“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Stefan’s arms tightened briefly around me. “I am in your debt, Hel’s liaison,” he murmured against my hair. “I am grateful.”
We returned to the table. I nodded at Janek Król and forced myself to say the words again. “I’ll do as you ask.”
“Thank you!” His voice was thick with emotion. He took my hands in his and kissed them, his eyes bright with tears. “You are my angel.”
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity and cry at the awfulness of it all over again. “Wrong team, I’m afraid.”
Janek shook his finger at me. “Do not say such things about yourself,” he said in a stern voice. “I have seen more than I hope you will ever witness of the good and bad in human nature. The Jews have a phrase, tikkun olam. Perhaps you have heard it?” I shook my head. “In the camp, there was an old man, a scholar, who spoke to me of such things. It means to repair the world.”
The reference was a little too close to my nightmare for my liking. “Jews believe the world is broken?”
“For some, tikkun olam means only a commitment to social justice and the common welfare,” he said. “But according to the old scholar, in kabbalah it is believed that when God created the world, He placed a part of Himself in vessels of divine light. These vessels shattered in the act of creation, and their shards became sparks of light trapped in the material world, unable to pass through the Inviolate Wall and return to God. That is the cause of much evil in the world. But through prayer and mitzvot, the sparks may be released.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I admitted.
“The divine sparks are like the souls of the Outcast.” Janek tapped his chest with one finger. “Trapped on the mortal plane. In freeing mine, you are performing a mitzvah, an act of kindness. You are engaged in tikkun olam, repairing the world. It is the great work of humanity. So, please.” His voice took on a dismissive edge. “Do not tell me you are on the wrong team, Daisy Johanssen.”
I wished I had his certainty. It would be nice to think I was repairing the world instead of posing the threat of destroying it.
But then, it would be nice if I didn’t have to kill him, too.
Stefan cleared his throat. “How do you wish to proceed, Janek?” he asked quietly. “Do you desire time to prepare?”
Janek Król shook his head. “I am ready,” he said. “I have been ready for a long time. And once upon a time, you were a member of a religious order, old friend. Will you hear my final confession?”
Stefan inclined his head. “I will.” He glanced at me. “Daisy, will you procure dauda-dagr?”
I went to fetch the dagger from the hidden sheath in my messenger bag while Stefan helped Janek rise from his wheelchair and kneel on the hardwood floor. I hung back discreetly in the foyer while Janek made his confession. I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered, since he did it in Polish, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
My hands were sweating and the worn leather wrapped around dauda-dagr’s hilt felt cold and slick against my palm.
Oh, God, I really, really didn’t want to do this.
In the main room, Janek’s voice fell silent. I watched Stefan sketch the sign of the cross in the air.
“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he said in a firm tone, going to one knee. Taking Janek’s face in his hands, he planted a kiss on his brow. “Amen.”
“Amen,” Janek whispered in response. “Thank you, old friend. If I achieve heaven, I promise, I will petition God on your behalf. I will petition Him on behalf of all of those who are Outcast.”
Stefan smiled with affection and sorrow. “I know you will.” Rising, he beckoned to me. “Daisy?”
I wanted to drag my feet like a little kid, but Janek deserved better, so I did my best to approach him with dignity, dauda-dagr in hand.
On his knees, Janek smiled up at me. “Be at peace, child. I tell you, it is an act of great mercy you perform.” With difficulty, he unbuttoned his shirt, baring a pale, sunken chest laced with scar tissue. “Here.”
Like Stefan, I dropped to one knee before Janek. Unlike Stefan, I did it because I figured I’d need the leverage.
Janek circled my wrist with two fingers and a thumb, guiding my hand to place dauda-dagr’s tip beneath his breastbone. A thin wisp of frost rose as it burned his skin with cold. He let out a sigh.
I met his gaze. “Is this truly what you want?”
“Yes.” Janek’s dark eyes were luminous, his pupils dilated not with hunger, but ecstasy. “Please. Send me home.”
Stefan moved to support him from behind, strong hands grasping Janek’s shoulders. I was grateful for it. Blue light glinted along dauda-dagr’s keen edges, shimmered in the runes etched on its length.
