Page 16 of Aftertaste

“No! No. Ew. No. Their food. Like… like tasting something you haven’t eaten. That’s not in your mouth. But that you think—you know—is coming from someone who’s died. I’m asking for a friend.”

She sat up straighter, leaned closer, her whole body at attention.

“Uh-huh. Well, you can tell yourfriendthat yeah, it’s possible. Not very common, but it’s definitely a thing. Taste is one of the Psychic Clairs.”

“The who?”

She smiled. “It’s shorthand for the psychic senses. Everyone’s heard of clairvoyance, but that’s just seeing. Some spiritualists can smell or touch or hear from the other side. Tasting’s called clairgustance.”

“Clairgustance,” he repeated, trying it on.

“Mm-hmm. But, like I said, it’s not typical.” She hesitated for half a moment before adding, “What was your name again?”

“Konstantin.”

“I’m Maura.” She reached her hand out across the table and he took it. Her touch was like candy, a sugar rush.

“I thought you were Everleigh.”

“Ev’s been dead awhile.”

“Funny.”

“I wish I were kidding.” Her mouth gave a slight twitch, which she recovered with a smile. “But hey, maybeyour friendcan taste her. How often does it happen? The clairgustance?”

He opened his mouth to answer and, right on cue, the familiar sensation burst over his tongue. He arranged his face into a blank stare that quickly turned to surprised confusion, followed by déjà vu.

The subtle grit of smooth, sweet peanut butter. Soft milk chocolate, so pliable it seemed half-melted. The texture of the ridged edge on the tip of his tongue, like the teeth of a comb, but with a sudden break, like it had been dented. No wrong way to eat one.

Kostya rarely tasted the same thing twice. There were many similar dishes, though there were always distinctions—Nonna’s meatballs versus Great-Grammama’s; a sprig of basil versus a handful of parsley. But this Reese’s Cup was identical to the one from downstairs. A packaged good, not a prepared one. Too close in timing to be purely coincidental.

Someone was dying to break through. Throwing themselves at him, practically. All he had to do was get his hands on some candy, figure out who at this party had to eat it, and Trick-or-Treat.

“Hey, uh, you okay?”

“Is there a vending machine?” Kostya blurted out. “Or a bodega? I—I need a Reese’s. Right now.”

He started to push himself out of the chair, but what she said next made him sit back down.

“Over my dead body.”

“Oh, um, sorry? You allergic or something?”

“Or something.” She frowned at him. “What the hell, Konstantin?”

“That—the Reese’s Cup—I just tasted—itjust happened.”

“You tastedthat? Just now?” She cast around the tent as though trying to catch a ghost in the act, to witness a vanishing limb or a disembodied face.

“Yeah. But it was”—he shook his head—“weird.”

“Weirder than when you normally taste the Dead?”

“No. I mean, yes? It’s—I tasted the same thing just a few minutes ago. Downstairs. Someone’s really trying to get my attention.”

She blinked at him for a moment, her mouth going taut.

The aftertaste was already starting to fade. Maybe he could try again later. Maybe the ghost would hold on until he could get to a grocery store or a newsstand; he thought he’d seen one when they were pissing around in that interminable entry line, a couple blocks back, near an overpass—

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