Poison Fruit

“There are places in this world that have seen sufficient horror to fuel death magic for centuries,” Stefan said. “Janek was sent to Dachau.” With an abrupt motion, he downed the contents of his shot glass at a gulp. Apparently, there were times when that was called for, and this was one of them. “The Nazis conducted medical experiments at Dachau,” he said in a dispassionate voice. “They were excited by the possibilities presented by a man who could not die. Until the encampment was liberated in 1945, the Nazis tried many experiments to see if Janek’s ability could be transferred to another subject. Many, many experiments. Blood transfusions, organ transplants, limb grafting—”

“Stop!” I felt sick. “I’m sorry,” I said to Janek Król. “Oh, God! I don’t mean to be rude. I mean, your story should be told. The world should bear witness to it or something, but . . . why me? Why here and now?”

Janek gazed at me without blinking, his pupils wide and fixed in his dark eyes. “So that you will understand what I have suffered when I ask you to put an end to this immortal existence of mine.”

“When you—” I swallowed hard. “You’re asking me to kill you?”

“Yes, young Daisy.” Janek Król inclined his head to me. “I am asking you to kill me.”

      Twenty-seven

I found myself on my feet with no memory of having risen from my chair, pacing back and forth in Stefan’s condo, my tail lashing while the two Outcast at the table watched me without speaking.

“I don’t get it.” I stopped pacing and flung my arms out. “How is asking me to kill you any less suicidal than sacrificing yourself to the Gestapo?”

Janek Król sat upright and dignified in his wheelchair. “It is not.”

“So . . . why?”

He folded his hands in his lap. “I have prayed on this for many days, since first my good friend Stefan told me of your existence, and the great and terrible weapon you possess. I believe it is a sign from God that He has forgiven me. I believe He is calling me home.”

I stared at him. It was hard to believe that after all Janek had been through, his faith remained so strong; and even harder to believe the logic behind his conclusion. “By means of a hell-spawn with a dagger given to her by the Norse goddess of the dead? That’s God’s way of telling you it’s okay to commit assisted suicide?”

“Yes.” Janek’s eyes glittered fervently. “Beyond the Inviolate Wall, God cannot intervene directly on the mortal plane, but He can use any tools that come to hand. Including a pagan goddess, and yes, the offspring of a fallen angel.”

I plopped back into my chair, poured myself a shot of liqueur without asking and downed it. “What about you?” I asked Stefan. “Do you think my existence is a sign of God’s forgiveness?”

Stefan hesitated. “I think it is possible,” he said at length.

I eyed him. “Tell me you’re not planning on asking me to kill you.”

He gave me a faint smile. “No.”

“Good.” I looked back at Janek. “Why does it have to be me? I mean, there is another way, right?” I felt guilty even suggesting it—the only other way for one of the Outcast to die was to starve to death, deprived of all emotional sustenance until they lost their wits, devoured their own essence and ceased to exist. Stefan had told me once that it would require many months of solitary confinement.

And yes, I’d just suggested that prospect to a Holocaust survivor who’d spent years in a concentration camp being subjected to medical experiments too gruesome to contemplate.

On the other hand, he was asking me to kill him.

“It is true,” Janek said. “But that way leads only to nonexistence and the eternal void, not the possibility of heaven or hell.”

“I don’t mean to question the tenets of Outcast lore,” I said. “But, um . . . how do you know? I mean, presumably no one’s come back from the eternal void to report on their dissolution and nonexistence, right?”

By the way, yes, I’m aware that I hadn’t questioned that particular tenet when I’d been called upon to dispatch two ghouls last summer; maybe because Hel herself had sentenced them to death and ordered me to ensure that it was done, maybe because they were guilty of a heinous crime. Or maybe because if I’d looked too closely at what I was doing, I’d have lost my nerve.

Across from me, Stefan shifted. The two men exchanged a glance.

“I have seen the void,” Janek said quietly. “And it terrified me.”

“Oh.”

“At some point in our long existence, most of us have made the attempt,” Stefan murmured. “Many have seen the void. Few have continued willingly.”

I swallowed. “I see.”

Janek gave Stefan an inquiring look. “Have you spoken to Daisy of your first death?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I have spoken to her of how I died and was made Outcast. Not the death itself.”

“It is a painful subject.” Janek drew a slow, deep breath. “At the moment of passing . . . for some, it is the white light, or so they say. I think it is because there are no true words to describe it. For me, it was like a sound, like the sweetest chord ever struck; only it was not music or even truly a sound, but a sense of homecoming, as though I had been lost in the wilderness for the longest time, wandering lonely and afraid, only to hear my mother call my name, her voice filled with love, and the promise of rest and comfort—” He halted and clenched his teeth, a tremor running through his body. “Forgive me.”