Page 32 of How I Met Your Murderer

I knew Eric was trying to catch my eye, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet his gaze. Even if he had been alive, it wouldn’t have changed the fact that he deserved better than the likes of me, no matter what he had wished for.

In the kitchen, the cooks had apparently finished prepping and all gone home, but Caoimhe lingered with Basil and Jordy and the dark-haired woman who must be the head chef. As they often did when confronted with so many of the living, Eric and Máirtín vanished just before Caoimhe and the others glanced up from the menu they were reviewing.

“Raff,” Caoimhe greeted neutrally, her pale blue eyes sweeping over me in an assessing glance. I must have looked banjaxed altogether, just like I felt, because she pursed her lips and exchanged a quick glance with Jordy. “Why don’t you call it a night, make sure you’re rested for the main event tomorrow? You’ve been working awfully hard lately, and nothing’s going to happen tonight that can’t be fixed in the morning before the guests arrive.”

I darted a glance at the small screen of the SpecterTrack, a device about the size of a cell phone, which displayed the time. It wasn’t yet six, and I was being dismissed.

I didn’t argue, even though it meant losing one of my few remaining nights with Eric. Come Halloween, whether the place was haunted or not, the Dolans would no longer pay for my services. And it wasn’t like Eric could just hop in the van with me. Spirits were, as they taught us in training, bound to the place where they died. And nothing I had experienced thus far in this job convinced me otherwise.

One way or another, we would be moving in separate directions soon enough. Better not to get used to anything different.

Caoimhe gave me a few instructions, which I tried to focus on: Dress sharp (suit and tie—this was a Very Important Crowd). Come armed and anticipating a major disaster. Apparently, I’d have the crowd’s full attention while I went over a list of ground rules I had designed to keep the peace between the living and the dead. Then I was to retreat to the kitchen where I could help myself to any of the dishes the waitstaff would be serving.

Out of sight but close at hand, just in case someone on either side broke those rules.

So much rested on my shoulders. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt—not the living who were, however unknowingly, trusting me with their safety, and not the spirits I was starting to know and, for the most part, respect. I wanted this to be a success for the Dolans.

I wanted . . .

I really wanted to kiss Eric, too. So much so that if the chance presented itself again, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist, no matter the consequences.

I thought I’d hit rock bottom before coming to Ardruin, but now I understood that I wasn’t even there yet. One way or another, it was going to be a long and painful fall.

twelve

Knock ’Em Dead

Raff

It was clear October had officially claimed the castle by the time the sun had dipped behind the distant dark hills. The remaining pools of light congealing on the stone walls in vivid shades of red and scarlet were as dark and deep as the ground had once been in Jordy’s tales, and it was easy to imagine the myriad battles that had once been fought here.

I had slept so late that I barely managed to finish getting ready in the bathroom off the parlor before the first guests arrived. With steam still fogging the mirror, I tucked my protective pendant under my crisp white collar and did up the buttons to hide it. Then I ran a hand through my wet, ruddy curls, adjusted the cuffs of my rental suit that was slightly too tight across my back, and tried not to think about how ridiculous I felt in such a costume.

As I headed to the foyer, where I had been assigned to wait and greet everyone with the rest of the castle staff, Eric’s voice had whispered into the curve of my ear, “Hey now, All Star. You look like you just rolled a nat 20 on Charisma.”

But he hadn’t actually appeared, not with so many of the living about, which left me to continue the walk alone with a heavy heart and a head full of reasons why it was for the best that we hadn’t kissed yesterday.

The wind poured in hard off the Atlantic tonight, even this far inland. It rattled the windows and sent a low moan through the restored battlements strung with twinkling orange fairy lights. It had been a deceptively clear day when I woke: a crisp blue sky with a few clouds like lazy, puffy sheep drifting past. But now gusts slapped at the black-and-orange banners draped over every entryway for the banquet, making them snap like warning flags as guests skittered past while clutching their hair or their bags or someone else’s hand, as if they feared blowing away. The air had that sharp, early autumn bite that promised rain even if the sky hadn’t yet committed to it, and I shivered from my post in the foyer even though the S-TRK 88 “SpecterTrack” Monitor in the pocket of my dress slacks wasn’t giving me any alerts.

There were no spirits in the area—at least, none trying to manifest. This was an all-natural kind of cold, one the guests kept ushering in every time someone new opened the door.

I exchanged a glance with the ancient suit of armor standing next to me. He wore a pointed black witch’s hat and a string of flashing pumpkin lights as a necklace for the occasion. Behind his metal mask, he appeared utterly unphased as influencers, food bloggers, and beloved regional chefs poured in by the dozen, a hundred bodies in curated outfits showing off curated personalities for the evening.

It seemed to me like each one was buzzing with the thrill of exclusivity. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline that came from stepping into a place like Ardruin, where the shadows were solid and took something from you with each breath. Something even I hadn’t figured out how to name in my time here.

As I watched the guests stream in, I supposed Caoimhe must have sent out some kind of Halloween-in-the-Middle-Ages costume brief with the invites, because each attendee had committed to the theme. If only Síofra was here to admire the latest fashions—I hoped she at least wandered through the castle’s many mirrors, taking in the show.

A Chinese lifestyle and travel blogger wore a velvet gown the color of dried blood, with jewelry to match—scarlet gems dripping down her throat, as if it had been sliced open. A pair of fitness influencers—young, fit brothers who I vaguely recognized as local—wore matching faux-chainmail shirts. Trailing the fitness gurus, a beauty vlogger floated past me in a gown of layered black tulle, her deep brown skin painted with a delicate skeletal filigree that shimmered gold under the foyer’s massive chandelier. There was even a celebrity chef who had opted for a monk’s robe—but slit up the thigh, and paired with designer heels that looked sharp enough to kill. If I knew anything about him from our nightly read-alouds, Brother Fintan probably would have liked a pair of those heels for himself.

As the minor celebrities breezed past me like I was just another festive suit of armor, leaving me in a cloud of perfume and photo flashes and exaggerated laughter, I couldn’t help thinking of Eric and a cup of tea on the balcony. Of the simplicity of not pretending to be anything other than unremarkable me, somehow feeling so at home in my skin and so seen at the same time. And not just seen, but admired more often than the stars, even when they put on a show. Like the real Raff O’Meara was something worth looking at.

I didn’t understand how these people could play a role so often and not be exhausted.

But then, I was making minimum wage trying to clean ghosts out of a castle with a bunch of weapons that were mainly for show, so clearly I was in no position to judge.

Another damp gust of night air preceded the Dolans finally making their grand entrance, looking more like they were arriving at a royal gala than their money-pit of a business.

Caoimhe swept in first to the clatter of phones being whipped out for Stories and livestreams, her pointed chin held high, her gown a structured emerald thing that resembled shimmering, shifting serpent’s scales. Her ash blond hair was sculpted into glossy curls, and she carried herself with the brittle poise of someone who expected the night to go terribly wrong and wanted everyone to know it wouldn’t be her fault.