Page 48 of How I Met Your Murderer

And something in my chest loosened.

The kitchen quieted after Jordy and Basil left for their “coffee break.” People left for lunch or other parttime commitments, leaving us with the echo of distant footsteps, the hum of the walk-in fridge, and the low rumble of the industrial dishwasher cleaning another round of party plates.

Raff rested his elbows on the table and cradled his chin in the palm of one hand, the smile he had worn for Jordy and Basil fading. It left something tired in its place.

It hit me then just how pale he looked, how the shadows under his eyes seemed to have gained new depth today. How he kept rubbing his thumb over his protective pendant without seeming to realize what he was doing.

He was unraveling, but I didn’t understand why.

“Where’s Chef Máirtín?” he asked suddenly, blinking like he had only just realized whose kitchen we were really in. “He hasn’t thrown anything all day. He was thrilled altogether about that cock-a-thing he was going to make for the banquet, and then . . . I never heard another peep out of him. Has this happened before? Has he been quiet for this long that you can remember?”

“Never,” I admitted. “My memory isn’t perfect, but . . . no, I don’t think so.”

I tore my attention from the brightness of Raff’s energy and focused on the rest of the kitchen, using that strange sense I’d developed since dying—the one that allowed me to feel the other ghosts like faint vibrations throughout the castle. The air was still. Too still. There was no flicker of something older, no familiar irritation or flash of pride. No swirling scent of herbs and spices, no sprinkle of flour on the floor that shouldn’t be there.

“Maybe he’s hiding. Sulking, like, about how well the other chef carried out the banquet? Or . . .” Raff’s voice wavered, then trailed away, like he knew that couldn’t be.

“Stay right here,” I told him, laying a cold but solid-enough hand over his for a moment. I was worried he’d jerk his hand away, but instead, he threaded his fingers through mine and squeezed. If I’d had a heart, it would have beat double. “I’m going to go take a quick look around and ask some of the other ghosts what they know. Will . . . you be here?”

I hated that I even had to ask.

“Sure I will, and don’t you be worrying. Eric?” he added, a softly hopeful note in it. I loved when he said my name. “My knee is giving me awful grief, but would you come here a moment so I can kiss you and remind you that you can count on me?”

I drew a little more energy from the kitchen, the lights flickering as I solidified in a way he would find enticingly real. I knew I didn’t have to—he shared his world with me even when I was mostly transparent—but I wanted to. I knelt next to his chair as he reached out, running a hand through my hair. I rubbed my palm over his knee, hoping the cold would help, then slid my fingers a little way up his thigh.

He hissed through his teeth, but one look at his half-lidded eyes and parted lips told me that whatever he felt was a good kind of ache.

Tipping my chin up with two fingers, he leaned in to close the distance, and so did I. I wasn’t about to make him work for it, even if I didn’t understand what bothered him today. He had seen the doubt on my face, and he was letting me know I was wanted.

I really liked his way of telling me without words: the catch of his lips on mine, his groan when he sank his fingers deeper into my hair and slid his other hand down to grip my waist. The spread of his hand was so broad that I felt so small in his hold. So safe.

Using his thighs as a ladder of sorts, I tugged myself up until I was in his lap—helped along by Raff himself once he caught on to my goal. I could feel how excited he was by the change in position, and even though I hadn’t gotten hard since I died—turned out that was a real mood-killer—it hit me like a tuning fork jammed into my ribs: arousal.

I groaned into his mouth. Maybe growled was the better word, my fingers hooked in the strap of his overalls while he palmed the small of my back, his fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt like they wanted to stray lower but he was holding back.

He didn’t need to hold back, but I couldn’t stop kissing him long enough to say it.

I kissed him until his lips were swollen. Sometimes deeply, running my tongue along the grooves of his teeth, or flicking mine against his. Sometimes softly, giving him dozens of adoring little kisses that I hoped would somehow leave a permanent mark on him. Sometimes hard, sucking his bottom lip between my teeth because the noises he made were pure music. Especially when I snared my fingers in his hair and tugged, just like I had done on the day we met.

I wanted him to put his hand between my legs and relieve some of the pressure starting to drive me crazy as desire burned through me, reshaping the bounds of my energy—but there wasn’t time for any of that. Even if it was nice to know I could still get hard with the right person as a dead man.

Chef Máirtín was . . . missing? Gone? Or at least it seemed that way, even though it didn’t make much sense. And I cared about him, in a way. He had always been kind to me, made me feel like the kitchen was a place where I could hang around no matter my mood.

“I’ll be back,” I said between kisses, reluctant to go even though it was the right thing.

“And I’ll be here,” Raff echoed, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear before I slowly climbed off of him and stood.

I smiled at him as I faded from view. Sneaking around talking to the other spirits would be much easier if I didn’t bump into Caoimhe and Pepper, or startle anyone who might be working in another part of the castle. Especially while my jeans were awkwardly tight.

I floated through the pantry. No one.

The scullery. No one.

The old servants’ corridor, where I knew Chef Máirtín liked to lurk when he was feeling particularly offended. No one there, either.

I asked Síofra to search for him by peeking through every mirror and reflective surface.

“Nothing at all, not anywhere,” she reported a few minutes later from a long mirror leaning against a wall in one of the many parlors. “Eric . . . what do you think it means?”