I woke up feeling better than I had any right to. No nightmares of outstretched fingers coming for my throat and no cold sweats. No phantom sensation of ice lancing through my chest as if my heart had been pierced 100 times. Just clean, restful sleep that left me clear-headed and ready to face the day.

  The Morpheseum had done its job. I know Garrick said it was non-habit forming but…damn I could see it being an easy thing to get used to. The last time I slept this good I was a kid.

  I sat up, taking stock. Daylight filtered through the heavy curtains. It was late morning, maybe early afternoon. I must have slept in. My body felt rested, and my mind felt sharp and clear. Despite the terror of the night before? I felt better than I’d felt in a long time, both mentally and physically.

  Garrick was sitting cross-legged on his bed, and he was glowing faintly with that starlight aura that he had when we were battling Katrina. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and measured. My guess was he was meditating, or recharging, or whatever cosmic heroes did to maintain their connection to the universe and their starlight powers. I’d have to ask him about it sometime.

  I didn't want to disturb him, so I got dressed quietly and headed downstairs.

  The lobby was empty except for the elderly man behind the desk. He looked up from his book. It was a different one from last night (must be a fast reader) and nodded in greeting.

  "Good afternoon," he said. "I trust the accommodations were satisfactory?"

  "Very. Thank you. The room and bed was very comfortable."

  I approached the desk, suddenly aware that I was about to ask a stranger for cooking advice. I mean, it’s not something you just walk up and ask people, but why not. If I was going to pull off dinner for ghosts tonight, I needed help, and this guy seemed like a local. "I have a... unusual question."

  "I specialize in unusual requests," he said with a smile then snorted, “Sorry…hotel joke.”

  I found myself laughing just as I was about to defend myself and stress that I wasn’t looking for an escort. Anyway, it was time to get down to business. "I need to cook a traditional Czech meal. The real stuff. Comfort food. The kind of dishes someone's grandmother would have made." I paused. "For very discerning guests."

  The man studied me for a long moment. Then he set his book aside. "You're cooking for the Ghost Council."

  It wasn't a question. "Word travels fast.”

  I was used to the way things worked back in Salem. Most people didn’t know about the Supernatural world. They were too busy living life and paying bills to bother looking into the darker, foggier corners of the world. Hell, I couldn’t blame them. In Prague? It seemed like the supernatural world was part of their everyday lives and no big deal. He must have seen the surprised look on my face because he smiled again.

  "Princess Katrina sent word this morning that you'd need access to the Town Hall kitchen. She also mentioned you might need guidance." He stood, moving around the desk with surprising energy for someone who looked well into his seventies. "My name is Wilhelm. I've worked at The Augustine for forty-three years. Before that, my grandmother, and her mother, ran a restaurant in Malá Strana. My family has always believed in preserving the old traditions while making sure to move them forward as ingredients become more available."

  Relief flooded through me. "I would be incredibly grateful for any help you could offer."

  Wilhelm smiled. "Come. Sit. Let me tell you about real Prague cooking."

  We settled into chairs near the lobby's fireplace—unlit, but still giving off a faint warmth that felt more magical than mundane. Wilhelm pulled out a small notebook and a pen.

  "First," he said, "you must understand something. Prague cuisine is the food of survival. For centuries, we were not wealthy. We were craftsmen, farmers, and servants. The nobility ate imported delicacies. We ate what we could afford…and we learned to make it magnificent."

  I leaned forward, listening intently. I knew my way around a kitchen, and could make great mixed drinks, but even I knew when to shut up and listen to the wisdom of generations.

  "Offal. Tough cuts of meat. Root vegetables. Cabbage. These were peasant foods, yes? But in the hands of a good cook..." He kissed his fingers. "Poetry. My grandmother could make pork belly taste like it came from the king's table. Her duck was so tender, so perfectly spiced, that people would travel across the city for it."

  "What did she use? What were her techniques?"

  "Patience and time. Respect and love for the ingredients." Wilhelm tapped his pen against the notebook. "You cannot rush Prague food. The sauces need hours to develop. The cabbage must braise slowly. The knedliky—ah, the dumplings require a delicate hand and perfect timing."

  He began writing, his handwriting precise and elegant despite his age. "For the Ghost Council, you want dishes that speak to memory. Food that reminds them of being alive. Being human. Being part of this city's history."

