Page 22 of How I Met Your Murderer

Besides, my job wasn’t something I talked about much when I went home. My parents were so proud of my sisters, with their careers in law and banking and medicine—I was used to holding back while my parents highlighted every single one of their recent achievements like they wished I’d take the hint. Used to not being enough for them to take me seriously with my work, no matter how hard I tried to prove that I should be. No matter what I achieved.

Raff cleared his throat, his expression turning thoughtful the longer he watched me. “You know, most people never get anywhere close to doing the thing they love. But you did. That says a lot about you. That’s massive. I was trying to pay you a compliment, asking about your work. I didn’t mean any offense.”

“Crown could have been even bigger if I’d had more time with it,” I offered as I pulled in enough energy for an even more solid manifestation on the spot. One real enough for him to maybe see the warmth that felt like it was radiating from my face. “I wanted to write a whole tie-in book series for it. I had the first one outlined, and I had just joined a local writing group before we went on vacation. But you know, life had other plans, as the saying goes . . .”

I couldn’t help glancing behind us as I said it. Glancing down.

All the way down to the foyer where my broken body had lain until, I’m told, my sisters came searching. The place where it all ended for me.

And just like that, everything I was going to tell Raff about the game went right out of my head, replaced by a crushing weight I rarely let myself feel.

“Hey. Tell me what happens at the end of The Minstrel’s Kiss,” Raff said suddenly, his voice like a warm hand on my back. He was trying to draw me out of my thoughts before they could completely spiral, and I thanked him with a smile that turned shy when I realized just how close he was standing despite the chill that radiated off me when I manifested like this. “Your friend wrecked my copy a bit, remember?”

“Shit, I’m sorry about that,” I said quickly, only for Raff to shake his head.

“No need to be apologizing for what’s out of your hands. Least of all when you’re such a fierce help I’ll never repay the debt, and you make me laugh on top of it,” he said, shifting slightly and taking a step down toward me. Now, the bulk of his figure filled my gaze rather than the cold stones of the foyer where I must have sprawled for hours.

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. If I’d still had blood in my body, I think I would have been blushing. Finally, I dredged up a few words and the energy to speak them. “You know, I didn’t take you for a romance reader.”

Raff flashed a grin, bright and bold and free of apprehension even though he was standing face to face with a dead guy. “Oh? And what did you take me for?”

I considered him for a moment, a teasing answer about the king of the mountain goats on the tip of my tongue. But he looked so serious gazing back at me that I said something real instead: “It’s too soon to say for sure, but I think . . . you might be the knight all those readers are looking for. The reason they keep turning the pages.”

Something in his eyes softened. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak. Then he shook his head and said quietly, “Nah. You’ve got the wrong one. I’m just a stubborn arse with a bum leg who doesn’t know when he’s in over his head and wouldn’t admit it even if he did.”

“Well, that definitely wasn’t romantic, nor was any of it true,” I declared as he finally pulled down the folding stairs behind the panel in the hallway ceiling that led to the attic. “Maybe you need to read more.”

“Make me a list of your favorites, then,” he invited, but I was much too worried about his knee on those rickety attic stairs to think about anything else until we were safely back on solid ground.

It was likely past midnight by the time we got down there, and the castle felt peaceful, even to me. The only active and humming energy besides my own was Raff’s, the glow that always intrigued me warm and bright.

The scent of gravy hung thick in the air from one of Chef Máirtín’s experiments, but there was no sign of my fellow lodger. He must have retired early, satisfied with his culinary experiments. Glancing around, Raff observed, “It’s been a long night.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it, so I knew he meant it. He only avoided making eye contact when he was wrung out, like he didn’t want anyone to notice him at his weakest and most vulnerable. But rather than filling his water bottle to take back to the van as usual, he opened the cupboards and took out a mug. And put the kettle on.

“Long,” I agreed, slightly confused as I stared at the kettle. “But you handled it. You saved that poor robin from the poltergeist, and you kept everyone calm. Even Mr. Donnelly, and we all know he hasn’t been calm since 1834.”

Raff laughed at that, though he sounded almost disbelieving when he said, “You’re butterin’ me up now.”

“I’m not.” I raised both my hands, palms up in a gesture of innocence. “I’m just telling the truth. You’re good at this. You know you are. You knew it the moment you walked in here and started talking about your methods. But if you’ve forgotten, well, I’m happy to remind you: the castle hasn’t been this calm since I started haunting it. Gráinne hasn’t bitten you, we haven’t had to replace any more lightbulbs, and Síofra thinks you’re a real gentleman by Renaissance standards—I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but she means it as one. Everyone here likes you, and you’re doing great. And if you forget again tomorrow, well, I’ll still be here, and I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”

He finally turned from the stove to eye me warily, like he was checking whether I really meant it or if I was just being kind. But of course I meant it. And he must have seen that in my eyes, because something in his expression flickered, then softened.

“All right, Mr. Brightside, enough of all that for now,” he muttered, but the nickname came out gentler than he probably intended.

I liked it better than Wildcard. I liked it a hell of a lot better than “fecking” anything.

Raff filled his mug and started steeping the tea, staring out the kitchen windows at the velvety star-strewn sky. The silence stretched between us, no longer awkward after so many nights spent wandering the quiet halls together, just . . . charged.

Almost like we were exchanging energy, or having a wordless conversation.

“You know, I’ve heard you say it’s September. Which means the Perseids should be happening sometime soon—the meteor shower. Might be worth looking for a few falling stars and making wishes while you drink that tea,” I suggested, keeping my voice light. Not pushing. Not about to give the only living person who had talked to me in years a reason to run away.

Raff blinked at me through the steam of his tea, almost like he was seeing me for the first time, though I wasn’t sure what he saw now that he hadn’t before. “You watch the stars?”

“I watch whatever I can,” I said, shrugging. “The birds. The construction crew. The stars. Part of being dead. There’s really not much else to do.”

That earned a deeper laugh. Warm, quiet, and real. I wanted to soak in it, wrap it around my shoulders, draw it out again and again. “All right, Mr. Brightside,” Raff said. “Show me this meteor shower, then.”