Page 103 of Aftertaste

He didn’t know what he was leading them into tonight. Only that he had to protect his brigade. He needed to get his shit together. Perform. Bring back every ghost with a smile on his face. Not give Viktor any reason for retribution. Make the night a smashing success for profit and publicity. (He’d deal with any repercussions from the Afterlife later, he supposed.Just sort of, like, corral the ghosts? Find a way to get them back in the box?Fuck.He really wished Maura would text him back.)

He was still hugging Rio, who cleared his throat.

“Okay. Well. I think they’re all waiting for your word, Boss.”

When Kostya turned, the staff was assembled before him—pristine, preservice, gathered around the stations and along the stairs, leaning against walls. Every one of them counting on him. They’d supported him, and followed him, and believed. Part of him had once believed, too. He took a breath and faked it.

“Hey, everybody.” He gave a nervous little wave. “Here we are, huh? I’m not as good with words as I am with food, so this won’t take long. I just… thanks. For being here. For believing”—the word was a bone in his throat—“in what we’re doing. Because you have to have a little faith, right? When impossible things happen, it’s got to be”—he tried not to choke—“because they’re meant to. And we were meant to do this tonight. Because our kitchen” (the cooks gave a cheer), “is badass. So fucking special. And our front-of-house” (whooping from the stairs), “well, you guys are a pain in the ass” (laughter all around), “but we… we love you anyway. That’s what it takes, to share a kitchen. To make food. To feed people. Love. I really mean that. And there’s two things I’d never go up against without the people I love. The first are hungry New Yorkers.” (More laughter.) “And the second is the Dead.”

Pindrop silence, heavy in the room.

Kostya’s eyes filled, stinging. He didn’t want to tell them what he was about to say next, tried to suck back the words as they left his mouth.

“So let’s—let’s go raise some spirits, all right? Let’s feed some Hungry Ghosts.”

DINNER SERVICE WASthe stuff of restaurant dreams. The diners were dazzled. They oohed and aahed. They took selfies. They gasped as they wereguided to their tables, the interior of DUH unlike any dining room they’d ever seen, the walk through its obsidian hall a journeyelsewhere.

The staff worked an intricate choreography, hosts and servers and runners all twirling in a silent ballet, the black of their uniforms blending into the backdrop, making it so they were barely noticed by the patrons, living phantoms in a spectral place. The effect was that glasses of water and silverware and amuse-bouches seemed to just magically appear at tables. As if they’d been spirited from the other side.

The bar was busy, drink orders lining the rows of vertebrae as two bartenders shook and mixed and stirred, Spectral Sours glistening alongside dirty martinis and old-fashioneds, waitstaff whisking the frosted glasses away before they even had a chance to bead.

The kitchen was busy, too—knives stuttering across chopping blocks, the sizzle of blistering pans, the stream of water in the sink, plates clanging across the line, the ding of timers, the call ofFire! Table Four!andOrder! Two tartines for Six!AndYo, Miguel, you got dead dupes; pick it up!, a sweet, final comfort to Kostya’s ears.

As the servers paraded out the first round of apps, Kostya stood at the top of the stairs, hidden in shadow, watching. His heart thumped in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him, making him shiver.

Showtime.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed, and his heart did a pirouette as he pulled it out, praying for Maura, but it was only his mom.

Kostochka, good luck. Be safe.

He began typing a reply, but the lights flickered overhead, his signal, and he shoved the phone back into his pocket, the message half-written.

Konstantin walked slowly across the dining room. He could feel the weight of so many eyes on him, taking in his every move. The noise of revelry dwindled, wineglasses paused midair, the clink of flatware and cutlery stilled.

His reflection followed him along the high-gloss floor, across themirrored panels sheathed in gauze. The room was so cold. Like a walk-in. Like a morgue.

He forced on a smile, turned the handle to Tasting Chamber No. 1, and pushed open the door.

THE FIRST GHOSTordered moussaka and fries.

Easy. A softball. The aftertaste blooming across his tongue as soon as he stepped into the room, as if the spirit had been waiting for him.

If every aspect of his world weren’t circling an existential drain, this might have given Kostya more pause. But in his terrified-slash-furious-slash-panicked state, he worked on autopilot, making the dish in silent focus.

When it was ready, he garnished the plate (drizzle of olive oil; hand-torn parsley) and stared down at it with disgust.

He didn’t want to serve it.

He didn’t want to witness what would happen when this spirit came back. Didn’t want to keep imagining Maura’s face when she found out that he’d done it. Didn’t want to feel the terrible, sinking feeling that kept whirling in his gut, like he was leaning over a ledge, the fall so far away he couldn’t see the bottom.

He had half a mind to dump it directly into the trash when The Comrade shoved his way into the kitchen.

“Where is dish?” he barked. “Diners impatient. Viktor displeased.”

Kostya braced himself.

“Right here.”

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