Page 34 of How I Met Your Murderer

Eric bit his bottom lip, a thing he did when he was thinking. It was a distractingly plush lip, one I’d come so close to catching between my teeth yesterday. “Honestly,” he said after a moment, “I don’t feel much of anything from the others right now. I mean, it’s a little chaotic in here, so it’s hard to say. Mostly, I feel . . . alive again. I feel you.”

He shivered a little in my hold, like my hands on his waist had something to do with that. Like he wanted me to keep staking my claim on him.

The kitchen door swung open every few seconds as servers rushed in and out, carrying trays of spiced pumpkin soup, roasted root vegetables, and the first round of mulled cider. Each time the door opened, a wave of noise crashed in from the great hall—laughter, clinking glasses, someone shouting “Tag me in that!” over the period-appropriate lute music that Caoimhe had piped in through the new sound system.

But it all faded to background noise as Eric held my gaze, so sure and unafraid. He was smarter than me—did he see an end to this that I couldn’t? Or was a month together (at best) worth the pain of a lifetime apart? Maybe time was so different as a ghost that it didn’t matter to him the way it did to me.

The line might have disappeared for him, but for me, it was still there—however faint. If I crossed it, if we kissed, if we let this be something more . . . I would miss him infinitely one day soon, and no matter how strong Eric insisted I was, I didn’t think I could handle that.

I also wasn’t ready for what I needed to do next. I’d come to Ardruin armed to the teeth, full of useless knowledge, and completely unprepared for the possibility of him.

The world narrowed to the sunlit glen of his eyes. “Eric, I’ve no way with words at all, but we need to talk. Later, after the party’s through. Because I feel it, too, this thing between us that’s different now, and—”

“Raff! We’re ready for you in the hall!” Jordy called cheerfully, cutting me off as he breezed into the kitchen and sending Eric and I scattering apart. The laidback Dolan sibling sounded slightly buzzed already, and sure enough, smelled of Jameson. “Caoimhe says you’re up—time to go say the rules thing! And make it spooky—this crowd wants a chill, like.”

“Right,” I said tightly as Jordy put a hand on my arm and steered me toward the dining hall. “The rules thing. Spooky.”

I glanced back over my shoulder to find Eric still standing at the counter. He gave me a soft, crooked smile—the kind that warned we weren’t about to pretend this didn’t happen. That we were going to pick it up later, just like I’d said.

“Knock ’em dead, All Star,” he said, touching two fingers to his brow in a salute.

“Later,” I mouthed. A promise.

I tried not to think about how badly I wanted to kiss him. Tried to ignore the growing knot in my stomach as I thought about that talk later and how it might go, all while smoothing my jacket and keeping pace with a slightly erratic Jordy. Of course, I didn’t really want to think about a hundred influencers staring me down, either.

As I grabbed the folded piece of torn notebook paper on which I’d written my guidelines for Céad Míle Fáilte’s inaugural dinner, I glanced around the crowded banquet hall and, for the first time, truly appreciated Caoimhe’s vision.

Halloween decorations had been layered onto the castle’s natural gloom. Cobwebs, some real and some very much not, stretched across exposed beams and clung to corners. Flickering jack-o’-lanterns perched on stone ledges, leering at the guests, while large black skull candles on every table dripped wax like melted obsidian. A fake skeleton slumped in a chair by the hearth, its bony hand clutching a goblet from which it would never sip.

Jordy steered me to the front of the room with a hand on my shoulder, and introduced me as “Our resident ghost expert, here to share with you some tips that will keep you safe for the duration of your stay.” All that was missing was a shrill cackle to follow it up.

Instead, the influencers and media folks gave some polite, if skeptical, applause. One whistled. A few were filming.

I hoped Eric could hear me from the kitchen as I started reading out the list, because thinking about how these rules would make him laugh inspired me to keep going even with so many strangers watching. His laughter had fast become one of my favorite sounds, one I hoped I would still get to hear after we talked, even if I didn’t deserve it.

I wasn’t scared of ghosts, at least not most of the time—but I was scared of losing one.

“Rule number one,” I read out, not having to fake the tremor in my voice. “Don’t leave an empty chair facing the head of the table. An unclaimed seat is an open door: Ardruin’s oldest ghost—Brother Fintan—will take it, and once seated, he will not rise until he’s taken one of you with him.”

I couldn’t see Eric from here, but I could picture him rolling his eyes. Brother Fintan, with his love of fashion and books with happy endings, wouldn’t hurt a venomous spider even if his life depended on it.

“Rule number two,” I went on, watching the candlelight dance over the many shadowy faces turned in my direction, but not making eye contact with any one in particular. “Don’t speak the name of anyone who died here unless you’d like them to sit with you. Names are like lanterns in the dark—speak one aloud, and its owner will follow the sound back to you.”

A few folks shifted uneasily in their seats. Curious as to how my performance was being received, I caught Caoimhe’s eye at the nearest table, and her lips twitched into a small grin of approval.

Right then. Might as well act the part. “Rule three,” I intoned ominously, “is simple. Do not allow a candle to burn all the way down. The moment the wick dies, something else is permitted to breathe again.”

Even Jordy nervously regarded the closest candle at that, and so did I when I followed his gaze. It was one shaped like a skull—after what had happened with the flame in the parlor, I was never going to look at Halloween decorations the same way again. And even though I didn’t see any faces in the glow, I was afraid that if I looked too long, that might change.

“Rule four,” I went on to distract myself. “Don’t acknowledge the cold spot behind your chair. It’s not a draft. It’s a listener. And it hates being noticed.”

That wasn’t true, either. I might not see or sense any of them manifesting in the room with us right now, but Síofra loved attention and flattery from anyone alive or dead. Gráinne relished any kind of reaction she could get from one of the living, especially if it involved biting them. Muireann craved an audience for her music, and even grouchy old Liam, who had a never-ending list of complaints about the living, liked for someone to listen when he told his big fish tales.

“Rule five,” I hurried on, hoping my face wouldn’t betray how silly I found that last one. “Do not thank the unseen hand that pours your wine. Politeness is binding. If you thank it, it will believe it owes you continued service . . . long after the banquet ends.”

I could practically hear Eric’s snicker as he contemplated poor, drunk, unaware Fiachra managing to follow anyone home to haunt them. They’d wake up to a bunch of smashed glassware and the odd cold spot, but they’d hardly be in mortal danger.

Of course, these rules weren’t meant as a literal guide—they were designed to scare the living out of doing anything stupid at all. To frighten them into taking unnecessary precautions, because the dead were unpredictable.