  Over the next hour, Wilhelm laid out a feast. He explained each dish. He went through its history, its surprisingly complex technique, the particular way Prague cooks approached it that made it different from German or Austrian variations. He drew diagrams showing how to slice the meat, how to layer the flavors, and how to tell when the dumplings were done by touch rather than sight.

  “I have to say Wilhelm, I feel like you missed you calling, my friend,” I said, genuinely admiring the man’s passion for his food and the family history and memory attached to it. It reminded me exactly why I got into cooking in the first place. It’s a way to remember where you come from. As an orphan trying to figure out my own origins, I had always hoped it would bring me one step closer to knowing something, anything, about my parents. Wilhelm cleared his throat when he noticed my attention starting to drift.

  "One more thing," he said as he finished. "Ghosts…need flavor more intensely than we do. You'll want to increase the spices. More garlic. More paprika. More of everything. What would be overwhelming to us will be perfect for them. It’s like…the taste and finish of the flavor becomes an edible memory."

  “I don’t get it,” I said, genuinely puzzled, “I didn’t know that ghosts were able to eat. Many of them are insubstantial, aren’t they?”

  Wilhelm nodded. “You will see. Though I will warn you ahead of time…it can be…sad.”

  That raised my eyebrow. “Sad?”

  Wilhelm’s jovial expression faded for a moment. “You will see.”

  I looked at the pages of notes, my mind already racing through the logistics. "Where do I source the ingredients? What markets—"

  "There is a place in Staré Město. The Super (natural) Market. It operates during the day but serves... special clientele." He wrote down an address. "Tell them Wilhelm sent you. They'll know what you need."

  "Thank you," I said, and meant it deeply. "This is incredibly helpful. That’s uh, pretty clever disguise for a market like that in plain sight."

  "Prague takes care of its own, Mac Sullivan. And anyone cooking for Princess Katrina is, by extension, part of Prague." He stood, handing me the notebook pages. "Now go. You have much to do, and the markets get crowded after three."

  I headed back upstairs to find Garrick awake and stretching like he'd just finished a full night's sleep rather than a meditation session.

  "Morning," he said cheerfully. "Or afternoon, I suppose. You look purposeful, my friend."

  "We have a mission," I said, waving the notes. "We're going shopping. And then I'm cooking the meal of my life for a pack of the dead."

  "Sounds like a Tuesday for me." He grabbed his jacket. "Lead the way, partner."

  The Super (natural) Market wasn't hidden, exactly. It was just... easy to overlook if you didn't know what you were looking for. A narrow alley off the main square, marked with a sign in Czech that, according to Garrick's translation, said "Specialty Goods."

  We stepped through, and the world changed.

  The alley opened into a large courtyard that seemed too large for the space it occupied, filled with stalls and vendors selling things I'd never seen before. Vegetables that glowed faintly. Meat hanging from hooks that was definitely not from any animal I recognized. Bottles of liquids in tints and shades that reminded me of the bar top in our hotel room. And everywhere, the press of people (and other beings) shopping, haggling, examining goods with expert eyes.

  "Stay close," Garrick murmured. "Some of these vendors are... particular about clientele. Especially someone from out of town. Guard your pockets from anything shorter than 3 feet. They shouldn’t mess with you if I’m nearby, though."

  I nodded and kept close. We moved through the market, me with Wilhelm's list in hand, trying not to stare at the three-armed vendor selling eggs whose shells were a dark crimson, and they were the size of soccer balls. A woman whose hair was literally made of scarlet begonias locked her gorgeously radiant green eyes on me, and smiled as she passed by me. I’d have given anything in that moment for her to stop and simply tell me her name.

  Garrick jabbed me in the ribs. “Watch it, the Fae love a new toy. Especially an exotic traveller from the other side of the world who would taste…different from the local cuisine.”

  I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and veil that seemed to momentarily cloud my mind and vision. “Holy shit,” I blinked, “That was a real Fae? One of the Faire Folk? I’d heard they all went back beyond the veil.”

  Garrick snorted. “Yep, that’s exactly how they like it perceived. There are more of them around than you could imagine. And they are never to be trifled with. Which reminds me, we’re going to need to spend some time teaching you The Many Ways To Get Your Throat Cut During A Faire Folk Friday Feast.”

