Page 102 of Aftertaste

Her note said she’d found a solution, one that didn’t require him. But maybe it required his food. His instructions. His way of summoning the Dead.

He read and reread it.

Her words wore away at him, the things she said about her love, about her Hunger. They made him text her again, call, wish she’d call him back. She didn’t.

He stayed up all night praying she wasn’t doing anything foolish.

DESSERTThe Konstantin Duhovny Culinary Experience

Y’ALL READY?

I know you been waiting, and I appreciate your patience! It’s about to pay off.

DUH opens tonight!

And that means doors are about to open up for us now, too. I mean, just look at this place. Check out that kitchen. Peep that subway. You catch that dining room? Made for spirits. Our guy outdid himself!

So let’s talk logistics. Doors open at seven, so let’s post up here till then. We’ll track who’s going back, if your Living got reservations, how that first trip through the veil goes down—

Oh, hey, girl. Love the hair—what they call that, periwinkle?—it’s a vibe. You got a question?

Wait, wait, slow down. What you mean, danger?

HUNGER STRIKE

KONSTANTIN STOOD INthe DUH kitchen, his chef’s coat on, his name over the lapel, his big moment kneeling at his feet.

Upstairs, Viktor schmoozed patrons and press. The publicist escorted VIPs to premium tables. The room buzzed with life and death and craft cocktails.

It was opening night, Kostya’s big culinary coming-out party, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Maura still hadn’t answered.

It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d last seen her. Since she’d vanished on the subway platform. Since she’d broken his heart, and Viktor had broken his spirit, and he’d seen two men rest an unnerving mystery package right where his cooks were standing now, prepping Sister Stacy’s soup.

In a moment, the cooks and servers and runners and busboys, the pruny dishwashers, the smug bartenders, the moody coat check chick and the gossipy hostess all expected him to deliver a rallying cry and lead them into glory. Instead, he had his back to them, was staring at his own troubled reflection in the windows.

He pulled out his phone and texted her again, the parade of unanswered messages so long it spanned several zip codes.

Just tell me you’re okay.

Behind him, the kitchen hummed, reversed in the glass. Brushed stainless; warm wood. The line was ready, every station prepped, all the mises in place. The brigade was starting some of the appetizers, bracing for an influx of tickets as soon as the cocktail hour wound down. Rio was making rounds with a clipboard, checking final items off a long list with a Sharpie.

The plan was to let everyone order off the main menu first, give the kitchen time to shine, and then parade Kostya out like a dignitary for the ghost encounters in the tasting rooms.

Raising those ghosts was the last thing he wanted to do now. It felt like walking toward trouble while holding a grenade. Then again, so did not raising them.

Kostya gripped the windowpanes, his hands beginning to shake.

He was stuck, ground between a mortar and its pestle. The ghosts, looming, on one side, and Viktor and his band of bandits on the other.

“Yo, Huesos? You good?” He felt Rio’s hand on his shoulder. “Opening-night jitters?”

“Something like that.” Kostya took a breath.

“Here. Got something for that.” Rio held up his hand, a scoop of salt cupped in his palm. “Frank and I, we did this at Wolfpup our very first night. And every big service after. Sort of a tradition.” He threw a pinch over Kostya’s shoulder. “May your fire always be hot.” Another pinch, over the other one. “May your food always be seasoned.” A third pinch, aimed straight at his balls, which made Kostya crack a reluctant smile. “And may you cook with your head as much as your heart. Go get ’em, Chef.”

Kostya fought back tears as he pulled Rio into a hug.

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