Page 28 of How I Met Your Murderer

He’s like an NPC quest-giver who’s hiding his own agenda, I remembered Eric saying. Just a month into my time here and he was already the voice inside my head. And right now, that voice was steering me past the guilt and inspiring me to try being firm.

“Look, sir, I need you to send backup. Today. Whether it’s in the budget or not. Do you want to hear about how many spirits are in this place? The things I’ve seen?”

“You know I do,” Gerald said at once, sounding sincere. I think I actually had his full attention for a minute. “But I haven’t got time, I’m afraid. And I can’t spare anyone, not right now. Not while they’re after me.” A brief babble of conversation I couldn’t quite make out filled the silence on the line. “Dire times. Dire times indeed,” he muttered more clearly as he came back on the line. “Listen, my lad, I’ve got something new that might help with your situation: the Apparition Displacement Apparatus. The ADA-404, we’re calling it. Packs a mean punch. I’ll have Ted post it express this afternoon. Give that a whirl and—”

He cut himself off there, ending the call. Or rather, I realized a moment later, he had slammed the phone down on the hardwood surface of his desk without hanging up.

“The bloody Rozzers, here?” Gerald fumed in the distance. “Typical. I knew it. Well, what do they want?”

“People keep getting killed on our watch, Sir,” a softer voice said. It sounded like Ted again. He had definitely been grinding his molars earlier, and who could blame him? “I guess the police finally took notice. Maybe one of the families called in . . . anyway. They said they just want a quick word, but if you don’t go out there—”

“Yes, yes, I’m going,” Gerald muttered.

The creak of a chair filled my ears right before I hung up. I’d heard enough. I would have to tell Eric that, for once, Gerald hadn’t rolled well on his deception check.

I’d also have to tell him that help wasn’t coming, though my hopes hadn’t been high. I wasn’t really surprised that the rumours I had read online about ExorSquad were true, between the lack of sound advice in The Handbook and the equipment that barely worked half the time—the job was only safe if you were already dead.

This was starting to seem more like a countdown than a career.

Still, I wasn’t about to go running for the hills over one eerie threat. I would, however, be packing every last weapon ExorSquad had given me the next time I set foot in the castle. At least until we figured out how to handle the unhappy spirit.

While on the phone with Gerald, I had passed by several stone cottages, most of which were little shops with flats above them. The warm scent of baking bread filled the air, masking the coming rain. A few other shoppers bustled about, one or two holding the hand of a small child, others hugging bags or baskets, but I was more or less alone on this crowded pavement.

Tucking my phone into my jacket pocket, I started toward the nearest shop, its soothing blue-grey exterior and crisp white trim drawing me into what turned out to be a bakery. It was late enough that their breakfast rush was over, but they had half a case still full of cinnamon buns as big as my hand, fragrant tea brack, and rows and rows of doughnuts piped with colorful icing.

You’ve gone soft, in more ways than one. Ronan’s voice floated back to me, probably because we had just spoken last night. Maybe I missed sex, but I didn’t miss that prick.

Looking past the pastries that bordered on offensive stereotyping with their sugared rainbows and shamrock sprinkles—catnip for the tourists—I spotted a doughnut with pale purple icing called lavender luxe and signaled to the girl behind the counter. It was filled with a rich vanilla and lavender custard.

Eric would have enjoyed it. He would have needed to take insulin for it—I’d been reading about type one diabetes whenever I could get signal on my phone, because having a cousin with the disease didn’t mean I knew everything—but he could eat whatever he wanted as long as he counted for it. I’d learned enough about nutrition from my years in hurling to at least take some weight off his shoulders, and I wanted to help. Not that he needed it anymore.

I ate the pastry one-handed as I wandered down High Street, not in any great rush to get back to the castle, even if I didn’t want to get caught in the rain.

When I saw a shop with a cart full of books and flowers out front—offering new and used titles, just my kind of place—I hastily sucked the sugar from my fingers and wiped my hands on my jeans before heading inside.

I browsed for a while, admiring random covers in the fantasy section until one or two sparked my interest enough to read the summary. Then I got to searching. I’d written down all the titles that Eric recommended to me, and the little bookshop—The Story Snug—had two of them, so I grabbed both. Then I circled back to where I’d nosed around earlier and chose a promising book for Eric.

Eric was dead, but he could still read and turn the pages with the slightest bit of effort. It might be a good way for him to pass the time until I figured out why all the spirits in the castle seemed stuck there. Until he moved on, like he was meant to.

I was only being a good friend, keeping him from going mad in there. Never mind that he’d been managing just fine before me.

With the bag of books slung over one shoulder, I headed back onto High Street. It had been quiet before, but was now empty altogether. The sky had darkened while I was inside—to be fair, I had spent nearly an hour in there, lost amongst the pages and their musty perfume. Now the wind was kicking up, howling and heavy with the promise of rain.

Sure enough, as I made a run for the van, it started bucketing down. I should have turned back and taken cover in the bookshop, but it was lashing so hard that I wasn’t sure which street I had just turned on or how to get back.

Rather than keep faffing about like a wet shite, I staggered to the door of the nearest shop: a narrow cottage tucked tightly between the toy store and a gents’ clothing boutique. The door was unlocked, so I splashed inside.

I didn’t remember seeing this place when I came to the village to buy the toy horses for Gráinne, but it was warm. Nice. The smell of incense hit me, smoky and herbal, like . . . vine-ripened tomatoes. I inhaled deeply, shook myself off like a soggy dog by the door, and looked around for the shop owner as notes of pan flute music trilled from hidden speakers.

No one stood behind the counter. No one skulked between the rows of bookcases that mostly held bundles of dried herbs with names like High John and yarrow, and colorful chunks of rock, or maybe mineral—call me the dumb jock if you like, but I hadn’t a notion of the difference. Some of the stones were carved into different shapes, like a cat or a fawn. There was even a shiny purple-and-white rock shaped like a lad’s bollocks.

I hurried away from that case and toward a hutch of neat rows of books. They boasted strange symbols on their spines etched in silver and gold, no familiar titles here. I picked one up and just as quickly dropped it as something—not the book, because that was impossible—softly hissed. The whole shop put me in mind of Gerald Pickett’s office. It filled me with the same feeling I had every time I entered the castle: that faint prickle of an unseen splinter, a certain charged stillness, an otherworldly hum.

The air was thick with it, charged and layered.

I knew of places like this, but I’d never been in one. Because while I had never questioned the existence of spirits, I wasn’t sure what to make of magic.

“Hiya, are you after anything yourself?” a woman asked as she emerged from the shadows of an employee-only stock room. She bustled over to join me by a shelf of candles, carrying a basket full of them in her arms.