Chapter 33
Bastian landed lightly on the balcony and set Whitby on the railing.
The front door was being guarded by Lombardi, the bumbling poliziotto Bastian recognized from the station, but the balcony was unmonitored. Nobody expected him to float up four stories to the balcony, even if they did know he was a vampire. Amateurs.
Whitby nosed at the balcony doors, which were slightly ajar.
“Wait,” Bastian whispered.
He heard movement inside. Thin curtains prevented him from seeing into the kitchen, but he heard voices and footsteps.
“Who do you think is in there?” Whitby whispered back.
“I’m trying to hear what they’re saying.” Bastian frowned. “It sounds like more polizia. They’re talking about another dead body.”
“Salvador?”
“I can’t tell. Wait, the footsteps are moving away. I think they’re going down the hall to the bedroom. Let me peek.”
He reached through the gap in the doors to ease the curtains aside.
A body lay on the kitchen table.
It lay on its back, arms spread, chin tilted up, and even from where he stood, Bastian saw the angry red neck wound. He couldn’t tell who it was, though the white suit was familiar. Fear seized him. What if it was De Luca?
“Why do I smell blood?” Whitby asked.
“There’s a body.”
“What do you mean there’s a body?”
Bastian had to know who was laid out on the kitchen table like Sunday dinner. He had to know it wasn’t De Luca.
He turned his ear to listen, hearing no sound within, so he tugged the balcony door and stepped inside. Approaching the table, he saw long brown hair, red lips, and a jewel-encrusted mask that covered the eyes.
“It’s the mayor,” Bastian murmured.
“The mayor?!”
“Shhh!” Bastian eyed the door to the hall, hearing voices in the bedroom. Nobody came running.
“Somebody killed the mayor?” Whitby said softly. “And here? Why?”
Bastian rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What is all of this stuff?” Whitby asked, and Bastian saw her poking a skull on the dresser table.
He was certain it hadn’t been there earlier.
As he looked around the kitchen, he saw more objects that didn’t belong.
Dead animals in jars. Old bones. Pewters and bottles of colored liquid.
It almost looked like the contents of Salvador’s apartment had been transferred to Bastian’s place.
When Bastian looked closer, though, he didn’t recognize the items. They weren’t Salvador’s.
“This feels—” Bastian began.
“Staged,” Whitby said in agreement. “Somebody really is setting you up. They’ve turned this place into an occult shrine.”
“But how did they get past the guard on the front door?”
Whitby’s eyes narrowed. “Commissario Zappa would have no trouble there.”
“You really think he’s the one framing me?”
“He certainly seems determined to get rid of you, and Aunt Agata named him as her prime suspect. But…” Whitby looked at the balcony. “There’s always the possibility that somebody came in the same way we did.”
“Which would make them a vampire.”
“How would a vampire get inside without an invitation?”
Bastian shrugged. “Time-share loophole? Technically, the apartment is a public space.”
Whitby sniffed the skull. “It smells strange. The pewters, too. They have a scent I can’t quite put my paw on…Wait! It’s olive oil. All the strange stuff in here smells like olive oil.”
“Again?” Bastian cried, then winced at how loud his voice had emerged. No polizia came running, though.
“What is with that stuff?” he whispered, feeling lightheaded. “We can’t seem to get away from it.” The kitchen was too small. Too full. The mayor’s body was a horrible reminder of just how far they still were from unmasking the killer.
He picked up Whitby’s bag of paraphernalia from where it sat by the dresser and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
As he stepped toward the balcony, though, a figure floated in from outside, blocking his path.
“Awful charitable of you to show up, kid,” said Jared, the Texan member of the vampire council.
Ling and Emmeline materialized behind him, hovering above the kitchen tiles as if they were suspended on string.
“What’s going on in here?” Bastian asked, backing up. “What happened to the mayor?”
“It appears she has—” Ling began.
“—had her throat removed,” Emmeline finished.
“Just terrible,” Jared said with a shake of his head. “But all that is at an end, now that you have surrendered.”
Bastian clutched the bag to his chest. “I’m not surrendering.”
A line appeared in Jared’s pale forehead. “No? Then what—”
“Are you doing here?” Ling finished.
“Please at least try to listen to me,” Bastian said. “I’m trying to find the killer.”
The council regarded one another, and Bastian heard whispering, even though their lips remained still.
Delusional.
Crackpot.
Irredeemable, how sad.
Emmeline withdrew the glimmering silver chain once more, holding it before her like a shimmering strand produced by a glowworm.
“Your fate is decided, Bastian Emerson.”
“Fighting is so Dark Ages,” Jared added.
Ling said, “Surrender willingly and you will be treated with compassion.”
They weren’t going to give him a chance.
“Save yourself, Bastian!” Whitby yelled, launching herself at the council.
A pale hand flashed out and snatched the cat from the air before she could get in a single swipe.
Emmeline held the cat tight, even as Whitby clawed her hand, squirming in her grip.
