Page 39 of How I Met Your Murderer

Eric’s eyes widened as I went on listing all the bird calls I could remember him copying. “You . . . you noticed.”

“Of course I noticed.” Another sip—as Eric had said himself, for courage.

“I notice all kinds of things about you. I notice that you hate the foyer as much as I do. I notice that you always point out Casseopeia first when we sit on the balcony, probably because it’s your favorite, but you also have a soft spot for Lyra, and you can find Cygnus without even looking straight at it. I notice that you dote on Pepper even though he scares you. I notice that you always say ‘ignore me’ when you’re starting to think of ideas, even though I damn well would never do that because everything you say is worth a listen. I notice that you sometimes can’t remember which other spirits we talked to yesterday, but you can remember all your favorite lines from books you read years ago. I notice how you love to talk with your hands. I notice that you taught yourself to read tea leaves just to make Síofra happy, because that’s the kind of friend you are. I notice that you have strong opinions about boy bands for someone who claims he can’t stand them. I notice that when you’re upset, your accent gets thicker and your r’s disappear. I notice that you talk about your sisters like they hung the moon. I notice that when I pay you a compliment, you always look a little more solid, like no one’s bothered giving you many of those before—but that has to be wrong, because anyone who’s known you for even just a month would surely be singing your praises at least as often as this thick-headed lad from the country. You deserve every lovely word in the world I can think of, and then some.”

“You’re drunk,” Eric said softly, his voice as rough as if he were on the verge of tears.

“Not too drunk to mean all of it,” I told him, catching his glistening eyes because, no matter what happened next, I needed him to know that.

And I think he did. He was the only reason I made it through the next hour until the guests departed. The cold glass of water he brought me, and his cold touch on my forehead. And maybe a few softly hummed bars of “All Star.”

Still, even after the water, walking all the way to the van seemed like such an incredible effort. At Caoimhe’s request, I was to be the last one to leave after she and Jordy finally called it a night, but I wasn’t ready to step out of Eric’s company just yet.

Even if I was so drunk that I sat down to rest my knee for a moment and immediately started dozing off in a high-backed chair in the foyer, right on top of a few pieces of glittering bat confetti.

Someone draped a blanket around my shoulders to shield me from the deepening chill, and I fell asleep to a familiar voice whose words also filled me with warmth. “I notice that you shift your weight off your bad leg without thinking. I notice how your accent gets stronger when you’re mad or sad or tired. I notice the doodles in the margins of your notebooks—the constellations, the little ghosts, the castle floor plans. The sausage dogs. I notice that you’re way more creative than you give yourself credit for—and the most thoughtful listener. No one else has bothered learning the stories of every ghost in this place, or come up with so many ideas to keep the peace. That’s all from your head. From a good heart. I notice the gentleness in you, the way you treat the world like it’s worth tending. I notice your dreams . . . the way you look at the stars like you’re watching something you haven’t lived yet . . . how you underline favorite quotes when you read . . . that you’re the first to help, the last to complain . . .”

fourteen

Scritch-Scratch

Raff

Islept like the dead, snuggled into that blanket. At least until Eric’s urgent voice started shouting in my ear, begging me to wake up, get up, Raff oh God please there’s no time—

Bolting upright, I shrugged off the blanket and tried to stagger to my feet. Big mistake. My head spun. I needed another glass of water, and probably some greasy breakfast. But what I got was an empty foyer thick with the castle’s usual oppressive gloom, the faint scent of spilled wine, and Eric appearing in front of me in a rush of cold air and desperation.

“Intruders. Two of them,” he said, his voice low and clipped. “They hid out after the banquet—or slipped in when the guests were leaving, I think. They’re tearing through the castle looking for that stupid treasure . . .”

Dimly, I recalled Jordy saying something about hidden treasure once when he was educating me on the castle’s history.

“And no one’s scared them off yet?” I asked, finally climbing to my feet—even if I had to grip the back of the chair for support.

Eric noticed, like he always noticed the little things, and frowned. “Just me and Gráinne,” he answered quickly. “And you need to get out of here. Now. They have a knife, and I think trying to run them off has only made them more . . . defensive.”

From the darkness of the hall came a scuff, like a boot on stonework.

Before I could react, or really even process what Eric was saying, two men stepped into the foyer—jumpy, sweating, pale eyes darting about. One held a flashlight that looked expensive, and the other gripped what might be a hunting knife.

I turned slowly to face them, palms open. “Lads, you can’t be here. This is private property. If you head for the door now, I’ll just assume you were drunk and had a hard time finding your way back to your car after the banquet. I won’t breathe a word of it to the—”

“Drop the weapons!”

Knife-guy’s wild-eyed gaze had landed on my belt. My suit jacket had gotten caught on the massive and awkward PolterPulse V2.1, leaving the clunky device mostly exposed. Now he was clocking the Turbo Pro and all the other gear I was wearing—the lights, and the many little beeps as Eric’s presence registered on the SpecterTrack.

He thought I was wearing guns and ammo. Illegal, dangerous things. I could see it as his face twisted.

“Look,” I said as calmly as I could, “these aren’t what—”

The man lunged. He wasn’t quite as big as me, but with a knee that wasn’t what it used to be, the impact was still enough to knock me backward. At least I was able to take him crashing to the cold floor with me, my arm wrapped around his thick neck in a headlock.

As we slammed into the ground, the breath coughed out of my lungs in a great rush. But there was no time to flounder and gasp as the man’s friend rushed toward us, shouting profanities. I scrambled upright just in time to grab his wrist, muscles straining as I fought to keep the blade away from my ribs. My knee buckled under the angle at which I was contorted, the pain flaring white-hot.

The knife dipped closer, and I wanted to look around for Eric but I couldn’t.

I wanted to tell him I was sorry for letting everyone down like this.

Then—