Page 49

SECRET INGREDIENTS

HE WAS IN a cold sweat when he reached Maura’s apartment. He banged on the door, shouted her name, threw his shoulder against it twice before he remembered the spare key.

It was there this time, above the frame. She’d put it back, as if she’d been expecting him. As if she’d wanted him to come.

Inside was the shrill buzz of silence.

Kostya shook, adrenaline and terror flooding his veins as he crossed the long hall toward her kitchen. The room drew him like an instinct, back to the first night they spent together, the first meal he made her, all the late nights they stood hunched over the counter, drinking coffee, or whiskey, or wine, and talking, all those conversations, every last kiss in the kitchen, every memory contained there a good one, except what he might be walking toward right now.

He could taste it still—or perhaps again— fleur de sel in the back of his throat, the bite of it. He could feel her absence in his bones. And when he saw her violet hair spilled on the floor, the way she lay, like she might only be asleep, his heart sank down into his gut, through the floor, to a place deep underground, from which it would never, never rise.

“No. No. Oh, God! Oh God oh God oh God.”

He felt for a pulse, listened for breath, begged her to come back as if she hadn’t just made the hideous choice to leave.

“Maur, please. Please. Wake up.”

He’d seen her do that trick before, the life flooding back into her eyes.

Only this time, it didn’t.

Trembling, he typed 9-1-1 into his phone, his finger hovering above the call button.

He pictured paramedics rushing in, seeing the scene, wheeling Maura away. He wondered if they’d take him, too. Lock him up, send him right back to a mental ward. Straitjackets. Tranquilizers. No socks. They’d have his old hospitalization records, plus word of what had happened back at DUH, form a narrative of him being unhinged, a history of psychosis. A tragedy. A crime.

Not that it mattered now.

He’d deserve what he got, after all the people he’d hurt, Living and Dead, without ever really considering the consequences. And now the woman he loved, growing cold on the floor beside him because he hadn’t believed her, hadn’t helped her even when she’d begged him to.

He didn’t care what she’d done. He wasn’t mad now, only desperately sorry. He just wanted her to come back. To return long enough to hear him say it.

“M-Maura.” He sucked back tears, his snot salty and hot, the words jumbling. “Maur, I—I love you. I’m s-sorry. I believe you.”

He leaned close to her face, touched her hair. He wept harder, his stomach a stone. Had she taken poison? A bottle of pills? He pressed the call button on his phone, waiting for the operator, wondering what to say when they picked up. Whether it might still be possible to save her.

But then the body on the floor gave a sudden jolt.

“Nine-One-One, what’s your emergency?”

A huge gasp.

An intake of air.

And Maura Elizabeth Struk opened her eyes, her soul flooding back into her body after an Afterlife trip she hadn’t planned to take.

“Wrong number,” he stammered, and hung up.

She blinked at him. “Konstantin?”

And though the world was on fire, his restaurant in shambles, a portal to the Afterlife open in the Financial District and no real plan to stop it except some hunch from Maura’s dead kid sister, Kostya pulled Maura into his arms and kissed her the kind of kiss you get once in a lifetime, maybe, if you’re lucky.

It said everything.

I’m sorry , and I was wrong, and an idiot , and Forgive me.

Let’s fix this , and I love you , and There is a we, of course there is.

I believe you , and I trust you , and I’m sorry I doubted.

I won’t ever lose you again.

She kissed him back, held on, and it would have been so easy to lose themselves in it, to shut out everything they’d caused and stay wrapped up in each other’s arms.

Instead, they pulled apart, the same thought hitting them at once.

“We really fucked up,” Kostya said, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Told you so.” Maura gave a weak smile.

And then she told him where she’d been.

SHE’D DIED AGAIN last night, after DUH. After she’d taken his recipes.

“It’s stupid how easy it is to get what’ll kill you,” she explained. “Penicillin from an Urgent Care. A forged prescription for an EpiPen.”

She’d had them prepped for weeks, since she first slipped through the veil without meaning to. She took the penicillin, all four pills, and waited for the allergic reaction, the anaphylaxis, the EpiPen needle already in her thigh, her thumb waiting until her very last moment of consciousness to administer the medication. The time it took the adrenaline to make it through her system—that was her window in the Afterlife.

Kostya scrubbed his face, trying not to think about what could have happened if she’d been a moment too late.

“What was your plan?” he asked.

“Ev said the ghosts were all tied to you because of the aftertastes, and that they needed to be tied to the Afterlife instead. That they could follow their food home. So I borrowed your recipes and went back to the tour. To another chef I know. One who’s already dead.”

Kostya blinked at her. “Frankie?”

Maura nodded. “He was at DUH with a crowd, waiting on the other side of the veil for you to open your doors. I told him everything, and he agreed to try to cook your food. See if we couldn’t pull one of Ev’s ghosts back through. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t get the dish right.”

Kostya nodded grimly.