  That made me laugh. “That’s a hell of a name for a book.”

  Garrick rolled his eyes, “And a deadly serious one. Look, let’s get what we came for and leave. I’m really not up to trying to talk a Fae out of making you marry them because you gave them a flower.”

  “Considering your diplomatic skills back at The Crossroads, I’d prefer to avoid that circumstance as well,” I said with a wink, and he flipped me off. I guess some gestures are indeed, universal.

  But to Garrick’s credit? It appeared I had a lot to learn. So I focused back on the business at hand as we passed the first stall. This one sold produce. The vendor was a weathered old woman with eyes that reflected light like a cat's, a yellow glint as she tilted her head to look at me. “Hello,” I said, “I was wondering if you could help me find some things,” I said, handing her my list.

  She looked at my list and nodded approvingly.

  "Wilhelm sent you. Good. He knows quality." She began selecting items with practiced efficiency. Potatoes that were perfectly sized, not too large. Cabbage heads that were dense and heavy. Garlic bulbs that smelled so pungent my eyes watered. Finally she handed me a bag of red onions that smelt sharp and strong. "For ghosts, yes? You'll also want the red cabbage, not the green. Sweeter. Tastier, and it’ll play nicer with all the spice you’ll need to throw in the pot."

  "Thank you," I said, paying her in koruna that Garrick had exchanged for me earlier.

  "Cook with love," she said. "Ghosts can taste emotion as much as flavor."

  I smiled, “I always cook with love when I cook for others. Otherwise? Why bother?!”

  She smiled, her approval evident, then waved me on and pointed to the a red and white striped tent several yards down, “You’ll want to go to him next. You’re in for a treat.”

  The butcher was a massive man who looked like he could break me in half, but his touch with the meat was surprisingly gentle. As he leaned down to inspect a tenderloin he was about to slice, I noticed two small horns poking out from the back of his head. I handed him my list. “I’m looking to make something traditional. I want to make a nice stew. What would you suggest?”

  He nodded, and showed me three different cuts of pork. Then he smiled, twisted his hips slightly, pointed at his ass, and his cackling laughter filled the area. “You want butt, yes?”

  Garrick’s head was turned away from me but I could see his shoulders shaking hard with laughter.

  "I kid. Actually, you want this one," he said, indicating a beautiful cut of pork belly. " I buy this from a farm outside the city. The pigs are raised on apples and acorns. The meat will be sweet, tender. Perfect for a traditional goulash. Make sure you give it time, though. Is so important to take it slow. Let the flavors mingle. "

  This guy had it all: he had duck "From the Vltava region, grain-fed, heritage breed,” and beef sirloin that was so well-marbled it looked like spirograph art.

  I bought everything, my bags growing heavier with each stall. Garrick helped carry things, cheerfully chatting with vendors who eyed him with the wariness people reserved for the cosmically powerful. That also gave him free samples. Which was starting to make me jealous, as hungry as I was.

  By the time we returned to the Town Hall, it was nearly four in the afternoon. We had eight hours until dinner.

  A man met us at the entrance. He was young, maybe in his late twenties, with kind eyes and a welcoming smile. "You must be Mac and Garrick. I'm Dmitry. Dmitry Novák. I manage the Town Hall's day-to-day operations."

  "You know about the—"

  "The ghosts? Oh yes. Have for years." He held the door open for us, gesturing us inside. "Kitchen's this way. Princess Katrina had me arrange everything. You'll have full access, and I'm here to help however you need."

  The kitchen was impressive. It was large and well-equipped, with modern appliances sitting alongside more traditional equipment. A massive stove and multiple ovens. Prep space that could have helped me prepare for twenty.

  "This is perfect," I said, setting my bags down. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure. The Princess said you were cooking traditional cuisine. My mother used to make the old dishes. I grew up on them." Dmitry smiled. "If you can bring even a fraction of that to the council tonight, you'll have their loyalty forever."

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

  First, the prep. Washing vegetables. Trimming meat. Measuring spices. The familiar rhythm and rituals of kitchen work settled over me like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time since arriving in Prague, I felt completely in my element.

  Garrick watched from a nearby counter, fascinated. "What are you making?"

  "Five courses," I said, slicing garlic with quick, efficient movements. "Starting with ?esne?ka—garlic soup. It's simple but intensely flavored. I’m also adding sliced red onion…it should be perfect for ghost palates."

