Page 68 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“This violence, man. You’re giving us all a bad name.”

Bastian rolled away just in time to evade Emmeline’s shimmering silver rope. He wiped his eyes as he backed up to the other side of the kitchen table, where Whitby perched, licking a paw with an air of satisfaction. Bastian reached out a hand, which she nuzzled her head into before hopping into his arms.

“I’m going to prove I’m not the killer,” Bastian said, holding Whitby close. “Just give me another day, that’s all I ask.”

Jared gave a sympathetic smile. “We’d love to do that, boy, but—”

“—the evidence speaks for itself,” Emmeline finished.

“Hisevidence?” Bastian demanded, pointing at Zappa.

“He’s had it in for Bastian from the start!” Whitby spat.

“Come with us now,” Ling ordered, and there it was again, that wheedling suggestion, whispering through him, commanding Bastian to follow her orders. Her scent stuck in his throat.

“Do you even care if I’m innocent or not?” Bastian demanded. Fear was beginning to hollow him out. Not just fear of what the Obliterati would do to him, but fear that they might actually have no interest in catching the killer. Were they secretlyenjoyingthe fact that innocent people had been murdered? Were they no better than the vampires they condemned?

A worse thought occurred to him as he considered what the Obliterati sometimes did when they were finished with a trial.

They burned the town to ash. Left nothing but a smoking ruin.

Bastian couldn’t believe that people still allowed the Obliterati into their towns. How desperate would they have to be to resort to such extreme action? Perhaps not everybody believed the stories. Maybe they chalked them up to hyperbole and myth. He supposed that sometimes the truth was so awful, it was impossible to believe.

What if the Obliterati didn’t care about justice or retribution, though? What if they were simply looking for an excuse to rain unimaginable destruction on a place like Vernazza?

“The killer could strike again,” De Luca said, approaching the council. The sight caused Bastian’s chest to contract with both pride and horror. The Obliterati could tear apart De Luca in seconds, but he was moving toward them, pleading with them—for him.

“De Luca, don’t,” he said.

“You have to let Bastian go,” the inspector told the Obliterati.

“Have you lost your mind?” Zappa snarled, wiping his claw-marked face with a dishcloth.

Bastian was by the balcony doors. He felt dizzy and winded, despite the fact that he didn’t breathe. Only now did he see that, for the past couple of days, he had been clinging to a desperate scrap of hope that the Obliterati would spare him. He had dared to dream that they would see the truth and acquit him, despite their terrible reputation.

Pain came at Bastian’s chest as he realized he had been naive. The Obliterati wanted only to kill him, and the thought set his mind spinning.

Thiscouldn’tbe the end.

“Bastian—” De Luca began, but he broke off as the council raised their hands in a silencing gesture. They looked at each other as if communicating something telepathically and then, asone, they rushed at Bastian, silent as death, their hands outstretched for him.

Bastian staggered backward, through the doors and onto the balcony. He held Whitby tight and cast a desperate look at De Luca on the far side of the kitchen, wanting to grab hold of him, too, but he was too far away. There was no time. The council were already at the balcony doors, their emotionless eyes gleaming at Bastian, the air shuddering around them as they flew at him.

Just in time, Bastian slammed the doors. He heard three thumps as the Obliterati crashed against the other side, hissing displeasure, hissinghis name, and Bastian knew he had no choice.

Vowing to go back for De Luca, hoping he was safe with Zappa, Bastian sprang into the air, Whitby held tightly to his chest, sailing over the balcony railing and floating down, down, down, into the streets below.

23

“Well, they were fun,” Bastian said.

He tried to suppress a shudder, but it slithered around inside his body like a serpent, making him feel jumpy.

Behind them, the cliff-face was dark; the air, cool. He had taken them to the other side of the church, touching down by the rocks at the water’s edge. They were tucked out of sight of the town, though he heard the trickle of music and voices on the evening air.

“They were going to kill you,” Whitby said. She perched on one of the rocks, her paws resting neatly together. “Their minds were made up.”

“I suppose I am the obvious suspect,” Bastian said. “And I’m sure Commissario Zappa has built a convincing case against me.”