“I’m sorry,” I murmured. Stefan sipped his liqueur without comment.

“It is not your fault.” Janek waved his hand. “It is no one’s fault. But it is a bitch of a disease.”

He told me his story.

Before that afternoon, I hadn’t known much about Lou Gehrig’s disease. I hadn’t known much about the history of Poland under German occupation during World War II, either. I mean, I knew about the Holocaust and the concentration camps and the general course of events, but it had all seemed very distant. Well, except for that time I watched Saving Private Ryan, which obviously doesn’t count.

Listening to Janek Król tell his story, it felt very immediate, very real, and very, very horrifying.

He told it in a matter-of-fact manner without belaboring the details. He had been a teacher, a man of profound Christian faith, and a childless widower. He had been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease after experiencing symptoms far milder than he did today shortly before the Nazi German invasion in 1939.

Oh, and for the record, the disease is incurable, inexorably debilitating, and inevitably fatal. It really is a bitch.

I hadn’t known about the Nazis’ efforts to eradicate ethnic Poles, the thousands sent to the concentration camps or killed outright, and I hadn’t known there was a Polish government in exile, coordinating resistance efforts including an organization dedicated to providing shelter, food, and false documents to Jews across the country.

“Oh, yes,” Janek said in a dry voice. “It is estimated that it took ten Poles to save the life of one Jew.”

In the ongoing cultural genocide during the occupation, in which a lot of academic institutions were destroyed, surviving Polish children were forbidden to receive an education beyond the elementary level, the theory being that it would prevent a new generation of leaders from arising. Even as his condition continued to deteriorate, Janek’s role in the resistance had been as a teacher, part of an underground campaign to educate those very children.

“An important role,” he acknowledged. “Not a vital role. But I knew people who performed such roles, providing military intelligence to the government in exile. In 1941, the Gestapo began to suspect such a man of my acquaintance, an asset of great value.” He shrugged. “I took his place.”

“How?” I asked softly.

Stefan refilled our shot glasses with liqueur. Janek took an effortful sip and coughed. “How is not important,” he said. “Nowadays, such details do not matter, only to historians. It is enough to say it was done. The suspicions of the Gestapo were diverted, and they took me instead of him.” A spasm convulsed his right shoulder and ran down his arm, and the shot glass slipped from his hand, falling onto the table. Janek swore in Polish.

“It’s okay,” I said while Stefan rose to fetch a dishcloth. “You really don’t have to tell me this.”

Janek fixed me with his intense gaze. The hunger in his eyes was palpable, and I fought the urge to kindle a shield. “Yes,” he said. “I do.” He waited until Stefan had mopped up the spill and refilled his glass before continuing. “I knew I would never return from this mission and I was at peace with it. Already, I was a dead man walking. I told myself it was not a form of suicide, that there was no sin intended, and that God would forgive me for the sacrifice I made. But I lied to myself. I knew what I was doing and why. And so did God.”

There wasn’t a whole lot one could say in response to that, so I didn’t say anything.

Wrapping his two fingers and thumb around the shot glass, Janek lifted it to his lips, sipped and grimaced. “The Gestapo questioned me for many days. You will have read about such techniques, for your own government used them not so very long ago. It was only the knowledge that I was giving my life to save another’s, to serve my country, that gave me the strength to endure.” He stared into the distance. “To this day, I do not know how it is that I failed.”

An involuntary sound escaped me.

“Oh, yes.” Janek’s gaze shifted back to me. “Just before he killed me, my tormentor made certain I knew. You let a few things slip, Mr. Król, he said to me. You’re not who you’re pretending to be. But that’s all right. We’ve got the right fellow now.” His crippled hand tightened around the glass. “To prove it, he recited my acquaintance’s name and address, the names of his wife and children. I was filled with a rage and despair such as I have never known. Seeing this, my tormentor laughed. And then he said they had no further use for me, and shot me.”

Across the table, Stefan’s pupils waxed in silent fury.

“So.” Janek relinquished his grip on the shot glass. “I died; and I returned. The first of many times. That is how I discovered that God did not forgive my sin.” His mouth tightened. “Of what happened next, I will not speak to such a beautiful young woman.”

“Daisy should know,” Stefan murmured. “Janek was in captivity when he became Outcast. Had he been physically hale, it is likely that he would have been able to orchestrate an escape once he gained sufficient mastery of his new ability.”

“Even without an underworld present?” I asked. “Or did this take place in, um . . . ?”

“Wieliczka?” Stefan shook his head. “No. But the ground was soaked with sufficient blood for necromancy to function.”

“I thought that only worked on islands,” I said. “Because they’re circumscribed by salt water.”