  "Ghost palates?" Garrick asked, “I did not realize they had preferences of palate.”

  "Wilhelm, the hotel proprietor? He told me ghosts need flavor more intensely than living people. So everything needs to be ramped up. More spices. Stronger tastes. What would overwhelm us should be perfect for them."

  Garrick's eyebrows shot up. "Ahh… just like Dragons, actually."

  I paused, looking at the pile of garlic I'd been cutting. "Dragons? Really? I figured they had gone extinct years ago. I mean, otherwise they’d be damn hard to miss?"

  "They don’t go around in their typical Wyrmform today,” Garrick scratched his chin, “Though they need to return to it every few months, they tend to take a human form nowadays."

  I gestured at him with my knife. "Care to elaborate? How do you know about this?"

  "Ah. Well." He settled more comfortably on his stool. "I have a friend. Zeke. Saved him from a Voidhunter about five years ago, and we've stayed in touch. He's obsessed with spicy food, and I mean obsessed. He makes his own hot sauce that could strip paint right off a wall. He eats Carolina Reapers like you would an apple."

  "Why?" I asked, genuinely intrigued now. Dragons still walking around? And apparently they would be the most boring guests on Hot Ones.

  "Dragon physiology. They have what's called a helfurnace in their chest, even while in human form, that provides the heat for their fire breath. But it also means their tastebuds are significantly less sensitive than ours. They can't taste subtle flavors. Everything has to be extreme, or they barely register it."

  I thought about that while I continued prepping. "So ghosts can't eat physical food as I understand it, they just experience the flavor. And dragons need extreme flavors to taste anything at all. Similar result, different cause."

  "Exactly. Zeke would probably love your cooking tonight," Garrick said, “and who knows? Perhaps if we make it out of this little caper? I’ll introduce you.”

  "I’d be eager to meet him. I imagine one as long lived as he has a story or two to tell of the world." I started browning the garlic in butter, the smell filling the kitchen with rich, savory warmth. "For now, let's focus on not disappointing the Ghost Council."

  The next hour was a blur of cooking. The soup came together first—garlic, cream, potatoes, bread for croutons. I tasted it, added more garlic (so much more garlic), and tasted again. The steam from the broth burned the insides of my nose as I inhaled. It was overwhelming.

  It. Was. Perfect.

  While the soup simmered, I started the duck. This was Polina's dish, and the one that I hoped would show I'd done my research. Duck had been more common in the 1600s, less of a luxury than it became later. I rubbed the bird with salt, pepper, and caraway seeds, which I learned was a traditional Prague spice. I then carefully set it in the oven to roast.

  "Can I help?" Garrick asked, looking almost eager.

  "Sure. Can you slice these potatoes?" I handed him a knife and a cutting board.

  He picked up a potato, positioned the knife, and brought it down.

  The knife slipped. Went through the potato and directly through his left index finger, severing it completely.

  "GARRICK! Fuck! Let me get something to make a tourniquet. Where’s the nearest hospital?"

  Blood spurted across the cutting board. The finger rolled away, still twitching slightly. Garrick looked down at his hand with mild surprise.

  I was already moving, grabbing towels, looking for first aid supplies, my mind racing through what I knew about emergency medicine. We needed pressure, we needed to elevate, we needed to find that finger and get ice and get him to a hospital—

  "Mac," Garrick said calmly. "It's fine."

  "IT'S NOT FINE, YOU CUT OFF YOUR FINGER!"

  "Yes, but, watch,” Garrick said, as calm as if he was instructing a class.

  He held up his hand. The stump of his finger was already... growing. I watched, horrified and fascinated, as flesh, bone, and nail regenerated in a matter of seconds. Bone cracked as it popped into place, and tendons reformed to give the finger motion. Within thirty seconds, he had a complete, functional finger again.

  He wiggled it and laughed. "See? Good as new."

  I stared at him. At the severed finger still lying on the cutting board. At his regenerated hand.

  "You can regrow limbs."

  "Well, fingers. Toes. Probably hands and feet, though I've never had to test that." He picked up the severed finger and tossed it in the trash. "Sorry about the mess."

  Dmitry had appeared in the doorway, attracted by my shout. He took in the blood, the regenerated finger, and Garrick's sheepish expression.