“Yeah. We tried it here, a bunch of times. The aftertastes have to be exact. Precise. He’d have to taste them himself to make them right. But—you stayed that long in the Afterlife? Long enough to watch him cook?”

“I almost didn’t make it back,” she whispered. “I heard you banging on the door as I was coming to. I held on to your voice.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, fighting the sting in his eyes. “And just now?”

“That was like the Met. I just… slipped through.” She shook her head. “It’s getting harder to stay alive. The Hunger—it wants to be there . As much as I don’t. And it keeps winning.” She bit her lip, remembering. “Things are bad in the Hall. Spirits starving. The restaurants falling apart. There’s this gash, right in the central square. Spirits shoving one another out of the way to get through.”

“The tear in the veil?”

“Had to be.”

“I met your sister, by the way. She’s nice. Could use a bath.”

Maura smiled. “Plus some eternal rest.”

“She, um”—Kostya traced Maura’s face, steeled himself for what came next—“she told me what to do. To move them On.”

“Yeah.” Maura frowned. “She told me, too. But that can’t be the only way. I can go again. Maybe Frankie could—”

“No,” he said gently. “Everleigh’s crew already tried tearing the veil. You tried luring them back with Frankie. It didn’t work; it won’t work. Because they’re tethered to me . It has to be me, Maur. The spirits I trapped, and the ones that are here now because of the veil—only I can help them.” He took a breath. “It was my choice to bring back the Dead. It’s on me now, to let them go.”

She searched his eyes for any hesitation. A doubt she could cling to. But he’d decided. Was sure.

“Okay,” she agreed. “But while you’re cooking up closure, someone’s gotta seal the veil. Otherwise they’ll just keep coming.”

“Frankie can do it.”

“ I’ll do it.” She took his hand. Squeezed. “I made this bed, too. I need to help fix it. Something Ev said gave me an idea, and—”

“No. No way. I won’t let you make a one-way trip. You just said your Hunger—”

“I can’t let it control me anymore. I need to shake it off. Put it back where it came from.” She cupped his face, her hands so cold. “I can do it now. I can let Ev go. As long as she moves On, my Hunger will, too.”

“But what if—”

“I have no intention of staying Dead, Stan. I want to live when this is over. You and me.” She stared hard into his eyes. “I trust you to get those spirits where they need to go. Can you trust me to help you?”

Kostya looked back at her. Finally, he nodded.

“I trust you.” He let out a breath. “But I go first. Anything goes wrong, you abandon ship.”

“Deal.”

“And while we’re on the topic—” He took her hands in his, tried to make them warm. “What’s the least painful way to die?”

“In your sleep, probably.” She smiled. “But we don’t have to die die. We just have to near die.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Remember those conventions I went to? The near-deathers? Well, this guy told me a way once. Near painless, he said. I couldn’t get the ingredients, but I bet you could.”

“What do we need?”

KOSTYA MADE TWO calls. Both started the same way.

“Hey, it’s Konstantin. Long time. I need a favor.”

MICHEL BEAUCHêNE TOOK a moment to consider the request.

“You just opened a restaurant,” he said at last. “Why would you need my walk-in?”

By some miracle, news about the disaster at DUH hadn’t reached him yet.

“You know I wouldn’t ask if I had any other choice.”

“Are you planning something illegal?”

“There’s nothing illegal about cold storage,” Kostya said evenly. “I’m just trying to keep something important on ice.”

“What’s your max time out?” Michel asked, businesslike, no doubt trying to guess what Konstantin was storing.

“Four hours. Five, tops,” Kostya lied. “Please,” he begged, “it won’t fit in mine.”

“And I don’t get to know what it is?”

“Plausible deniability.”

“Because you’re doing something illegal.”

“Because… in case.”

Michel was quiet on the line. And just as Kostya grew sure he would say no, gloat, deliver a lecture on the importance of bridges, of loyalty, of hard work, he said this instead:

“Okay.”

“Seriously?”

He could hear Michel smile. “You’re one of us now. Exec at a buzzy New York restaurant. It’s a small, lecherous little club, but we stick together. Heavy is the crown.”

“Well, shit. Thank you.”

“Just tell me one thing. The ghosts you claim to serve, those spiritual reunions—is it all true?”

The question surprised him. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re a terrible liar, so it must be.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe you can fit me in for a seat one night. At your house.”

Kostya’s eyes watered. This was everything he’d searched for in the kitchen—a connection, a way to help—coming too late.

“Anytime,” he choked out, knowing he might never keep that promise. “It would be an honor, Chef.”

Michel exhaled into the phone.

“Service door’s unlocked. Anyone asks, you let yourself in. Don’t do anything stupid.”

YUME KUTSUKI TOOK more convincing.

“I can’t,” she said flat out. “I’ll lose my license.”

“Yume, please . It’ll never get back to you.”

“And when someone shows up dead? When your knife slips and game over?”

“I’m not serving it! I’m just experimenting. With a new technique.”

