Page 35 of How I Met Your Murderer

The next rule had been inspired by Síofra, and I glanced at a few of the dining hall’s many mirrors, wondering if I might see a swirl of fog or a familiar silhouette as I read it. “Rule number six: do not let your reflection linger in the silverware. If you stare too long, you may see someone else looking back—standing behind you, hoping to swap places.”

We were nearly at the end of the list, and not a sound could be heard in the dining hall but for my own breathing and the occasional pop of a candlewick. I had everyone’s undivided attention, the castle’s perpetually oppressive air giving my words some added gravity. At least until I read the final rule, which I had pulled from The Handbook. It was actually Rule #208: Never Mention Taxes, inspired by some ghost who had gone berserk and tried to strangle another spirit extraction specialist when reminded of his unpaid earthly debts.

“Rule number seven,” I began gravely. “Don’t mention taxes.”

I’d chosen it as a way to give everyone a laugh before they returned to their meals. But instead, a blood-curdling scream rang through the hall, dousing a candle and rattling the chandeliers.

thirteen

Truth or Dare

Raff

Fecking influencers. Someone important had unfollowed someone who also fancied herself important, and she had shrieked at her phone when she found out. Maybe I was wearing a nicer suit than I’d had occasion to put on in a long time, but I wasn’t the one with notions.

My duties to the living completed, I was plenty glad to head back to the kitchen and leave the guests to their evening of medieval food and drink pairings. I had hopefully scared them into behaving, and now I could focus on making sure Chef Máirtín didn’t explode boiling gravy on any of the staff whenever he finally appeared.

Of course, Eric looking shockingly real took up most of my attention as soon as I walked in and found him waiting for me in a quiet corner near the pantry.

“Sounds like you really did knock ’em dead out there,” he teased when he saw me, his face brightening.

The pantry door was open behind him, like maybe he had been checking for Máirtín, too. He certainly hadn’t been searching for a snack, though he was eyeing a fruit and cheese platter—artfully arranged in the shape of a dragon—on a nearby table with open longing.

I pulled out a seat, and he did the same on the other side. It was finally starting to hit me that I’d skipped dinner, and I’d been too nervous to eat before my little performance. My stomach gave a piteous moan as I contemplated swiping one of the juicy strawberries that made up the spines on the dragon’s back.

“I miss cheese,” Eric sighed in sympathy with my empty stomach, poking at a cube of what might have been gouda and pouting in a way that made his lips look pinker, his eyelashes casting long shadows down his golden cheeks. God, he was dead lovely when he wanted something. And all the time, for that matter. “I miss peanut butter most of all. But I also miss strawberries.” Those hazel eyes flicked up to my face again as he licked his lips, then pressed them together. “I wonder . . .” he began, a little breathy, setting my pulse racing before I had any idea where we were running off to. “Would you eat for me?”

Something tightened low in my stomach in response. It was only food, but he made it sound so sensual. Intimate, even.

“I can’t taste, of course,” he explained in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard even if no one paid us any attention. “But I can choose things, and watch you, and . . . and you can describe them to me. How they taste, in detail. If it isn’t too much trouble.”

It wasn’t. But even if it had presented a great ordeal, I would have gone to a lot of trouble to stoke the smoldering look in his eyes to full flame. Eating dinner and sharing the experience with him was hardly crawling through fire.

“I’m in,” I said, and even to my own ears, my voice was lower. “Let’s do this.”

Eric’s fingers hovered over the platter like he could feel the flavors and textures through memory alone. But of course, if that were true, he wouldn’t need me. “Start with that one,” he murmured, pointing at one of the many cheese cubes that made up the dragon’s body. “The yellow one. I’m hoping it’s sharp cheddar.”

“That’s bound to be gouda,” I declared, though I didn’t know any better than him. Picking up the bite of cheese, I nearly laughed as I popped it into my mouth.

Then I felt the heat of his gaze on me, his eyes tracking the movement of my fingers and the clench of my jaw as my teeth sank into the cheese, and nothing at all was funny anymore. Far from it. He swallowed hard, throat visibly working as I chewed, his eyes blazing like I’d just done something indecent.

“It’s . . . creamy,” I said, swallowing slowly for Eric’s benefit. Letting him watch for as long as he liked, because I’d rarely seen him enjoy anything so openly.

He was even more beautiful like this. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, lips slightly parted, fingers fisted into the fabric of his jeans.

“It’s soft,” I went on when I finally found my voice again, “and a bit nutty. It melts a little if you let it sit on your tongue. And it’s definitely cheddar. You win this round.”

Eric’s breath hitched—a tiny, involuntary sound—and the overhead lights gave a faint, guilty flicker for the briefest moment.

He winced. “Sorry. I’m sorry. The waitstaff—I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t apologize,” I interrupted, holding up a hand to stay any further nonsense. “The lights flicker all the time in an old place, especially on a windy night like this. Everyone knows that.”

Heat crept up my neck as I realized that, under the table, my body was starting to respond to being the focus of lovely Eric’s fascination. I was stiffening in my slacks, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to leap up and redirect our ghostly chef without a few minutes to cool down first. Otherwise, everyone would be in for a different kind of haunting sight.

Resolving to look less at Eric’s glistening lips, I invited, “Pick another.”

This time he chose a strawberry, plucked from the dragon’s spine. He held it out like he wanted to feed it to me, then blinked—surprised, maybe, at his own daring.