Page 6 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

The poliziotto was carrying silver handcuffs.

“What the…” Bastian murmured, confused and exasperated. “Please, we just found the body—”

“Silenzio!”

Bastian heard the poliziotto’s heart pumping rabbit fast. He was riled up, ready for a fight.

If the cuffs had been made of anything other than silver, Bastian could snap them in a single move. He could subdue the poliziotto with a well-placed blow—and he really wanted to, because this had escalated far too quickly. But the cuffs prevented him. They leeched energy from his limbs, draining him of strength. He already felt exhausted.

“I’ll scratch his eyes out!” Whitby cried.

“No,” Bastian choked. “Don’t make it any worse.”

“Whoever that is, I’ll be back,” the poliziotto yelled. “I will find you.” He shoved Bastian toward a set of steps that led back up to the street.

“Move, vampire!” he grunted, and Bastian was powerless to resist.

3

The interrogation room had cracks in the walls.

A ceiling fan turned lazy circles above Bastian’s head.

And the cuffs were still slowly eating through the flesh of his wrists.

Sitting at a small table with his knuckles knotted together behind him, Bastian tried to focus on the poliziotto sitting facing him. All he had to do was explain what happened on the beach, clear his name, and get out of there. Then, he could go back to his holiday—and Whitby. She must be outside the station right now, scared in the dark, losing her mind with worry. He knew that she needed him. Despite all evidence to the contrary, the cat hated being alone.

“Parli italiano?” the poliziotto asked.

He was large but not fat. Solid, like a rhino. Silver hair thinning at the crown. His shirt strained to contain his large arms and chest. A gym fan in his youth, Bastian guessed, but now in his late fifties, teeth nicotine-yellowed, skin acne-scarred. His eyes were bloodshot and devoid of empathy.

“Italian?” the man prompted.

“A little,” Bastian said, trying to think through the sting in his wrists. The silver was excruciating. It was all he could focus on.

“Let’s get this over with,” the man grunted in accented English. “I am Commissario Aldo Zappa, and this is my colleague Ispettore Nicolas De Luca.”

Behind him, a second officer stood against the wall. He was younger, clean-shaven, with a straight nose and unsmiling mouth. Bastian estimated he was in his late twenties. Pretty for a cop, his dark hair combed in waves against his clear olive skin. He wore a dark blue polo shirt and combat trousers, and his expression was stern, but Bastian could tell from the sweat beading his upper lip that he was nervous.

Perhaps he had never been this close to a vampire.

Bastian assembled the best smile he could, given the pain in his wrists—dashing with a sprig of flirtation.

“It’s wonderful to meet you both,” he said, “despite the unfortunate circumstances. I don’t suppose you could loosen the cuffs? They’re chafing something awful and I’m finding it difficult to concentrate—”

“For the record,” Zappa said, as if Bastian hadn’t spoken, “you will state clearly that you confess to the killing of Luna Esposito.”

Bastian frowned. “You’ve identified her already?”

“I know everybody in this town,” Zappa snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Bastian said, then worried his words would be taken as a confession, and added, “for your loss. I’m sorry the girl is dead. But I didn’t touch her.”

Zappa slapped a large hand against the table. “You are a vampire.”

“I don’t eat people, though. I’m avegetarianvampire, love.”

Bastian tried to smile again through the discomfort, projecting innocence and virtue, but Zappa’s glare was as cold as gunmetal.