Gathering my strength, I shoved it hilt-deep into Janek Król’s chest, upward and under his breastbone. For an instant, his eyes widened and his mouth shaped an ecstatic O. Dauda-dagr’s hilt tingled against my palm as it drank in Janek’s death, his final death.
And then Janek’s long-suffering body vanished in the blink of an eye, departing the mortal plane.
That’s what happens when you end the existence of one of the Outcast, and it’s every bit as disconcerting as it sounds. Even though I’d known what was coming, it took me unprepared. I was still braced for the thrust. Unable to halt my momentum, I overbalanced and fell forward into the space where Janek had been.
Stooping swiftly, Stefan caught me, the hands that had supported Janek’s shoulders grasping mine and steadying me. Dauda-dagr fell from my grip to clatter on the floor between us, its blade dark with blood, smearing the polished hardwood.
“Are you all right, Daisy?” Stefan asked me.
“Yes.” I sat back on my heels, burying my face in my hands. It felt as though I’d taken an immense weight on my soul. “No.”
Stefan’s hands flexed on my shoulders, firm and reassuring. “It was an act of mercy,” he said. “An act of grace.”
I lifted my face to peer up at him, hoping to hell or God or whoever would listen that he was right. “Sorry about your floor.”
“Daisy . . .” The expression on Stefan’s face was a complicated mix of grief and exasperated fondness. He released me and pulled a bandanna from a pocket. One thing about Stefan, he always seemed to have a clean bandanna on him. I think it’s some kind of biker etiquette. “Here.”
I wiped dauda-dagr clean, then wiped up the bloody smear it had left on the floor. “I don’t think it will stain.”
Taking my arm gently, Stefan eased me to my feet and relieved me of the bandanna, balling it up in his other fist. He held my gaze, his own intent. “Can you at least try to believe me?”
“I do believe you,” I said. “I would never have done it if I didn’t. It’s just . . . hard.” I reached up to touch his cheek. “I’m sorry. This must be much harder for you. Janek was your friend.”
“Yes,” Stefan said simply. “Thank you.”
For the space of a few more heartbeats, we continued to gaze at each other. There was a lot of heavy emotion in the room. Like, seriously heavy. Intense, fraught emotion, laced with underlying tension between us. I could see the strain it was putting on Stefan’s control in his glittering pupils, his quickened breathing.
I lowered my hand. “This would be a good time for me to leave, wouldn’t it?”
Stefan inclined his head. “I am sorry.”
I took a deep breath. “Crap, our timing really sucks, doesn’t it?”
He gave me a faint, dimpled smile filled with profound regret. “Yes, Daisy Johanssen. Our timing . . . sucks. But if you are willing, I would like to see you under better circumstances.”
I nodded. “I’d like that. But, um, I think I need a little time and space to process what happened here today.”
“Would a week’s time suffice?” Stefan inquired.
It was an impossible question to answer. How the hell was I supposed to know if a week was enou
gh time? That wasn’t the kind of thing you could anticipate. Or maybe you could, if you’d lived as long as Stefan had. Maybe someone should write an eldritch dating handbook. I could see the chapter heading now: “How Long Should You Wait to Go on a First Date After Mercy-Killing Your Immortal Suitor’s Friend?”
Then again, even among the eldritch, I was an unusual case. Dauda-dagr made me different. All things considered, I should probably reconcile myself to the fact that I didn’t lead an ordinary mundane life and never would, and stop looking for ways to make my life fit within some imaginary framework of cultural normalcy.
Meanwhile, Stefan was still waiting for an answer. “Honestly?” I said. “I have no idea. Let’s try it and find out.”
He inclined his head again. “Next Saturday, then.”
“Okay.”
Stefan escorted me to the door and helped me into my jacket. “Until then,” he murmured. “Be well.”
Outside, the cold air made my eyes water. I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder and walked slowly to my car. I couldn’t think about what had transpired today, not yet. Hell, maybe never.
And yet, despite everything, I’d just agreed to go out on a date with Stefan next Saturday.
