Page 58 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“QUIET, VAMPIRE!”

A woman seized his hair. Bastian’s eyes watered at the pain, but he wouldn’t fight them. He wouldn’t be provoked.

“Hair-pulling is so playground,” he said, but then he staggered backward, his lip throbbing. Somebody had punched him. His scalp burned where hair had been ripped free. His eyes watered even more, because his Wayfarers had been knocked loose, exposing him to the full glare of the sun.

He squinted up at a bleary sea of furious faces. Matteo had done a great job riling them up. Bastian smelled their sweat, heard two dozen hammering heartbeats, like drums announcing an imminent death.

“Bastian?” Whitby’s voice came somewhere to his left and panic gripped Bastian’s chest. He’d dropped her in the scuffle.

“Whitby?” he called.

Her voice was distant. “Bastian, don’t do anything stupid. Just run!”

But he couldn’t. He was penned in. He tried to push his way through the crowd, but he was jostled to one side, then the other. They tore at his clothes, ripping his shirt. He looked up just as a fist swung at his face, connecting with his jaw. The blow sent Bastian to his knees. A boot dug into his back, and he went down.

“I liked this shirt,” he muttered into the cobbles. His arms were tugged behind him. Something coarse wound around his wrists. Rope. They were binding his wrists.

Kinky.

Except not, because the rope was tight. And itchy. Bastian struggled to free himself, but the rope was already knotted and he felt oddly drained. Bit by bit, his strength was failing. He should be able to free himself from the rope without any problem, but he felt weak. He tugged his wrists apart, expecting the rope to snap, but it held firm. Drinking blood would help him regain a little strength, but the sun was unforgiving and where would he get pig’s blood at a time like this? Besides, no amount of blood would revive him if he didn’t get out of the glare.

Jubilant cries echoed around him, and Bastian found himself being dragged over the cobbles. The sun blinded him, his hair getting in his face, and he got the sense he was being hauled into the piazzetta. Alarm clanged through him.

This dirt is going to be hell to wash out.

Hands seized his arms and legs. The world tilted. Bastian found himself sprawled on his back like an upturned turtle. He lay propped on his elbows on a set of stone steps. Above him towered the Church of St. Margaret of Antioch, its bell tower looming like an old god, the sun sparkling at its apex.

Sofia di Vernazza, Bastian inwardly pleaded, attempting tosummon the saint with his mind.Show them they’re wrong. Remind them how to be good.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” Matteo spat, standing over Bastian.

Bastian shook hair out of his face. The commotion had drawn even more of a crowd. Instead of twenty, there must be fifty people, some having wandered in from the beach, others drawn from the shops and bars. It was only a matter of time, surely, until the furor attracted the attention of Commissario Zappa, but Bastian felt certain the poliziotto wouldn’t stop them. He would join his son’s mob.

The sun glared from the sky, and Bastian blinked a couple of times, because everything was too bright. Earrings winked like starbursts and teeth flashed neon white.

It made it impossible for him to find Whitby or—

“De Luca,” Bastian murmured.

Through the oscillating light, he found the inspector. De Luca stood at the front of the crowd, and he looked perfect. Skin glowing, blue eyes sparkling at Bastian in a way that saidI see you, beautiful man.

No, that didn’t make sense. Why would De Luca be smiling at a time like this?

Bastian narrowed his eyes, tried to focus, and the hallucination cleared. Now, he saw De Luca’s cheek was grazed. His eyes were dull with despair. His cap was gone and his uniform was torn; a man who had no discernible neck held De Luca’s arms behind his back.

“De Luca, no,” Bastian choked.

They could do what they liked to him, but De Luca didn’t deserve this. He was good and pure and he only wanted the best for the people of Vernazza.

Bastian tried to stand but couldn’t, bound hands throwing himoff-balance. It didn’t help that the sun continued to cook him. Bastian felt like the contents of his skull were sizzling.

“Are you listening to me, vampire?” Matteo yelled, and his face swam in and out of focus. He turned to address the crowd. “He doesn’t even care that he’s caught!”

He raised the stake, and sudden quiet fell over the piazzetta. “It’s time to end this, vamp. Once and for all.”

A hush, like the crowd was holding its breath. Some people were licking their lips with anticipation. Others seemed unsure what they had stumbled into. A splinter of fear spiked the delirium that had settled over Bastian. What if this was the end? What if he never got to cook salmon for Whitby again, or kiss De Luca? The thoughts collided, bouncing off each other, and Bastian lost track of them. Where was he? Why were his hands bound? He looked at the sea of faces and frowned.

“Everybody’s so serious all of a sudden,” he said. “Quick, somebody tell a joke.”