  "Perhaps," he said diplomatically, "Garrick should stay away from the knives."

  "Perhaps," I agreed, my heart still hammering. "Garrick, you're on moral support duty. And maybe stirring. Can you stir without injuring yourself?"

  "I make no promises," Garrick smirked.

  Dmitry helped me clean up the blood and took over the potato slicing. He worked with practiced efficiency, his movements economical and precise.

  "You've done this before," I observed.

  "I help the council with their gatherings. I don't do the cooking, though. Tthey prefer when someone from outside does that. But preparation, setup and cleanup." He glanced at me. "This is important to them, you know. Not just the investigation. But the acknowledgment. The respect. For centuries, ghosts have been forgotten. Overlooked. Treated as curiosities or threats. You're treating them as people."

  "They are people," I said. "Just... people who happen to be dead."

  "Exactly." Dmitry smiled. "That's why this will matter."

  The afternoon dissolved into cooking. Each dish required focus, timing and plenty of attention to detail. The sví?ková sauce needed constant whisking. The dumplings required a delicate touch if I understood right, too much kneading and they'd be tough, too little and they'd fall apart. The pork belly needed hours of slow roasting.

  I moved between stations, monitoring everything, adjusting flavors, tasting and retasting. The kitchen filled with smells that made my mouth water despite the fact that I'd been cooking for hours. The scent of herbs and spices and meat and vegetables all mingled in a harmony that was intoxicating. I lived for these moments. This coming together of disparate parts into an incredible (even if overwhelming in my opinion) whole.

  I took a small spoonful of the bubbling broth (never serve anything you haven’t tasted yourself, or I’ll throw you out of my kitchen) and was immediately surprised by the sweetness of the garlic. So much of it, it seemed like all I could taste. But there was also a sharp slice of onion too that stung my nostrils, and the meat was already filling the broth with an earthy, rich umami that sent this riot of flavor over the edge. I would eat this myself. Granted, it wouldn’t win me any dates or close conversation that day, but this was intense in the best of ways.

  Garrick was suddenly beside me with a hopeful look on his face. It reminded me when Javi’s nephew would visit in the summer and we were in the middle of making Javi’s signature pozole. He would suddenly be right beside us, staring, transfixed at the pot on the stove. “I gather you’d like to try it?” I asked him, stunned at the almost childlike glee on his face, and even more so by the furious nodding that followed.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, of course,” Garrick said, recovering composure.

  I grabbed a clean spoon and gave a nod towards the pot, “Have at it. It’s hot, though, be careful.”

  As soon as the spoon touched his lips, Garrick’s eyes widened. His nose crinkled and his hand immediately clasped over his mouth. He turned away from the pot, and tilted his head towards the ceiling, breathing out of his mouth as if he were gargling the broth. He then proceeded to hop on one foot several times, before letting out a loud “WEEE! That is HOT…and…spicy. Is that the word? Yes. Spicy! I haven’t breathed this clearly through my nose in days!”

  I laughed. “Then I think it’s on point for the ghosts, yeah? Heh, something tells me this would not go over well with the Vampires.”

  My cosmic friend’s eyebrows shot up. He then dashed over to a nearby cupboard and pulled out a small round container. He proceeded to shove me aside, took the ladle I was using to stir, and ladled himself a large portion into the plastic container and sealed the lid. He smiled, “Good idea. If we find ourselves in a scrap and manage to splash one in the eyes with this, they’d not only be blind, but would have trouble breathing and using their sense of smell. Who knew your cooking would come in so handy?”

  I shrugged. “It’s what I do. But please don’t take anymore. I’m…not sure how much ghosts eat? I hope we’ve made enough.”

  From that point on, it was a race against the clock. Running back and forth, checking the duck, checking the soup and tasting all the dishes I was preparing. Garrick and Dmitry helped where they could: carrying things, washing dishes, keeping me supplied with clean utensils. And slowly, impossibly, the meal came together.

  By nine-thirty, everything was ready. Five courses, each perfectly timed to be served at its peak. The soup was hot and fragrant. The duck was golden, crispy and rich with flavor in ways only perfectly cooked duck can be. The sví?ková sauce was rich and would compliment the meats wonderfully with its almost satin-like texture. The pork was fall-apart tender. And the dessert, trdelník, still warm from the oven, smelled like cinnamon and sugar and carnival rides during one of my better foster home experiences.

