Page 33 of How I Met Your Murderer

She shot me a withering look of warning—as if the ghosts’ behavior was somehow solely my responsibility—as she followed the torchlights and electric sconces disguised as medieval lanterns into the noisy dining hall, where shrieks of recognition greeted her.

Jordy ambled in next, not really watching his path and nearly bumping into the actual suit of armor. He seemed to be looking for someone, probably Basil, who was also here as an honored guest tonight after all his hard work. The friendlier Dolan wore a slightly wrinkled black suit jacket over a Halloween-themed button-down covered in tiny ghosts. Of course. I couldn’t help but catch his eye and grin, which he returned. He looked like he’d gotten dressed in the dark and was perfectly content with that, which I respected.

“I just saw Basil head to the kitchen for a bite,” I told him in a low voice, so the photographer at his elbow wouldn’t intrude on private matters. “He has ghosts on his tie, and by the way he was looking at you when you first walked in, I’m also guessing he’s hungry for more than just a snack, if you get me.”

Jordy’s blue eyes widened, then swiftly narrowed with determination. “Right, then. Let’s go, wingman.” And with that, he grabbed my arm and tugged me along.

I kept my head down, hoping I wouldn’t get caught in too many photos that would later be captioned “Local Lad Forgets His Place in Society” and “Fella from the Back Road Turns Up to Castle in a Suit; Neighbors Say It’s the Scariest Thing They’ve Seen All Halloween.” Pepper trotted faithfully at our heels as we pushed through the crowded hall, though the tiny dog paused once or twice to scent the air, as if hoping to detect Eric. Strangely, Pepper sported both a red bowtie and a skull-print bandana.

“Caoimhe and I couldn’t agree on his outfit,” Jordy sighed near my ear. “I had a dragon costume picked out, but then she tried to put him in a tux, and . . . yeah. This was the compromise, though I don’t think either of us is very happy with it. Pepper looks like he wants to know if he can do your taxes so he has enough money to get another motorbike, or a tattoo.”

I chuckled as Jordy held the kitchen door open. But as soon as we had entered and gained the relative quiet of the place, Caoimhe appeared, sweeping Jordy off before he had a chance to talk to Basil. I supposed she needed his help running the show.

I waved to a few of the assistant chefs I’d come to recognize over the past weeks as I waded deeper into the kitchen, shaking my head at an offer of a toast point with some kind of hot dip on it. I was too nervous to eat anything yet, when I didn’t know how the lodgers—but, in particular, Chef Máirtín—were going to play this night.

Patting the weapons that my suit jacket hid, just to reassure myself they were still there, I took a moment to breathe. The staff here were in full controlled-chaos mode, but at least they weren’t bragging about subscriber counts or trying to film me without permission.

Head clear—or at least as clear as it was going to get for now—I got to work setting out offerings for Chef Máirtín. Unscrewing jars of seasoning, setting up a few copper pots and baking trays and even half a ham, I was determined to keep him happily distracted and focused on his experiments so he wouldn’t torment the living chef and waitstaff.

Máirtín loved chaos, but Máirtín also loved a good curry.

As I set things on a sliver of unused counter space, trying to stay out of the way of people who were much busier than me, I kept glancing over my shoulder. I half-hoped, half-dreaded Eric appearing, even though I knew he’d never risk it. Too much noise. Too many eyes. Too many hearts that might stop at the sight of a ghost, however beautiful or polite or well-intentioned he was.

I was about to sneak a turkey leg off a platter as another diversion for Máirtín (whenever he finally started manifesting) when the air just behind me shifted. Not cold, exactly, and definitely not warm—but aware. Uncanny.

“Looking for someone?” Eric’s voice was right at my shoulder, low and amused.

I turned, turkey leg in hand, intending to whisper a reply when I didn’t think anyone was looking . . . and my breath caught.

Eric wasn’t hazy or flickering or half-there like usual. He was at his most solid, like the night we had met. Like the times I told him he was cool or paid him a compliment that gave him a gentle sort of glow. But this was almost more. His sleek black hair looked touchable again, the crescent-shaped scar under his eye was pink and shiny, his golden skin seemed fresh from a day in the sun. Even his jeans had texture. And his eyes—hazel, like a forest glen caught in sunbeams—were bright and alive in a way I had never before seen.

If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he had a pulse.

I could even see the delicate fuzz of hair on his arm where the cuff of one of his sleeves had ridden up without him noticing.

None of the cooks or waitstaff reacted. No one spared us more than a passing glance, the same they gave every guest who poked their head in. Eric might as well have been another of the castle staff leaning against the counter, except that he looked a bit like he owned the place.

My stomach fluttered with a rush of excitement. Thanks to his realistic manifestation, we could actually spend the better part of the night together and not earn a single odd look—well, unless someone took offense that we weren’t in costume, or paused to notice the differences between us, how he was slim and petite where I was tall and broad. The brawny athlete and the brilliant lad who complemented him in every way.

“You’re . . . you’re really here, then,” I said, fumbling for words like an eejit.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Eric stepped closer, sweeping his gaze over my rented suit appreciatively. “Well. For you I would.” Reaching up, he wrapped one of my curls around his finger. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice warm enough to melt butter even though his touch was like ice. “That suit fits like it was made for you. You look incredible.” Heat crept up my neck as he went on: “With those guns under your jacket, you look like you just stepped off the set of Men in Black. What, you don’t know it?” he added, brows furrowing as he clocked my look of bewilderment. “Come on, it’s a classic!”

“Says the guy who’s never seen Jurassic Park,” I scoffed.

“Dinosaurs are fucking huge! Bigger than you, even. And they’re always hungry!” Eric exclaimed, loud enough to earn a curious glance for the first time. He continued, softer, “But I bet you’d walk right up to one and punch it on the nose if it threatened to eat me.”

“Guilty,” I admitted freely on an exhale.

“You already give me so much,” he said, stepping so close that my hands came up and slid around either side of his waist without a second thought. There was something in his tone—a certainty, a hunger, a decision—that made my pulse stutter. Like whatever line we’d been dancing back and forth across had dissolved overnight.

Like there was no path back to the place where we were before.

I swallowed hard, trying to regain focus. To ground myself on the task at hand when everyone’s safety depended on me tonight. “I . . . haven’t seen Máirtín yet tonight. Strange, isn’t it? After the way he was going on about the roast cock-thing yesterday, I was assuming we’d at least have some phantom smells in here, or a few toppled pantry shelves.”

“Cockatrice. No, sorry—cockentrice. I swear he made that up.” Eric tipped his head back and met my gaze, thoughtful. “But you’re right. It’s odd.”

“You don’t think . . . the other spirits are planning something? Some way to disrupt the banquet?” Visions of my first night in the castle flashed to mind: a rotting face in the mirror, the lights tripping like I was in a club, the furniture scraping wildly across the floorboards.