My life definitely wasn’t normal.
Twenty-eight
I might have avoided thinking about Janek Król during daylight hours, but my dreams that night were haunted and fragmented.
No surprise, I guess.
It wasn’t a reprise of my nightmare, not quite, but there were elements of it. I dreamed of vessels of blazing light bursting into shards; and I dreamed of the dome of heaven cracking asunder with a thunderclap.
I dreamed of the faces of my loved ones turning away from me in disappointment.
It’s tikkun olam, I protested in my dream, dauda-dagr’s hilt clenched in one fist. I’m repairing the world!
My mother shook her head at me, and I realized blood was dripping from the dagger’s blade, falling silently in the dune hollow in which I stood, drops of blood making dark pits in the sand.
I dropped the dagger in horror. In his wheelchair, Janek Król stared at me with his hollow, haggard gaze and pointed a stern finger at me, then turned his hand palm outward, transforming it to a symbol from my mother’s reading: El Mano, power, the thing I yearned for and feared. In my dream, his hand was hale and unravaged.
Heavyhearted, I knelt to retrieve dauda-dagr.
With great power comes great responsibility, Bethany Cassopolis whispered in my ear from behind. Right, devil-girl?
Still on my knees, I whirled on her, but no one was there. I fell, catching myself on my free hand.
Dauda-dagr’s tip scored the sand.
Daughter, my father’s voice rumbled from beyond, you have but to ask.
Absently, as though I stood outside my own body, I watched myself inscribe a sigil in the loose sand, stand, and call my father’s name.
Overhead, the sky cracked open all over again and the trumpets of Armageddon sounded with a clarion blast.
“No!”
My cry of denial jolted me awake, a whimpering sound stuck in my throat. I was tangled in my sheets, my heart was racing, and my skin was damp with sweat. On the bed beside me, Mogwai let out a low, purposeful yowl. Reaching out with one forepaw, he extended and retracted his claws to prick and knead my sheet-shrouded arm.
It was strangely reassuring. My racing heart slowed. Mogwai withdrew his paw and began purring deep in his chest, regarding me with slitted green eyes.
“Thanks, Mog.” I disentangled my arm and stroked him. “As kind-of, sort-of familiars go, you’re not half bad.” Mogwai flicked one notched ear in acknowledgment and continued purring contentedly.
Once I’d gotten out of bed, washed, and dressed to face the day, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wasn’t scheduled to work until tomorrow, but between Janek Król’s death and my disquieting dreams, I was filled with restless energy and a sense of foreboding. I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what. I wanted to talk to someone, but I didn’t know who.
My mother always said that when you didn’t know what else to do, you might as well clean house, so I put my restless energy to good use and gave the apartment the kind of top-to-bottom thorough scouring it only got . . . well, that it pretty much never got. I even pulled out the refrigerator so I could vacuum and scrub the floor behind it, which, by the way, was pretty gross.
At least it was productive, and it freed my mind enough so I could think about who I might talk to.
The only person who could really, truly understand the decision I’d made yesterday was Stefan, but he was the one person I didn’t want to see today. It sure as hell wasn’t something I wanted to discuss with my mom. I mean, yes, I can talk about almost anything with her, but somehow I couldn’t see myself telling her I’d mercy-killed a hundred-and-some-year-old Dachau survivor.
Or Jen, or Sinclair, or . . . anyone fully human, really.
I could have talked to Cody about it, I thought wistfully. The wolf in him would have understood. But I was too hurt and, frankly, too pissed off at Cody for that to be an option.
Lurine was the logical choice, but she was also a good friend of my mother’s. I didn’t have any problem asking her to keep minor confidences—after all, she was my friend, too—but this was major. And there was the fact that when it came to me, Lurine didn’t trust Stefan any further than she could throw him. Actually, scratch that; Lurine in her true form could probably heave Stefan a considerable distance. Let’s just say she didn’t trust him and I didn’t particularly feel like defending him to her.
