Page 59 of Aftertaste

Chef’sAftertastings.

Arranged in advance, with private rooms and a manageable number he could control.

Maura had been right, about needing a do-over. Giving this thing another chance.

It was late, but Kostya didn’t care. He picked up the phone, dialed the number. Viktor Musizchka answered on the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Viktor? It’s Konstantin.”

“Is one in morning. This spank call?”

“Don’t hang up! Please.”

He heard Viktor yawn. “I give ten second.”

“Ten se—jeez—okay. You were wrong. I don’t need a test kitchen. I’m ready. I can scale this. I figured out how.”

There was a moment of silence, and then, “Thank you for call, Kostya, but ship, I think, already on sale.”

“Just let me prove myself! Let me cook for you.”

“We already talking to other chefs—”

And, desperate, Frankie’s menu in his perspiring palm, Kostya played his card, the one he knew Viktor would fold for.

“But none of them would have anything like the buzz we could create. With the ghosts, with my concept—you’d make a killing. And we couldseat as many people as you wanted. A full house every night. But the ghost experience—that would be exclusive. Like a club within a club. A restaurant within a restaurant. VIP rooms.”

Silence on the other end.

“Think about it,” Kostya pushed on. “What would you do, to see someone you loved again? Someone who died, someone you thought was gone forever? To have one last conversation? Ask their advice? Hear their voice?”

Viktor cleared his throat.

“What would you give,” Kostya pressed, “for one last meal together?”

An aftertaste shimmered into his mouth then—pickled herring, white onions, diced egg, grated beets, mayo, mayo, so much mayo, drowning in it—and he knew he had him.

!!!!!

AFTER VISITING THEFood Hall, Maura gets worse. So your Hunger does, too.

It’s simple math: the more your Living suffers, the more their life is ravaged by your death, the worse you crave. And Maura? She’d been wrecked enough to die.

You watch the changes taking hold. Your fingertips first. The ends of your hair. They aren’t solid anymore, but dimmed. Fading to shadow. A bulb, burning out.

You’ve got to fix it. You need to see her again.

You need that Aftertaste.

So you redouble your efforts. Eat more. Chew faster.

Nothing helps.

You feel time slip through your fingers, a fistful of sugar, and you get desperate enough to try anything. And still, when the new soul arrives, with his big talk, his slick smile, his assurance thatYeah, going back’s easy—I seen it; my guy does it, you don’t entirely believe him.

But then other souls you see around, Hungry ones, start to talk.

You hear rumors, that the New Guy’s legit. That he used to be a chef and knows all about food. That there’s someone on the other side working with him. That they can bypass the Hall, summon Aftertastes on demand.

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