around his hand, biting and scratching, and the blur looked a lot like Whitby.
At the same time, De Luca butted his elbow into the neckless guy’s nose.
Bastian’s mouth spread in a slow smile, because the air was shimmering now. Shimmering like the pearly inner lining of a shell, and he was sure he could hear Bronski Beat playing. He wanted to dance, but he was still tied up.
“Bastian!” He felt a pull at his shoulder, then De Luca’s breath hot on his ear. “Bastian, can you get up?”
“I thought I already was up, love.”
“Here,” De Luca said, and Bastian’s hands came free. He looked at them in wonder, raising them in front of his face. His nails changed color as he watched, first shining pink, then green, then purple.
“We have to get out of here!” De Luca said.
“This way!” Whitby cried, and the urgency in her voice snapped Bastian to. He saw her standing on the bottom step, her glossy black fur puffed up in alarm. Behind her, Matteo staggered backward clutching his forearm—the one not encumbered by a plaster cast. It was bleeding, covered in scratches.
“Darling,” Bastian said. “You stopped him staking me. How wonderful. I think I have some salmon left in the fridge. You deserve—”
“Move, Bastian!” Whitby shrieked. Bastian shook his head as more yells and shouts clamored in around him. How hadn’t he noticed them before?
As De Luca pulled him to his feet, Bastian swayed. De Luca’s hand in his stopped him from falling over.
“Oh dear, I think I might vomit,” Bastian said.
“Vomit later,” Whitby said, “escape now.”
They ran.