Page 93 of How I Met Your Murderer

As the wailing picked back up and a burst of cold wind pushed my hair back, Eric tossed a packet of orange glitter toward the sound. Caoimhe did the same, the two of them scattering sparkles in every direction. And as they did, I swiftly kissed Eric’s cheek and bolted toward the ADA-404, our ultimate—our only—spirit-away solution.

Eric made a strangled sound, but I forced myself to run the rest of the way to the machine while the elemental wasn’t focused on me, kneeling quickly and wincing as I came down too hard on my bad knee. When I glanced back to check on the others, I saw they were both alive—faces smeared with glitter, eyes streaming where the elemental had blown it back at them. There was also a long, misshapen figure hovering several feet off the ground beside them.

Dancing.

Clearly, all that glittered wasn’t golden. Sometimes, it was just a showoffy shite of a ghost.

My stomach writhed at the wrongness of the sight, but I didn’t let that stop me from pointing the sleek black nozzle of the ADA-404 at our glittering monstrosity and pounding my fist on the yellow button to wake it.

Nothing happened.

And something inside me snapped.

The fecking Error Code 404 was fully charged, and yet, like everything else ExorSquad had ever given me, it made no difference in a life-or-death situation. No wonder Gerald had lost so many employees.

I’d had it with this company. I’d had it with the low pay and #vanlife and useless advice and lack of support and risking my neck all the time with no thanks or recognition from them.

I’d had it with their scamming, lying, murdering ways.

Glancing up, I checked on the others again as I strode toward the waving, randomly cackling plastic witch perched on the banister. And watched as the amorphous, glittering shadow that was the elemental slowly lowered itself to the floor.

Eric and Caoimhe slowly backed toward the front door together, his arm thrown across her like a noble but useless shield.

They needed me. And I needed that spirit-away solution to actually work.

Tearing my eyes from them reluctantly, I turned away and hastily snapped off the plastic witch’s broomstick, swinging it about in my hand like a hurley. It wasn’t the right weight or exactly the right shape, but it was wood instead of plastic. Besides, it was Halloween, and we could play pretend.

“Raff!” Eric screamed, the sound raw and more terrified, more human, than any wailing the elemental had tried to imitate.

But I didn’t sprint toward the door to join him and Caoimhe. I limped quickly back to the ADA-404 and swung my makeshift hurley at it, determined to beat the useless machine into working or shattering once and for all. I smashed it so hard that my knuckles cracked, red and wet, and I kept on going, driven by desperation to not let any of us end up dead or worse, be trapped here with this thing until it got bored and decided to eat us.

Finally, the machine gave a wheezing rattle of life.

I gave it an encouraging kick with my good leg as my temper started to fizzle out, replaced by fear and determination as I aimed the machine’s nozzle at the glittering cloud that was nearly on top of Eric and held the yellow button down.

It didn’t suck the elemental into the machine’s casing in a wisp of fog like the manual clearly showed. Didn’t send a jet of white-hot or electric-blue energy shooting out to disrupt the elemental’s manifestation like the PolterPulse or the TurboPro would.

If anything, it seemed to be . . . amplifying the elemental’s power. Strengthening it. Which was exactly the opposite of what I wanted.

The cloud of glitter was expanding, whirring ominously like a miniature tornado. I was about to drop the nozzle and run when Eric shouted at me, “No, wait! Leave it a minute!”

I had no idea what he was thinking, but I trusted him. So I kept pressing the button and pointing the nozzle as the elemental became a bigger, louder funnel cloud. I realized I was clenching my teeth, the sound was so unpleasant, but in another few seconds it was over. The glittering whirlwind that had been expanding to fill the room suddenly shrank down until it was nothing but sparkles and embers on the rug.

The foyer was silent, just like the rest of the castle. Quiet enough to hear the rhythmic tick of an antique grandfather clock partway down the hall.

The next thing I knew, Eric was running toward me, throwing his arms around me and kissing my hair. I brought mine up and ran my hands along his solid form, feeling his warmth, his frantic heartbeat. Reminding myself that he was alive.

The elemental hadn’t managed to take him from me.

“What—what did that thing do? That big machine, did it . . . kill the ghost?” Caoimhe asked quietly, in the small, hollow voice of someone who was clearly in shock. She had climbed shakily to her feet to stamp out the lick of flame eating one corner of the rug, the elemental’s parting gift.

When I glanced behind me at the ADA-404, I realized it was gently smoking, too.

“I think your machine was taking the elemental’s energy and throwing it back in its face,” Eric said, the words slightly muffled as he spoke with his face buried in my chest. “I think they short-circuited each other, it and the machine. That’s why I told you not to stop.” He pressed a kiss to my shoulder, then drew back to meet my eyes and took a shaky breath. “I think the elemental couldn’t handle a taste of its own power. But I’m sure it’ll be back, if it’s as much a part of this place as your witch friend said it is.”

He was right. We still needed to get in the van and get the hell out of here for good while the murderous entity was disoriented and its strength was temporarily diminished.

But first . . .