“There are rules —a dozen exams you have to take before they let you anywhere near fugu.”

“Which is why I’m coming to you,” he said, then added, shamefully, “You had a feeling, didn’t you? About the Hungry Ghosts? You left the kitchen when I served.”

She didn’t answer.

“You were right, Yume.” He tried to keep his voice from breaking. “And I have to fix it. This is how.”

He could hear it in the silence, her consideration.

She hesitated. She didn’t want to get involved, tangled in whatever this might be. But she also wanted to put it to rest.

“Give me an hour.”

THEY GOT TO Saveur Fare after midnight, Maura hauling a bag of supplies, and Konstantin lugging the cooler Kutsuki had dropped off, salt water sloshing inside.

He led the way through the service entrance, down the familiar subway-tiled hall, and into the alcove where three large walk-ins stood side by side, gleaming. They entered the last one, an ice-cream freezer, its temperature set to fifteen below, or, in technical terms, fuck, it’s cold .

Cold enough to keep the poison from spreading too quickly through his veins.

Cold enough, once Kostya passed into the Afterlife, to keep his body preserved.

They stripped down to T-shirts—the colder they got, the better—and Maura lined the floor with butcher paper, stopping once or twice to breathe on her hands, her fingertips numb, the room so cold their breath hung like fog. Kostya set Kutsuki’s cooler on the floor and unzipped the bag containing his knives.

“You ready?” he asked her.

“Are you?” she countered.

He nodded once and pulled the lid off the cooler. They both peered in, their fates contained in the rather ugly fish swimming around inside.

Kostya lifted it out, spearing his finger on one of its spines, and, cursing in pain, pinched its belly hard, right where Kutsuki had shown him. The puffer swelled with air. He set it carefully down onto the butcher paper, where it writhed and flopped as violently as if it knew what was coming.

Kostya picked up his knife. “This is it.”

“Don’t get scared now,” Maura said softly.

“I didn’t realize I was heading to the Afterlife with Kevin McCallister.”

She gave a weak smile.

Kostya held the fish down and sliced its belly apart, dark blood sluicing over the butcher paper and onto the floor. He gazed inside, at its ribs, and guts, and still-beating heart, and, ignoring Kutsuki’s guidance completely, reached into the body cavity and removed its liver.

The single most poisonous part.

No known antidote.

No way to survive the toxins once they overran a body. But a way, maybe, to leverage them. If they could slow it down.

The plan was all about timing. He’d eat the liver in the walk-in, his blood flow and oxygen restricted by the cold. Hypothermia setting in alongside the poison. A one-two punch.

The moment he crossed to the Afterlife, Maura would set a timer. Five minutes in, she’d call an ambulance. That would give him ten, maybe fifteen minutes before help arrived. Long enough in the Afterlife, hopefully, to ferry the ghosts home. The paramedics would rush him to the hospital—another ten-minute ride—where they’d pump his stomach, get him on a respirator, replace his bodily functions until he metabolized the tetrodotoxin. In a few days, he should be home free.

You could survive it, the near-deather had told Maura, if you acted fast. He’d done it. Hundreds of people, all around the world. The key was medical attention in under an hour, and they’d keep it to forty-five minutes, to be safe. Plus the freezer would buy them more time.

And Maura would be right there, watching, just in case.

If all went to plan, she’d eat her portion of the liver right after she called for help, paramedics already on the way, and seal the veil before they even arrived. Everleigh had said it stretched like dough, so Maura thought it might patch like dough does, too. Like varenyky . The way Konstantin had taught her. She hoped she’d get the chance to try. But if things didn’t go to plan, if something went wrong, they’d agreed she’d stay behind.

“Only if it’s safe,” Kostya made her swear.

“Relax, Dad.” She’d grinned. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

But neither of them smiled now, as Kostya lifted the liver onto a plate, sliced it in half.

“Wait,” Maura told him, and leaned in, pressed her frozen lips to his. “I love you, Stan. Be careful. I’ll see you on the other side.”

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Meet you back here after for beer and burgers and the rest of our lives.”

She nodded, trying to mask the worry on her face as Kostya wiped the puffer’s blood from his hands and lifted the tiny morsel—pinkish grey, soft, like a smear of jelly—to his mouth.

IT WASN’T LOST on him, the poetry, the symmetry of this last bite.

Everything had begun with a taste of liver. Now it would end with one.

Kostya reached inside himself, to the place in his gut that felt inevitable, an entry point, its emptiness like a door. He reached for his dad. For Frankie. For the other side.

He could almost feel the hands of the Dead reaching out for him in turn.

He placed the pufferfish liver onto his tongue.

Wet, cold, slippery with blood.

Toxic, exotic, a once-in-a-lifetime taste.

He chewed hard, fast, before he lost his nerve.

Fatty, mineral, metallic, cream. Bitter, in the back of his throat.

Tears streamed down his face. Liquid fear.

Like salt , he told Maura, instead of goodbye, and swallowed.