Page 44 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“I did it!” Whitby cried. “I saved the inspector!”

The moment broke.

De Luca stepped free from Bastian, wiping perspiration from his brow. His heartbeat became distant. Bastian’s chest was quiet once more, disappointment sitting cold in its place.

“Did you hear me?” Whitby cried, strutting back and forth on the sidewalk. “I saved De Luca! I nudged the scooter with a counterbalancing spell, and it worked! The scooter missed him by a whisker!”

They both stared at her. Bastian shook his head, pretty sure it was just a coincidence. He didn’t want to shatter her hope, though. She had been working so hard on her incantations. Before he could utter a word of encouragement, De Luca said, “Nice work, Whitby. Good job.”

The cat regarded him through narrowed eyes, then swiveled her head to look in the other direction.

“Don’t patronize me.”

Bastian chuckled, then laughed louder as Whitby started to lick her paw, turning her back on them. His laugh echoed around the piazzetta, and he knew he was being too loud. He clamped his hands over his mouth.

“Oh dear,” he said through his fingers. “I think I probably should get out of this sun for a bit.”

“The church,” Whitby said, nodding to the quaint stone building on the edge of the piazzetta. “I’d put good money on it being dark and cool in there.”

“Can you go into churches?” De Luca asked Bastian, and there was that adorable frown again. Bastian tried to ignore it. Tried toforget how good it felt to be pressed against the inspector, but his mind clutched hold of the knowledge like something precious served up from the depths of the sea.

It’s just the sun sickness making everything wonky.

“I won’t burst into flames, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Bastian said, then he laughed again. “Although being gayanda vampire means it’s never a safe bet.”

15

The Church of St. Margaret of Antioch really was dark and cool. Bastian tucked his Wayfarers into his shirt pocket and savored the chill air whispering against his skin, a soothing balm after the heat of the sun.

Only a couple of tourists strolled between the gray stone columns, speaking in hushed tones that resonated in ghostly whispers among the three aisles. Modest iron chandeliers hung between the thin columns, and the rough-hewn brickwork was blackened in places where old stone met new. Nobody sat at the wooden pews that faced the curved pulpit. Above, a peaked wood roof clutched at shadows while muted sunlight crept in through ancient glass windows to cast golden puddles at the feet of the stone Mary and Jesus.

Aside from the occasional whisper, it was blessedly quiet. Bastian supposed the lure of the sun was enough to keep most people outside—not to mention the morbid excitement of the body in the harbor. He smelled incense, old wood, andage—the fusty aromaof a building that had housed more souls in its time than he could ever hope to count.

De Luca removed his cap, running a hand through his black hair. Whitby trickled down the center aisle, exploring the ancient building, but Bastian hung back when he noticed the inspector looking at him in that hooded way that he was quickly growing accustomed to.

“Another question, dear? I mean, De Luca.”

De Luca blinked. “I thought vampires couldn’t enter consecrated ground.”

“On the contrary. I have always found churches to be calming.” At De Luca’s questioning look, he added, “Don’t get me wrong, some vampires would come into a church and fry on the spot, but those vampires are centuries old. They still fear the religious symbols of their day, like the cross and the Virgin Mary. That stuff doesn’t hold much sway anymore. In fact, some vampires drink holy water as a party trick.”

“Vampires have changed?” De Luca asked. “Over time?”

“Oh, we come in all flavors, like sorbet. Some can walk in the daylight, others spend long stretches of time buried in the earth like trapdoor spiders, only breaking cover to hunt. There are stories about ghost vampires that steal your soul rather than your blood, but I’m pretty sure they’re just a myth.”

Bastian smiled as he ran a hand along the polished wood back of a pew.

“When I was a child, my mother insisted we attend church every Sunday. I never complained, because I liked the peace and I adored the hymns, especially when the priest encouraged us to dance and clap. It felt safe in there. Like I was in touch with something bigger than our tiny town. Something that cared.”

Bastian’s mouth pursed. “Of course, that changed as I grew up. I felt less and less welcome, because of who I was. I couldn’t hidemy queerness, and in the 1970s, any diversion from the norm was condemned. I wanted to be a dancer, but my father forbade it. If he caught me so much asthinkingabout a ballroom, he would use his fists on me.”

De Luca’s eyebrows rose. “That’s terrible.”

“It is what it is. I would dance in my room, where he couldn’t see. It wasn’t something I could control. Dancing made everything better. When I danced, I felt free.”

He closed his eyes as he was overcome with memories of his teen bedroom. The posters of David Bowie, Audre Lorde, Judy Garland, and James Baldwin on the walls; the issues ofBlueboybought on day trips to the city hidden under his mattress. He would twist and jump in his crop top, savoring the sensation of his bare feet sweeping the carpet, joy and defiance like fire in his veins, making him feel powerful, angry, and alive in a way that he couldn’t be outside of those four walls.

When he opened his eyes, he found De Luca’s gaze resting on him. He appeared sad, appalled, and moved all at once. Then a new question entered his gaze.