Cooper was a possibility. I’d come to consider him a friend, and there was no doubt in my mind that he would understand. Then again, that was the problem. Cooper might understand too well. He’d been Outcast at seventeen, and while the body he was trapped in might be strong and healthy, more than two hundred years as a never-aging seventeen-year-old boy had given him a nihilistic streak. When he’d been ravening, he’d practically dared me to use dauda-dagr to take him out. I didn’t want to give him any ideas.
So no, not Cooper.
By the end of the day, my apartment was spotless, and I was no closer to a resolution than I’d been when I started. All I knew was that I didn’t want to be alone—no offense to Mogwai—in my apartment for another minute.
On a total impulse, I drove to the grocery store, bought a case of beer, and headed out to the abandoned Presbyterian camp to pay a visit to Skrrzzzt the bogle.
Honestly, I have no idea what made me think of the bogle, except that he’d been strangely easy to talk to and I was pretty sure I could count on him to be nonjudgmental about the whole mercy-killing thing. Not that I planned on bringing it up or anything. At this point, I just didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts anymore, and the idea of kicking back with Skrrzzzt and cracking open a couple of beers was oddly appealing.
Of course, what had seemed like a good idea in the warmth and comfort of my living room seemed decidedly less so in the dark woods with a cold wind blowing off Lake Michigan. I parked in the lot near the mess hall and left the beer on the hood of my Honda. Snow crunched underfoot as I made my way to the porch and knocked on the door.
“Hey, um . . . Skrrzzzt?” I called. “Are you in there?”
There was no answer. I tried the handle and found it unlocked, so I pushed the door open and jumped back, bracing myself in case Skrrzzzt was on the other side, waiting to pounce at me again.
Nope, no bogle.
I waited a moment for my eyes to fully adjust to the darkness before entering the mess hall. The folding chairs were stacked and the dining tables stood empty. No beer cans, no evidence that a bogle had been there. I took a quick peek in the deserted kitchen and found that was empty, too.
This had been a dumb idea. No way was I going to search the entire camp on my own for one elusive bogle. I backtracked to my car.
“Hey, Skrrzzzt!” I said aloud. “I don’t know if you can h
ear me, but it’s Daisy Johanssen. I just wanted to say thanks for helping me out with the Night Hag. I brought some beer. I’ll just, um, leave it on the porch for you.”
There was no response, unless you count tree branches creaking eerily in the cold darkness. Feeling more than a little foolish, I hoisted the case of beer and hauled it over to the porch of the mess hall.
“Boo!” a familiar voice said inches from my ear.
I let out a shriek and dropped the beer, whirling around and tripping over the porch steps in the process.
Skrrzzzt doubled over laughing as I landed hard on my butt on the steps. “Oh, man!” Orange flames of mirth danced in his eyes. He held up two immense, knobby hands in apology. “I’m sorry, mamacita. My bad. I couldn’t resist. Oh, but if you could have seen the look on your face!”
Gathering what was left of my dignity, I stood. “Yeah, well, I’m glad it amused you. I’ll see you around, okay?”
The bogle sobered. “Oh, hey! Don’t go away mad. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He grimaced. “Shit! Is this going on my record?”
“Let’s say we’re even and call it a day,” I said, reaching in my coat pocket for my car keys.
“Aw, man!” Skrrzzzt spread his long-fingered hands in a pleading gesture. “Come on, cut a brother some slack.” I hesitated. He contorted his grotesque features into a winning smile. “C’mon! You brought beer and everything. Join me for a cold one?”
Feeling somewhat mollified, I shrugged. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
“Great!” The bogle scooped up the fallen case of beer and perched it on one gnarled shoulder. “Let’s head over to the rec room,” he said. “After that spill you took, I bet your badonkadonk could use a comfy chair—am I right?”
My bruised tail twitched in agreement. “Don’t remind me.”
The rec room was a cabin with a handful of overstuffed chairs that smelled faintly of mildew. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with battered paperbacks and stacks of board games. It would have been cozy in a dilapidated sort of way if there had been a fire in the fireplace, but at least it was warmer inside away from the wind than it was outdoors.
Poison Fruit: Agent of Hel Page 23
