“So anyway … Now that we know what’s wrong with me, how do we cure it?” he asked. “How do we get rid of it, this pain?”
For a moment, Death sounded almost kind. “Nathaniel, there is no cure.”
“What?”
“If there were, I would have given you the remedy already. But the damage that has been done to you is irreversible.”
“You’re joking—”
“You know I am incapable of such a thing. Each time you witnessed a soul being harvested, the damage to the pins around your own soul grew progressively worse. The damage is now so far gone that it is potentially fatal. I fear that if you witness the harvesting of even one more soul, it will kill you.”
Nathaniel felt stunned. “But … The reaping rounds … They’re all I have … If you take them away from me, what would I be?” Nathaniel could hardly gather his breath. A black gulf seemed to appear before him, into which he might fall and never be seen again. “Being there at the end, it’s my entire existence. I help people to pass over to the other side. That’s what I do…”
“Not anymore.” Death’s voice remained level. “The truth is often hard to bear, Nathaniel. But it is still the truth. That is why—for your own good—I cannot allow you to accompany me any longer when I harvest souls. That part of your existence is over. But it does not mean you can’t still help me in other ways.…” From inside his long coat, Death took out a parchment scroll. “You still know what it is, I presume?”
“Of course I do.” Nathaniel watched Death unroll the document. His head was still spinning from the shock, making it difficult to focus. “We use it all the time. It’s the Chart of Deaths. It tells us who’s marked down to die each day, and where to find them.”
“Precisely so.” Death ran a waxen fingertip across the rough parchment. “But today, an anomaly has appeared upon it—concerning this city, and the deaths that are set to take place in it between now and dawn. As to what it means, I do not yet know. But as to what it is … you should see that for yourself.”
Death held the scroll before his apprentice’s eyes. Nathaniel leaned forward, peering at the symbols upon it, marked in jet-black ink.
“I don’t understand…” He pushed his other concerns away and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “These marks … they represent the deaths that are to come, I know. But how can they be increasing in that way?” The inked symbols in front of him were multiplying even as he watched them, as though an invisible pensman were writing them out. “You always told me that every death follows a plan that was written down at the start of Time. If that’s right, then why haven’t these deaths been there on the chart all along? Why are they only appearing now? And why are there so many of them?”
The question puzzled Death as well. “So many deaths in one place is normally an indication of a momentous event,” he said. “But as you point out, those are always marked down in advance. The deaths appearing here seem to have developed a momentum of their own, separate from the rest of history. And if you look closely, you will even see markings here that you have never seen before. Although the majority of them are humans symbols, there are many others appearing now that have the symbols of … something else.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Apparently, it is.”
“Look—” Nathaniel saw something else appear. “What’s that?”
At the top of the scroll, as though holding pride of place above all else inscribed on it, a fresh symbol suddenly appeared that was far larger than all the rest.…
“What does it mean?” asked Nathaniel. “Who does it stand for?”
“If I only knew.” Death peered at the ink as the lines grew stronger. “I have never seen it before. Nevertheless, I fear that it is of some importance.” He slowly nodded, musing. “It seems old. Ancient. From a time that precedes even myself.”
“So … what are we gonna do about all of this?”
“That is the question I have been pondering, while you slept.” Death rolled up the scroll again. “As far as I can see, we only have one option left to us. We must discover what these deaths all mean.”
“And how do we do that?”
“By dividing our resources. I will collect the souls of the dead, and study my charts and records here in detail. And you…” Death nodded toward the cracked window. “You will go out into the living world and search for the cause of this anomaly. You will learn as much as possible about why, and how, it is taking place.”
“You mean … you want me to go out there on my own?”
“It is the safest place for you now, I fear. The shocks that come from harvesting a soul will not strike you there.”
“But—” Unease touched Nathaniel’s heart. “I haven’t been into the living world on my own for ten years. Are you sure you can trust me with that?”
