Hopping onto the island, Walter sat, facing the detective, his feet dangling. I could see his face reflected in a large copper kettle. He looked like a kid. It was a pose the detective wouldn’t expect. Actors, both of them. But it was the small things that could tilt the balance of a conversation. Mildly, Walter said, “I am available to be interrogated. I’ll warn you though, I have been through torture. I am very difficult to coerce.”
Villetti’s face closed down. “I do not torture.”
Walter shrugged and smiled. “Not now, perhaps. You were a member of special operations in the war. You successfully interrogated forty-six prisoners, obtaining information crucial to the war effort. Twelve of them were possessed, and yet they spoke to you. How did you, a human, do that without torture?”
I had no idea how Walter knew that. I had no idea how to process that information about my once-upon-a-time boyfriend.
Villetti stood straight. Far too quietly he said, “That is classified.”
Walter brushed aside the comment with a wave of one hand. “You chose to move out of a high-profile position with the military and instead of going to work with the FBI, CIA, or any of a dozen federal alphabet soup law enforcement organizations, you chose Georgia Bureau of Investigations. There you made a name for yourself.”
Villetti’s expression didn’t alter but Walter smiled slowly. Villetti had given something away.
“Even I can’t access those records.”
“You hate what you did in the war, don’t you,” Walter mused, sniffing, deliberately taking in the man’s scent with each breath, telling Villetti how much he was giving away.
Walter was toying with Villetti like a cat with a mouse.
“Foolish human,” Walter said, goading. “Thinking tointerrogate me, to frighten me, or worse, to cajole me into sharing confessions.”
Villetti’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tight. Something broken inside him was trying to get free.
“So,” Walter continued. “After the war, you opened a cold, hard place inside of your soul, where you crushed all those memories, all those things you did to keep yourself safe, to keep others safe. And you thought they would stay there, all the vile, screeching memories of war, only to realize that they couldn’t be contained.”
Villetti snarled. Literally snarled. If he’d been a vamp he’d have attacked Walter in blood challenge. My heart was pounding. Walter surely knew we were standing in the shadows. Had to. Vamps could hear heartbeats.
“The memories of the horrors of war had taken root, sprouted, and spread through you, right, boy?” Walter said. “Filling you, until you would never again feel wonderment. Joy.”
Villetti’s body shifted, standing with his weight on his back foot, his fists balled. Ready for personal battle.
Walter laughed, his voice mesmeric, like liquid velvet. “But then, one day, or one night, perhaps when you couldn’t sleep, you remembered the last time you felt the awe and thrill of life, real life. It was when you had Angelina as your very own. And when you found she was no longer married, you came here. Where she was. Where wonderment had once been. Where you were last yourself. You took a position in the town where”—he took another breath—“Angelina lived.” His voice made my name sound like the wonderment he was describing.
Villetti inhaled as if his chest hurt, as if his breath was being crushed by fury, fear, frustration.
My good hand cradled my aching hand to my middle. EJ glanced at me and away. I had no idea what he saw in my eyes.
Walter smiled viciously. “But once here, you discovered she was not the child she had been. When you saw her, you…” Walter tilted his head. Kicked his feet. His soft-soled shoes drummed on the cabinet. “You floundered. Because your safe haven was different too. Therefore you began to strike out at her for no reason, using words to show her you were hurting, but only succeeding in making her guarded and angry. Now, years later, in the dark of night, you lie awake, yearning for what was.”
“Youson of a bitch,” Villetti growled.
“No. Human son of a slave and a rutting goat of a vampire.” Walter smiled. “I will kill my maker soon.Soon. Can you kill your memories as easily?”
I stepped away from the working, into view, and said, “Walter. EJ needs you.”
Walter dropped his mesmerism and hopped from the island surface. “It’s been a pleasure, Detective. We shouldchatagain someday.” With all the elegant insouciance he had learned in the royal court in Britain, Walter left the room.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Villetti dropped his stance, leaned against the cabinet, looking drained. “For what? For him speaking the truth as he understood it?”
“For him speaking a truth that you didn’t want him to know.”
“Did you know?”
“That you came here because of”—I hesitated a full second—“me? Us? No. Did I know you had done things in the war? Guessed it.”
Wearing the jacket that still smelled like Villetti—tiramisu and coffee—I moved into the room and rested my butt against the island countertop where Walter had sat. The stone was coldthrough the yoga pants. Vamp flesh was always ambient temperature.
