Page 10 of How I Met Your Murderer

“You can try, if you want to,” the man said, smiling a little sadly.

It was kind of an odd thing to say, but for all I knew, he’d had a vision of his death in here, too. It was clearly a dangerous place, beyond anything I’d dealt with or had described to me in training.

“I will, you’ll see!” I insisted, raising my voice over another unearthly clatter—every single pot and pan in the kitchen tossed down that unseen staircase, maybe. “Come now, stick close to me. I’m going to take you through the foyer, but not directly across—stay against the wall there until we reach the front door. Then we’ll make a run for my van or your car, whatever’s closest, and I’ll get you sorted.”

I reached out with my free hand, intending to take his so that the ghost couldn’t drag him away from me. If it could stir up this much activity at once, there was no telling what else it was capable of.

At first, my mind couldn’t process what it meant that my fingers passed right through his, and that what should have been a warm palm was actually a pocket of cold air rather than the hand of the solid-looking man in front of me. I was so confused that I tried a second time, while the man just looked sadder at the next failed attempt. Sadder, and paler, the faint outline of the stairs becoming visible through his torso. My gut twisted as the realization sank in.

I straightened and stepped back, adjusting my finger on the trigger of the PolterPulse. “What do you want?” I demanded in a voice as cold as my chilled hands. “What are you playing at? Trying to frighten me off with an orchestra of shite?”

“No,” the man protested quickly. “No, not at all. If I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have put this much energy into saying hi face to face.” He grew a bit more substantial again as he spoke, the stairs behind him disappearing. “I’m trying to protect you. That’s all I want, I swear.” He held up his hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender. “The others get a little . . . overexcited, and start showing off whenever anyone new turns up. It’s a lot, I know, but they can’t keep it up for long.”

Others—plural. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t dealing with a Level Five, but a castle full of spirits. Many spirits, judging by the state of things. But this solid-ish, clear-voiced man in front of me had to be at least a Level Four, a spirit capable of powerful manifestation that could be detected without any sort of equipment.

I was still trying to process all this when he spoke again: “I’m sorry about earlier—with your hair and the pin, by the way. I can get a little carried away, too. But I promise it won’t happen again. I . . . I’m Eric.”

“Wish I could say it’s lovely to meet you, Eric,” I said slowly, holding the PolterPulse level but not aimed at him. Yet. I should have. I should have already had it pointed right at his chest, but I didn’t, and I wasn’t sure what stopped me. Certainly not those doe-like hazel eyes, because that would be mad as a bag of frogs. “But given present circumstances . . .” I pressed my lips together and huffed a sigh through my nose, searching for my earlier sense of calm as my pulse tapped an urgent rhythm under my skin. “Can you call them off? At least cut the act with the lights before I puke?”

Before he could answer, the book I’d been reading soared down the stairs and fluttered straight through Eric’s head, striking me square in the chest.

All the lights that had been pulsing on and off went dead, plunging us into darkness. All was silent, too, until—

“Oh, The Minstrel’s Kiss. I loved that one!” came an annoying American voice from somewhere close by.

I ignored him. I was here to do a job, and whatever spirit had hurled a book at me had just made themselves my primary target. My knee protested a little as I felt my way up the stairs in total darkness with the help of the rail. I had hoped there would at least be some light streaming in from outside—it was a clear night, the windows were high and wide, and the moon was waxing—but as usual, the castle clutched its shadows close and blotted any intruding stars.

All of a sudden, Eric was in front of me again, rematerializing a few stairs above. Much more insubstantial this time, like a filmy white shirt, but I recognized the shape of his face and the wisps of his long hair. He had probably used up most of his energy appearing so solid earlier.

Even his voice was fainter, an eerie echo in the uneasy quiet. “I can’t let you go back up there. It—it’s not safe. That’s Lady Síofra manifesting. She’s my friend, but on nights like this, she gets a little . . . well. You heard about the mirrors.”

I climbed another step. He held his ground, eyes steady on mine as he spread his arms wide. Was he going to try to stop me?

“First, you don’t want me to go downstairs,” I said, tired of all of this. “Now, you don’t want me to go up. Am I supposed to sit here on this landing all night with you as my babysitter?” When he frowned and didn’t answer, I bristled, taking that as confirmation. “You know, for a dead Yank who’s a long way from home, you seem to think you have a lot of authority here.”

“Yank?”

“Fecking American.”

“Bostonian, if you want specifics,” came Eric’s soft reply.

“I don’t. I just want you out of my way,” I snapped, climbing until he was just one step above me. I was taller than him, and bigger, so even though he was the untouchable one, I wasn’t intimidated as I leaned into his ephemeral face and demanded, “Move aside.”

“Where are you from?” Eric asked with what sounded like sincere curiosity, the words a little clearer this time. “Here? The village?”

“Killorglin.” I wasn’t even sure why I answered. “The sweet banks of the River Laune.”

“I’ve heard of it! They have the Puck Fair, right? Have they ever made you King Puck? What’s the audition process like?”

Part of me wanted to laugh. My fool mouth even turned up in a grin, forgetting to be irritated for a moment. Someone ought to tell Eric how bad he was at stalling for time. He was trying to distract me still, but the more he attempted small talk, the more I wanted to know what he didn’t want me to see upstairs.

“The king is a mountain goat,” I explained as I raised the PolterPulse V2.1 and zapped him directly in the chest with a bolt of neon blue light.

He dissipated immediately, without even a gasp of surprise.

And although I had gotten what I wanted—no more dead tourist trying to have a bit of a chat and the way forward now clear—a tiny part of me regretted what I had just done. Eric had said he was only trying to protect me, and he had even apologized about my pin. There was also something familiar about that hair, those eyes, those lips, his face . . . Maybe, if I’d spent a little longer with him, it would have clicked into place.

Upstairs, someone started singing. Wordless, high, and sweet.