Page 16 of How I Met Your Murderer

A sly look crossed his face, his eyes almost glowing in the light of the stained-glass lamp on the entry table as he got down on his knees and set the notebook aside.

And then he started singing Britney’s “Baby One More Time” with such heart that I had to make my presence known and put him out of his misery.

I appeared a few feet in front of him so as not to startle him, drawing in extra energy so he could hear the sound of my applause, too. “Evening, All Star,” I said, fighting not to grin like this was all I had been looking forward to (it was). “That was a really nice thing you did for Síofra earlier. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Raff insisted. “But you could tell me how much you like my singing.”

Slowly I drifted closer, pretending not to notice that Raff nearly lost his balance when he shifted back to standing. His knee was acting up already—it must have been quite the injury. To my relief, he didn’t back away from me like he had yesterday, even though I wasn’t putting the effort into looking quite as solid right now.

“I’ll be sure to pick up tickets to your next concert,” I offered with a wink as Raff zipped his jacket against the deeper chill my presence brought. It was strange—flirting with him felt safe in a way it never did for me. Maybe because I knew it couldn’t go anywhere. No expectations, no pressure. And that could get dangerous if he kept hanging around. “Big fan of your work,” I teased some more.

“Yeah, me too,” he muttered, his cheeks flushing as he looked hard at a potted tree whose gnarled branches were now hung with tiny, glittering bats.

Well, no idea what that blush was about.

“Ready for a grand tour of my side of the castle, Lord Raff? It’ll be my pleasure to introduce you to the other lodgers,” I said, trying to pull him out of his stare-down with a Halloween tree. I mean, I wasn’t that unsightly to look at. I wore the clothes I had died in, but I didn’t appear with any of the grisly wounds that one would expect after a fall. I’d reassured myself of that plenty of times in the early days by looking in Síofra’s mirrors. That, and I’d been afraid of forgetting what I looked like when my appearance was my last remaining link to my family—my golden skin that hinted at our Mediterranean heritage, my mom’s sleek dark hair, my dad’s hazel eyes, the dimpled smile I shared with my sisters.

“Wonder why they started on all the orange and black so early,” Raff remarked, finally glancing back at me.

I manifested fully in case my transparent figure was putting him off, doing my best to make it seem like I was really there with him. It made me feel a little more human again, too. “I heard Caoimhe talking to Basil, the head decorator, earlier. They’re hosting a trial banquet for a select guest list at the start of October—foodies, influencers, media people.”

“Think I caught something about that earlier too, actually—sounds like a fecking headache,” Raff remarked, and I nodded, already picturing all the ways it could go wrong. “Anyway,” he went on, seeming more himself again. “About that tour: I’ll give it a go, as long as we can agree on a few ground rules first.”

“Okay,” I agreed, my curiosity snared. “Like what?”

“Well, just—don’t be acting the maggot like yesterday,” he said, rubbing a palm over the holster of one of those fake-looking blasters. “I’ve plenty of ammunition in these things, but if I have to zap you again, that’s us finished for good. If there’s trouble ahead, I expect you to tell me, and say it plain. That’s all I’m asking,” he added, and I guessed some of the hurt was showing on my face.

“I was trying to protect you last night,” I told him, hoping I didn’t sound petulant. “And that’s still what I plan to do, whether you like me or think I’m a . . . maggot. I don’t want you to get scared. Or hurt. Or for your heart to stop.”

His brows rose swiftly, but he didn’t ask whatever question had come to mind.

“Anything else?” I prompted uneasily.

“Yeah. Why would you want to protect me when you hardly know me? What about me could possibly be worth going out of your way for?” He didn’t sound angry. More like he really didn’t understand why I’d bother, when I had already seen plenty about him that was worth watching over.

It was an easy question to answer.

“You wanted to save me yesterday, before you realized I was dead. Even though you didn’t know me,” I said without hesitating. “You were nice to my friend when you didn’t have to be. You have a lot more respect for the spirits here than the last two guys combined, even if you are carrying just as much ammo. And . . . nobody protected me from whatever killed me here. I just really don’t want to see it happen again.”

Not quite able to interpret the look on his narrow face or the grim set of his mouth, I added into the strained quiet: “And I came up with a plan for if I start feeling a little restless. I’ll disappear for a bit, go hang out in Síofra’s room until it passes so I won’t cause any accidental harm or pull your hair again. And by the way, you should let Síofra brush out those tangles for you. You might be surprised, but she’s really gentle.”

“Eric—?” Raff said my name as if he meant to ask something else, stopped himself, and dropped his hand off the weapon at his hip. Lacing his fingers together in front of him, he fixed me at the center of those intense green eyes and said, “I think that’s enough ground rules. You help me, I don’t zap you—we’ll leave it at that. The dog likes you, you know.”

“The demon?” I asked, confused again. When did the living get so complicated?

“What demon? I meant little Pepper.” Raff blinked at me, shook his head, and gestured with one broad hand around the castle at large. “We’d better get on with it, so lead the way. Past midnight, I might turn into a pumpkin.”

We started in the kitchen, which had been a source of so much calamity yesterday. My fellow lodger, Chef Máirtín, had been in rare form with the arrival of a grocery delivery in the morning, combined with the energy of someone new in the castle. He hadn’t budged from his post in three hundred years, and had no intention of taking a demotion now.

He had breathed down the necks of the new chef and her staff for the past several weeks as they tried to get organized, making his opinions known wherever possible.

Tonight, the energy in the castle itself felt almost dormant, as if everyone needed to recharge after so much intense activity. Even Raff’s energy was different, perhaps steadier—though whenever I got too close, it still crackled against mine in a way that would have knocked the breath right out of me if I were alive.

He took a seat on one of the stools tucked under the newly renovated kitchen’s generous island and cracked open his notebook. I liked that he didn’t reach for a weapon, not even when a cast-iron pan left out on the gas range began to rattle. Not even when the pasta bags in the pantry began to rustle and sauce jars clinked together like someone sought a missing ingredient.

“Chef Máirtín was hired after the lord at the time killed the guy who let that poisoned stew be served on Síofra’s table,” I explained quietly near Raff’s ear, unwilling to disturb the old chef until he was ready to appear. “He was known—is known, I guess—for his experimental recipes like salmon-stuffed turnips and whiskey-flambéed cabbage.”

Raff grimaced at the sound of those meals, then rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Perhaps hovering so close sent shivers down his spine. Well, it felt like his presence was rearranging every atom of my being, so I’d call us even.