Page 12 of How I Met Your Murderer

six

All Star

Raff

After staring for another stunned moment at the wreckage of the mirror I had broken—no, we had broken—I spun to face Eric.

He was visible again, only just. A transparent but distinct figure staring daggers at me, his arms crossed, hands buried in the long sleeves of his rugby polo. Bet he never even played. Not with a nose that straight and lovely.

“Are you going to split the bad luck with me, then? Three and a half years each?” I demanded. “Better yet, are you going to be the one to tell Caoimhe that she has to buy another period-appropriate mirror for this bedroom?”

“Oh, who cares?” sighed a soft rasp of a voice in Irish.

In the far corner of the room, Lady Síofra sat in the armchair with her hands folded primly in her lap, no longer skeletal or decaying or covered in bloody sores. Like Eric, she was currently somewhat transparent, but I could make out the pearlescent pins that held her shiny coils of hair on top of her head, the arc of her long eyelashes, the bow of her thin lips neatly painted with some kind of rouge. Strings of pearls and long strands of other gems draped her swanlike neck, marking her high-ranked status even to my uneducated eye.

“She never lets me keep things as I used to have them, anyway,” Síofra went on, heated annoyance sparking in her voice. “And now she wants to let strangers sleep where I used to, as though I was never here? Why should we bother with what she desires?”

“She’s not so bad,” I answered in English, glancing pointedly at Eric. “Caoimhe, I mean. She really cares about this place in her way. You could try being nicer to the Dolans.”

Síofra followed my lead, switching to heavily accented English with an apologetic look at Eric. Her obvious care for someone other than herself had me slightly more willing to forgive the mirror incident. “It’s not that I’m not nice,” she insisted, leaning forward slightly on her knees in the old chair. “This was my home. It still is. I take pride in it, too. You see, I used to be trapped in mirrors. Or surfaces. Glass, puddles, polished silver. One of my rivals in court, an . . . ex-lover—Eric taught me that term—poisoned me because she thought I was too vain, and had convinced herself that was why I had ended things between us. Afraid not. It had everything to do with her own infidelity.”

Well, that explained her shocking appearance in the mirror earlier—probably side effects of whatever poison had gotten her in the end.

The ghost closed her eyes for a moment, like the memory still held an echo of pain. “A few years ago,” she went on after the pause, “I discovered how to break free of the glass. I’m stronger now. But sometimes, I’m not in control of everything I do. I get these mad bursts of energy, and act in ways I wouldn’t ordinarily dream of . . .” Once again, she looked to Eric. “Am I making sense?”

Eric nodded, darting another glance at me as he said, “Oh, yeah. That’s how it was earlier, Raff, when I stole your pin. It was like . . . I knew it was wrong, but I still couldn’t help myself. What do the ghost removal experts say about that?”

“It’s ‘spiritual extraction expert,’” I corrected without a second thought.

Eric arched a dark brow. “Whatever you say, King Puck. Anyway, is that just part of being dead? It’s not like we can just wander into the village and ask someone. Or post online ‘Am I the asshole for accidentally using my ghostly powers to startle people?’”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, trying to recall whether The Handbook mentioned anything about ghosts not always feeling like themselves. “If I learn anything about, um, spirit urges, you’ll be the first one I tell.”

Eric hummed, a satisfied sound. “Good. Thank you. That’s the least you can do after zapping my friend. And me. Oh, and calling me a Yank. It sounds like the bad sex our grandparents used to have. Or an STD.”

“They have those back in your day?” Damned if I couldn’t resist a bit of craic, even when I was bantering with a dead man.

Looking between us, Síofra pursed her lips, as if holding in a laugh.

“I died in 2009, not the Middle Ages,” Eric retorted, sweeping a hand over his tight, modern jeans. “I mean, look at me.”

It was hard not to, at least while I was still trying to figure out why he appeared to be somewhat familiar. Then I’d stop looking so much.

“We had plenty of what you call ‘STDs’ in the Middle Ages,” Síofra added cheerfully, like she was keen to have something to contribute. “Likely more than you have now. I’ve seen how often people wash their hands and bathe these days.”

“What was—?” Eric started to ask before he seemed to think the better of it and held up a hand. “You know what, Shee, don’t tell me. I’m happier not knowing.”

While they were talking, I dredged up a few words that seemed important to say sooner rather than later. “Tá brón orm. I’m sorry for calling you a Yank.”

Eric tilted his head and blinked at me. “Go on. Keep sweet-talking like this and you just might get to see my tattoo later. If you’re into that kind of thing. And for zapping us . . .?”

“Don’t push your luck,” I grumbled, but with no real heat behind it.

“That’s all right, Raff dear,” Síofra said gently. Her energy must have been waning, as I could barely make out the wisp of her form anymore, but her voice was still clear. “That was a horrible display, and you were merely protecting yourself. No . . . hard feelings, as I believe Eric would say.”

I nodded my thanks for her understanding.

The truth was, I just wanted to keep talking to both of them. This was the longest I had ever spoken to a spirit, and the most grounded in reality any of them had seemed. “Look, as you said yourself, Eric—this is a lot.” I swept a hand to indicate the whole castle, not just the room we were in. “I was more freaked out than I looked, and you were in my way.”