Page 18 of Aftertaste

“Wait,what?”

“Quit while you’re ahead.”

“No way!” His voice rose now, too, his arms crossed over his chest like a petulant kid’s. “A second ago you were allLet me help, and now, what, the kitchen got a little too hot for you?”

“I was offering to help youstopit. Because what you’re doing? Screwing with ghosts? You have no idea what you’re tasting.”

“And you do?”

“I’d have to kill you to explain.”

“You’re a real treat, you know that?”

“Andyou’reno match for the Afterlife.”

He stared at her in disbelief, as if she’d just pushed him. A part of him that wanted to push back.

“You know what?” he said slowly. “Forget it. Forgetyou. I’mthe one with the magic tongue. The one who’s been tasting the Dead for twenty years. And it wasme—not you—that brought one of them back. What’veyouever done, Spiritual Artist? Burned some incense? Shuffled some cards? Made a snap judgment about someone and used it to give them bad advice?”

Maura glared at him for a deafening moment, something hot simmering behind her eyes.

“You have no idea the things I’ve done.”

“Try me.”

“Hard pass.” She gave a small, mean smirk.

“Fine. Whatever.” He slid his chair back, stood up.

“But if it’d been me,” she added, “tasting those spirits? I sure as hell wouldn’t waittwenty yearsto do something about it.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No? You just said you didn’t try anything tilllast week. And the result got you so spooked you’re, what, consulting a party psychic? Well. You already got my advice, so here’s a snap judgment. You’re a coward, Konstantin. Afraid of your own potential. More interested in self-preservation than making any sort of meaningful connection. You’re paralyzed by—oh, I dunno?—something in your past? Death of a loved one? Am I warm? Yeah. And now you think this ghost thing makes you special. That messing with the Afterlife can somehow undo all those shitty years you’ve chosen to have instead of just moving on. But it won’t. It’ll only make it worse. So you need to just stop.”

Kostya stood there, dumbstruck.

Of all the things to happen at this seizure-inducing party, this felt the least like reality—not the Under the Sea flash mob or the salmon spawn dancers or the piranha piñata whose boxcutter teeth had drawn Kostya’s blood—this. If someone had told him that a sideshow psychic would be the first person to see him clearly, to peer through his bullshit and call him out on it, he’d have asked for a dose of whatever they were on. And yet, here she was—barely ten minutes of conversation between them, not even a card reading to help her along—getting it so on the nose she may as well have been a whitehead, a giant pimple on the face of everything that had held Kostya back his entire life: fear and denial and self-doubt. The inertia that had plagued him since his dad died.

“I should go.”

He found a twenty in his wallet, dropped it on the table. Then he took one last look at Madame Everleigh—painfully beautiful, emphasis on pain—and shoved his way back through the tent.

Kostya had miscalculated. It cost him twenty bucks (should have been fifteen, but there was no way he was asking for change), all of his pride, and more than a little dignity. In return, he’d gotten part of what he camefor—clairgustance, the name like a small ray of light—though everything else she’d told him he’d have to work to compartmentalize, another dense box of himself to stack in front of that chasm inside.

MAURA ELIZABETH STRUK—Madame Everleigh—watched him go, her heart pounding. She felt badly about how it had gone, how cruel she’d been to make him leave. But she couldn’t have him around her, not if he was tastingthat, not if he was some sort of gateway, a conduit back to where she wasn’t ready to go.

It wasn’t like she didn’t mean what she’d said; it was just that she’d done it so tactlessly, so full of pointed intention, that she was sure it would leave a bruise, if not a scar. Then again, shehadtried, at first, to simply warn him. But he’d blown her off. So he deserved what he got.

It was a shame. Aside from haphazardly summoning a Hungry Ghost, he’d seemed nice. Endearing. Cute, kinda. Not her type exactly (not nearly enough tattoos), but passable if he took a little more care of himself. Still, he’d been playing with fire. Not a single match at a time, but more like setting a flamethrower off beside a gas pump.

What she couldn’t understand was how he had gone beyond serving as a medium to bring an actual spirit back. From what Maura knew about clairgustance—which was, admittedly, more snackable summary than seven-course meal—most of the time, the tastings were just flavors associated with the Dead. Cigarettes if the deceased smoked. Chemical residue if they’d been poisoned. The taste of their lipstick, or the hot sauce they liked. More clues than cuisine, and certainly not bridges. But what Konstantin tasted—a specific drink with all its component parts; a specific candy,thatcandy—seemed different. Not something simply reminiscent of the Dead, but integral to them, to some experience or memory they still craved. And by making that food, it appeared he could lure the spirits in, bait the hook with their favorite chum.

Well, whatever.

This, at least, wasn’t her problem. And hopefully what she’d said had gotten through to him. Hopefully, it was enough to keep him from making a bad mistake. The Hereafter was an intricate balance—of famine and feast; of hunger and satiety; of emptiness and fulfillment. Screw with that balance and, sooner or later, you’d regret it.

Just like Maura.

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