  "Time to serve," I said, wiping my hands on a towel.

  Dmitry led us to the council chamber, a formal room with a long wood table, high ceilings, and an air of gravitas that came from centuries of important decisions being made within its walls.

  The Ghost Council was already assembled.

  Princess Katrina sat at the head of the table, her red dress as elaborate as before, her flame-eyes burning steady. To her right sat an elderly woman—Polina, I assumed—who looked like she'd been ancient even when she died. Her form was the most faded of all the ghosts, sepia-toned and flickering.

  The others arrayed around the table: a stern-looking man in formal industrial-era clothing, whom Katrina introduced as Oleksii. The next was a woman in an elaborate 18th-century green dress, jewelry glinting at her throat, whom Katrina introduced as Mother Julya, a porcelain trader. A younger man sat to their right, dressed in what I thought may have been combat attire, straight out of the 1940s. The last was a woman in a practical white dress of that wouldn’t look out of place in an old west American frontier movie…except it had a distinctly European look.

  Six ghosts. Six sets of eyes watching me as I approached with the first course.

  "Uh…hello, members of the council," I said, trying to keep my voice steady and remember my general etiquette when dealing with anyone in the supernatural world. "Thank you for allowing me to cook for you tonight. I've prepared something that I hope does honor to traditional Prague cuisine. A journey of food into this city's history, made with respect and... well, a lot of garlic."

  Polina's lips twitched. "Are you anxious, young man? About serving food to such discerning ghosts?"

  I looked at her flickering form, at the centuries of existence weighing behind her eyes, and decided honesty was the best approach.

  "I'm sure if you hate it," I said, "this moment—and all of you—will haunt me for the rest of my life."

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then Polina dissolved into laughter. Actual, wheezing, delighted laughter that made her form flicker wildly. The other ghosts joined in with airy deep chuckles, bright discordant giggles, and the kind of genuine amusement that only comes from a perfectly timed joke. But just…ya know…creepy as shit coming from phantoms.

  "Oh, I like this one," Polina said, wiping phantom tears from her eyes. "Katrina, you chose well."

  The tension in the room evaporated. Suddenly, these weren't terrifying spirits from beyond death. They were just people. Dead people, yes, but people, ready to enjoy a meal and some company.

  I served the soup first, setting bowls in front of each ghost. They grabbed the spoons in the place setting for each of them…and spectral silverware appeared in their hands. They dipped their spectral silverware into the soup, and as they brought it to their mouths I could see steam rising from it…but the soup in the bowl had not been disturbed.

  The reactions were immediate. Eyes widened. Expressions of surprise, pleasure, nostalgia.

  "This is..." the stern industrial-era ghost, Oleksii, closed his eyes. "This is exactly as my mother made it. Exactly."

  "The garlic," Polina said. "I have not tasted garlic in so long. This is marvelous."

  Mother Martina, the porcelain trader nodded approvingly. "You understand that we ghosts need intensity. Flavor that cuts through the emptiness. This is good work, young cook, and fills me with the nostalgia of a life I now know I took for granted."

  I served the next course: the duck with cabbage. As I set the plate in front of Polina, I said, "This one's for you. Duck prepared in the oldest traditional style. I seasoned it with caraway seeds, and used a simple, what I’m assuming was traditional, roasting technique. The way it would have been served when you were alive."

  Polina looked up at me, and something in her flickering eyes might have been tears. "You researched. For me."

  "For all of you. This meal is about honoring Prague's history. You are Prague's history. And most important," I held my finger for emphasis, “I want you to know that I mean you no harm. And that my partner Garrick and I are here to help you, however we can.”

  She took a bite of the spectral duck—the real food still sitting on the plate, untouched, but its essence somehow consumed. Her eyes closed. "It's been four hundred years," she whispered. "Four hundred years since I tasted duck. I had forgotten... I had forgotten what it was like. There’s a richness to duck that few can appreciate unless you have to live on it."

  Around the table, the other ghosts were experiencing similar moments. The food was like reliving their memory. A connection to their old past. A bridge between what they'd been and what they'd become. Evgeny, the WW2 resistance fighter, raised his glass of spectral wine. "To the cook. May his food always honor the dead and nourish the living."

  "To the cook!" the others echoed.