With her other hand, Emmeline looped the silver chain around Whitby’s snout, muzzling her.
“Let her go!” Bastian yelled, dropping the bag. His fangs unsheathed, buzzing with fury.
Ling floated toward him. “One small tug—” she said.
“—and the silver shall slice through her like butter,” Emmeline finished.
“NO!” Bastian clenched his jaw and growled, “If you hurt her, I will end you! I’ll kill you!”
His body thudded with rage. The sight of Emmeline restraining Whitby caused anger to pop and spark in his chest. He wanted to tear the council member’s head from her shoulders.
But Emmeline could kill Whitby before Bastian so much as crossed the room.
“No harm shall come to the feline,” Jared said.
“So long as you come with us,” Ling added.
“Now,” Emmeline finished.
Bastian’s gaze flashed around the kitchen, searching for some way to stop the council taking him.
To save Whitby without her coming to harm.
But all he saw was the mayor’s body. The occult paraphernalia cluttering the surfaces.
The Obliterati blocking the balcony doors, their chemical scent mingling with the greasy aroma of olive oil.
He was trapped.
Somebody had succeeded in making him looking guilty as sin, and he had nowhere left to run.
He wished De Luca were there, with his reassuring stoicism, those clear blue eyes that seemed to see only good. But having De Luca there would only make this ten times harder.
Bastian felt the fury charging every part of his body, winding it tight, like a crossbow desperate to be fired.
The sight of Whitby restrained like that frayed his resolve to stay calm.
The sight unraveled his grip on the anger, and he felt himself coming undone.
Giving in to the fury that pulsed through his limbs.
He had done everything he could to prove he was a good, innocent person, and it still wasn’t enough.
Still, they looked at him and saw a monster.
He brought his gaze to Whitby, attempting to convey in a single look just how much he loved her. Hoping she knew she was the best friend he’d ever had. Whatever happened next wasn’t her fault.
Then he let go.
He let the anger rush in.
It washed over him in a roaring wave, consuming him in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. Not even when the mayor’s husband attacked De Luca. Even then, Bastian had managed to hold on, just a little.
Now, though, the fury was like fire in his veins. Pure, undiluted rage.
He seized hold of the refrigerator and hurled it at the Obliterati. They scattered in the air, and Bastian hissed with anger when he saw that Whitby was still clutched in Emmeline’s grasp.
He spun around as half a dozen figures rushed into the kitchen wearing combat gear. They wielded stakes on the end of black batons. The Obliterati had their own hit squad. Bastian heard their heartbeats, knew they were human, but he didn’t care. Not anymore.
He flew at them with the fury of a thousand wronged men, tearing and punching, spurred by the mental image of Whitby.
Spurred by his own rage at how he had been mistreated.
The injustice. He’d lived through so much, seen a lot over the years, and it seemed to him that the world was going backward instead of forward.
Progress had stalled. Receded. Nobody cared about the truth.
They only wanted somebody to pin their misery on.
Hands grabbed Bastian roughly from behind. They yanked his arms back, and before Bastian could break free, metal snapped around his wrists. The ice-cold burn of silver was unmistakable.
“It’s about time you showed your true face,” Zappa rasped in Bastian’s ear, and Bastian grunted in shock. He’d had no idea Zappa was even in the apartment.
With a furious howl, he threw his head back and felt it slam into the commissario’s forehead.
Zappa shouted and Bastian whirled about on the spot, trying to break free from the cuffs, but the silver was already causing his flesh to sizzle.
It leeched energy from his muscles, dragging at him, but his anger doubled in size.
“I haven’t killed these people!” he screamed. “I haven’t killed a single person in five years! This is not justice! This is a witch hunt!”
Pain detonated in the back of his skull, and he staggered. Somebody had struck him. His face met the kitchen counter and his fangs sunk into the wood there, hurt and now fear flooding his system.
“That’s enough,” Jared said calmly.
The voice stole yet more strength from Bastian’s limbs because he sensed the council member was right. Time was up. He was beaten. Outnumbered and weakened by the silver. He couldn’t do anything to save Whitby or himself.
Strong hands took his arms, jerking him upright. He was in the grip of one of the task force agents. His legs nearly went out from under him but he managed to remain standing, his body rigid with simmering rage.
“The cat will remain unharmed,” Ling said.
“If you come with us now,” Emmeline added.
On the other side of the kitchen, Whitby made a desperate sound in her throat and attempted to wrestle free, but Emmeline held tight. The cat’s eyes were pleading. Bastian could only look into them for a second before his heart began to break.
He choked on her name, unable to form any more words as tears blurred his vision.
He felt himself being dragged backward out of the apartment.
The brightness of the morning sun was blinding, but as quickly as it had surrounded him, he found himself cloaked in sudden darkness, and realized he had been wrestled into the back of a van.
He landed face down on hard metal.
The doors slammed shut, silencing Whitby’s distant cries, and Bastian’s body stiffened with a final surge of anger, then released when he realized he could do nothing.
It was over. He was done.
He belonged to the council now.