Chapter 29
“Do you think Enzo killed Salvador?” Whitby asked.
They were in the kitchen, just the two of them. De Luca had remained upstairs with his brother, making sure he was okay—and avoiding Bastian, it seemed.
“I don’t know,” Bastian said, washing himself at the sink. He then put on the light cotton sweater De Luca had given him, resisting the urge to bury his nose in the soft fabric and draw in the scent.
Strange how he could feel so close to De Luca one second, then miles away the next.
“But you suspect it,” Whitby said, sitting on the kitchen table with her tail wrapped around her feet.
“All I know,” Bastian said, dropping into a chair, “is that Enzo wasn’t in bed when I looked. And then Salvador screamed, and I found him bleeding out.”
“The two must be related.”
“Why would Enzo kill Salvador?” Bastian asked.
“You said yourself that he has a rare blood condition.”
Bastian began to plait one side of his hair. “And?”
“And every one of the victims has been found bleeding out from their neck. What if he’s trying to do something like, I don’t know, replace his blood with theirs?”
“That’s a horrifying thought, Whitby.”
“It doesn’t make it untrue.”
Bastian kept plaiting. He shook his head. “If Enzo was doing that, there’d be some evidence. He’d have had blood on him when we found him back upstairs, but there wasn’t a drop. I had more blood on me.”
Whitby didn’t blink for several seconds.
“Okay, let’s assume for a minute that Enzo didn’t kill Salvador. Where did he go when you found his room empty? And how did he get out if, as you said, he’s bedbound?”
“And who got him back into the bed?” Bastian mused.
“I’m asking the questions here.” Whitby sniffed. “Did you hear anybody else moving around the house?”
“No.” Bastian frowned. “I did hear something earlier, though. When we were in the kitchen right after the gala, there was a creak upstairs. But only Enzo was up there, and he’s bedbound.”
“Somebody else could have been up there with him.”
Bastian started a second plait. “That’s possible. Unless the creak was just Enzo turning over in bed.”
“Did you sense whether or not the mayor’s husband had been here when you found Salvador? He could have escaped custody.”
“No,” Bastian said, wishing he had a more helpful answer.
“Where was De Luca when all of this happened?” Whitby asked.
Bastian’s fingers stilled at mention of the inspector. He kept seeing the hurt in De Luca’s face. The betrayal.
But De Luca was a poliziotto. He had to consider all the facts, even if they were difficult.
And what if De Luca thought Bastian was the killer now? Bastian didn’t think he could bear it.
“Bastian?” Whitby prompted. “Where was De Luca?”
“In bed. Asleep.”
“And you know this how?”
Bastian tied the plaits on top of his head and looked directly at her. “Because I was in bed with him right before all of this happened.”
The cat returned his stare, perfectly still.
“So that’s why you look like the cat who got the cream.”
He wrinkled his nose. “There was no cream involved.”
Maybe next time, though…
“Did you—” Whitby said, but Bastian spoke over her.
“I told him everything. About me. Us. All of it.”
The cat’s gaze sharpened. “And?”
“And he kissed me,” Bastian murmured, pressing fingers to his lips.
“Is it really wise to get so attached?” Whitby asked. “Especially considering what just happened with his brother?”
“I’m not attached, darling.”
“Don’t darling me, darling. I’ve never seen you like this before. He’s done something to you.” She straightened. “No, this won’t do.”
She started muttering something in Latin, tracing a symbol on the tabletop with her paw.
“What are you doing?”
Whitby focused on the tabletop. “The right thing. This path can lead only to pain for the both of you. It’s better if De Luca forgets whatever he feels for you.”
Bastian leapt up. “Forgets? What are you talking about?”
The cat traced more shapes, whispering strange words, and Bastian shuddered at the thought that she was casting a spell on De Luca. What if this was the first incantation that succeeded? He couldn’t let her do that.
“Whitby—”
“Convertat cor suum frigus,” she intoned. “Convertat cor suum fri—”
“It’s just a bit of fun!” Bastian shouted.
Whitby stopped chanting. She looked at him, paw frozen mid-trace.
“You’re right,” Bastian said. “We can’t get attached. That’s why it’s just fun with De Luca. I don’t have feelings for him. I swear.”
The cat continued to stare at him. Bastian wasn’t sure what had gotten into her. She was acting stranger than usual.
Then her ears pricked to attention, and she looked over Bastian’s shoulder. Bastian turned to see De Luca standing at the foot of the stairs on the other side of the kitchen. His face was stiff, his lips parted in surprise.