  I served the remaining courses: the sví?ková, the pork, the trdelník, and with each one, the conversation grew warmer. They asked about my cooking, my training, my time at The Crossroads. I asked about their lives, their deaths, their centuries of existence as ghosts.

  Martina, the feminist revolutionary, told stories about the 1848 uprising that had me laughing and horrified in equal measure. Mother Julya described the porcelain trade routes with the passion of someone who'd built an empire on fragile beauty. Oleksii talked about the factories, the workers, the slow grinding transformation of Prague from old world to modern.

  And through it all, I realized something: despite the centuries separating them, despite the different eras and experiences and worldviews, they all wanted the same fundamental things. Good food. Good company. Stories to share. Moments of connection in the face of isolation.

  Even in death, empathy survived. Humanity survived.

  "This has been wonderful," Katrina said as the meal wound down. "You have proven yourself a friend here, Mac Sullivan. The Ghost Council will work with you in this investigation. We would appreciate your full transparency throughout."

  I nodded. “Of course, I appreciate all of your transparency with me as well up to this point,” I said, then immediately felt horrified at my choice of words when I saw the look on Polina’s face, “Your honesty about mistrusting me initially! Sorry, I meant no offense.”

  Polina snorted, “Got him.”

  I laughed along with the rest of the table, apparently humor survives death as well. Then suddenly their expressions went serious.

  "Let’s get to business," Polina said, her voice becoming serious. "We have information. About the vampire responsible for Dorota's imprisonment."

  I leaned forward, my full attention on her.

  "We don't know who specifically," she continued. "But we know they're close to Prince Samuel. Part of his inner circle. We've seen a noble vampire—Lord Konstantin Vasile—lingering near the Town Hall. Following ghosts. Asking questions about our movements, our anchors, our histories."

  "Konstantin," Garrick repeated. "What's his position?"

  "Samuel's diplomatic envoy," Katarina said. "He represents Prague at the Council of Vienna. Very old blood. Very powerful. And very ambitious."

  "You think he's behind the trapping?" I asked.

  "We suspect. But we have no proof. Only observations. Patterns." Polina's form flickered. "If you're to stop this, you need more than suspicion. You need evidence."

  I thought about what we knew. The runed cork. The pattern of disappearances. Samuel's lies about motive.

  And now a suspect: Lord Konstantin Vasile, close to Samuel, asking about ghosts.

  It fit. Almost too well.

  "We'll investigate," I said. "Carefully. And we'll find the truth."

  "See that you do," Katrina said. "Before more of our people vanish."

  The council began to disperse, their forms fading as they returned to wherever ghosts went when they weren't manifesting. Dmitry appeared to help with cleanup. As I looked, I saw that the feast was completely untouched. But as I looked closer, I noticed the color of all the food has changed to a nondescript grey. It was as if all essence from the food was gone. I noticed the smell of the garlic was completely absent. It was, as the hotel proprietor mentioned…sad. Damned to taste, but be forever hungry.

  Polina lingered. She drifted closer to me, her ancient eyes studying my face.

  "Thank you," she said softly. "For the duck and the memory. And most importantly, for treating us as people."

  "You are people," I said. "That's what matters."

  She smiled a genuine, warm smile that made her look almost alive. "Prague is lucky to have you, Mac Sullivan. Even if only for a little while."

  Then she faded, and Garrick and I were alone in the council chamber.

  "Well," Garrick said. "That went better than expected."

  "We have a suspect," I said. "Lord Konstantin Vasile."

  "We have a lead," he corrected. "But Mac... doesn't it bother you that it's almost too convenient? The ghosts see a suspicious vampire, and he just happens to be close to Samuel?"

  I'd been thinking the same thing. "You think it's a setup?"

  "I think we need to be careful. Investigate Konstantin, yes. But don't assume he's guilty just because he looks guilty." Garrick stretched. "Tomorrow, we dig deeper. Tonight, we celebrate the fact that you just won over the Ghost Council with food. I knew it was a good idea to bring you along. Stars know if I had to cook they would have banned me from the city."

  As we left the Town Hall and headed back to the Augustine through Prague's quiet streets, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were missing something. Samuel had lied about having no motive. The ghosts suspected Konstantin. Someone was out there, trapping and draining spirits.

  And we had to find them before Dorota's time ran out.