“I know,” Stefan said again. He was quiet for a long moment. I didn’t expect him to speak again until I succumbed to the inevitable and gave in to their request, but he surprised me. “Daisy, what does all this have to do with Spider-Man?”

It caught me off guard. I let loose an involuntary gasp of laughter that turned into a ragged sob, and Stefan did put his arms around me then. I leaned back into his embrace, letting the tears streak my cheeks. “This isn’t how I imagined our reunion.”

“I know,” he said for a third time, his breath stirring my hair. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” I freed one hand to wipe at my tears. “It’s because what you said reminded me of a line from the movie. Spider-Man,” I added, realizing my explanation was a total non sequitur. “The one with Tobey Maguire, I mean, not the new one. It just came up the other night. With great power comes great responsibility.”

“I see.” Stefan took a deep breath, possibly trying not to laugh. “Actually, I believe the quote may first be attributed to Voltaire.”

“Oh.” I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t entirely sure who Voltaire was. I thought he might be the guy who said, I think, therefore I am, but I wasn’t positive. Actually, that’s not true. The part about not wanting to admit it, I mean. I’d rather stay here, gazing out the window with Stefan’s arms wrapped around me while he allayed my ignorance regarding French philosophers, than face what would follow, but delaying wouldn’t make it go away. No matter how long I stood here, Janek Król would be awaiting my answer with terrible patience.

I didn’t want to do what he asked. I really, really didn’t. But there was no one else in the world who could grant Janek the release he yearned for, and if I tried to walk away from this responsibility, his story and the sight of his tortured body that had endured so much for so long would haunt me for the rest of my days.

“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.”