Bastian’s neck pinched with tension. He had no idea how long the inspector had been standing there, but the look in De Luca’s eyes told him he’d heard exactly the wrong part of the conversation.
Bastian cleared his throat. “How is your brother?”
“He’s asleep.” De Luca’s tone was cold, and when his gaze dipped to the pink sweater Bastian wore, a look of pain crossed his face like a shadow.
Bastian took a step toward him. “De Luca, can we—”
“I’ve called the commissario,” the inspector said, avoiding his gaze. “He’s on his way.”
“Did you tell him what happened?”
De Luca nodded. “I’ll file an official report when he arrives.”
“Is the vampire council coming with him?” Whitby asked. “Is the mayor’s husband still in their custody?”
“He is,” De Luca said, voice hollow.
The cat hmphed, her gaze sharp. “That’s one suspect we can rule out for good, then. He can’t have killed Salvador if he’s still under arrest.”
Bastian couldn’t think about the council.
All he could think about was De Luca.
“Please, De Luca, listen to me,” Bastian said. “I didn’t mean…I just—”
“Bastian—” Whitby began, but he put his hand over her face, wrapping his fingers around her tiny skull to silence her.
“De Luca,” he said. “You know how I feel about youuu-oww!”
He pulled his hand back as Whitby bit him.
De Luca looked at them both. He considered the ceiling, then finally gave Bastian a tight smile.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s better that we’re friends.”
Bastian’s heart seized. Cold crept through his limbs.
He didn’t want to be friends with De Luca. Friends would never be enough.
“De Luca—”
“Can we focus on what’s important?” Whitby interrupted. “The council will arrest you, and if they arrest you, that’s it. You’re done for. You’ll be dead by sunrise.”
Bastian looked from De Luca to Whitby, her words striking deep. The council would think he killed Salvador. They might not be able to pin the other deaths on him, too, but that might not matter to them. He was the nuisance now. Their best bet would be to eradicate the problem.
“De Luca,” Bastian began, then corrected himself. “Nico. Please, can we talk? Just for a moment? You believe it wasn’t me, don’t you? I didn’t kill Salvador.”
De Luca’s conflicted gaze hovered on him. He swallowed and rubbed his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but then a creak came from upstairs, and he blinked, his usual stoic expression returning.
“I should check on Enzo,” he said.
Bastian’s shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes. Nico—De Luca—was back in “disengage” mode, and Bastian didn’t have the energy to fight it. Not after everything.
He checked the clock above the stove. It was gone midnight. Time was running out.
They were no closer to finding the killer than when they stumbled across the first body.
Bastian was going to die for somebody else’s crimes.
A prick of anger drew a scowl across his face. He thought about Whitby, all the good they had done together, and how lost she would be without him—
No.
He wouldn’t succumb to that rage again. Not when he had so few hours left.
The thought of his own death both fascinated and frightened him. What would the True Death feel like? Would he suffer the same way he did when he got clean? Or would it be a different kind of suffering?
Don’t think about that, either.
The holiday isn’t over yet.
He began to unplait his hair, pushing memories of the past hour into the back of his mind.
Drawing shutters over them. Forcing himself to forget how De Luca had felt, what his kisses tasted like, how it felt when his pulse echoed in Bastian’s chest. How uncertain De Luca looked now.
He thought Bastian was lying about Enzo.
The Obliterati would kill him.
And if he only had one night left on Earth, he wasn’t going to spend it thinking about the vampire council.
Bastian’s mind swiveled away from darkness, into the light. He didn’t care if it was the right thing or the sensible thing, he only knew that he was going to enjoy his last night on Earth. Live in the moment. It was the only way to be.
“I don’t know about you, darling,” he said to Whitby, “but I can’t help feeling things have gotten a little serious around here. I’m in the mood for a stroll. What do you say?”
“Bastian—” Whitby started, but he cut her off.
“Excellent. Let’s go.” He squeezed past De Luca, ignoring the inspector’s scent, not allowing it to pull him back as he headed for the front door.
“Inspector, please give Commissario Zappa and the council my warmest regards. And I wish you the very best with your promotion. Zappa would be a fool not to reward you for your excellent work.”
“Bastian,” De Luca said, and his fragile tone stopped him on the threshold. Bastian looked back at the inspector, wanting him to take his hand, to say he’d spend Bastian’s last night with him.
But De Luca said nothing. His mouth closed, his jaw tensing, his eyes glittering with a distant light.
This is for the best, Bastian thought.
“Are you coming, Whitby?” he called, stepping outside. “The night is still young!”