“I do not see why not. You are old enough. And certainly, your powers are second only to mine. The only thing you need to remember is to remain impartial when you search for the answers. We are merely the instruments of Fate, Nathaniel, not its masters.”
“I know…” The feeling inside him had deepened into something like dread. “That was the first thing you taught me, when I arrived here.”
“Then make sure you do not forget it, as you face the temptations of a life outside.” Death stood up and moved to the center of the cottage’s shadowed space. “Despite your humanity, you belong to the realm of the dead, Nathaniel. You left the living world long ago, and I therefore forbid you to do anything that might influence events today, one way or another. What is right or wrong in the universe is beyond our understanding. That is why we carry off the souls from both sides of the battlefield, and deliver up for judgment both saints and sinners alike.”
Nathaniel stood up from the rickety bed and began buttoning up his shirt. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid.” He found his jacket at the foot of the bed and slipped it on. “And when I’m back, I want to discuss what we’re going to do about this again.…” He laid his hand back on his chest. “Because having no cure … That’s just not good enough.”
He started moving toward the cottage door.
“There is one more thing, Nathaniel, before you leave—”
He stopped, and looked back over his shoulder.
“As you know,” said Death, “what makes you so unique is the fact that I cannot see your fate.” He gazed at his apprentice, looking far beyond the surface of his eyes. “Although I have tried over the last ten years to penetrate that darkness inside you, I have never received even the slightest glimpse of your death. Because of that, I advise you to be careful when you step out into the living world.”
“Careful?” Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed as he regarded his master. “Careful of what?”
“Of everything you encounter. Something extraordinary is about to take place today. I do not know what it is yet, but I can already sense it. And so it is possible, I believe, that once you have followed this trail of death that is unfolding, you may eventually find your own death waiting at the end of it.…”
The warning chilled Nathaniel. It took a moment before he could say anything in response.
“Well, at least then—” he said finally. “You’ll have the surprise of harvesting a soul you actually know.”
7.
With the corpse at his feet, Hank took the little memo book from his pocket. He pulled the pencil stub from the spiral binding and carefully drew a single line, slanting upward from left to right.
There were only lines like that scrawled in the book. No words, no numbers. Just lines in bunches of five. The one he had just drawn completed another bundle. As the blood puddled around his boot soles, Hank counted them up, and did the math in his head. Six bunches of five; that tallied up to an even thirty. Or two dozen, and a half dozen on top: that was how many people he’d killed since he’d taken on this latest job.
He supposed that eventually—maybe soon—he’d lose count. But for right now,
it seemed like a good idea to keep track of what he was doing. Otherwise, with scum like the ones he’d been taking out—who’d remember them?
The pelting rain sent dark rivers coursing through the city’s streets. Under the ragged awning of a boarded-up storefront, Hank slid the pencil and memo book back into his pocket. He’d seen a lot of storms pound the city, but this was the worst that he could remember. The heavy thunderhead clouds pressed down so close to the earth, he felt as if he could reach up and brush his fingertips along their sodden bulk.
Bad as it was, it didn’t matter to him, at least as far as his job was concerned. For something like this, the streets were always dark and disagreeable. The things he looked for always hid themselves in the grimiest dead-end alleys and unlit cellars. Nothing for it but to put his head down and keep lumbering forward, letting nothing stop him.
Turning up the collar of his jacket, Hank peered out through the rivulets draining from the awning’s tattered fringes. He was just able to perceive a knot of people in the distance watching from the other side of street. Just ordinary types, the ones who lived in this district’s shabby tenements, keeping their heads down and trying to stay out of trouble. He knew that none of them were about to call the cops; around here, somebody getting beat to death on the sidewalk was such a regular occurrence that it was hardly worth noticing.
But oddly, these people did. This time.
As Hank looked over at them, they started clapping, one by one. Applauding him and what he had just done. It couldn’t have been for style points—he hadn’t pulled any fancy moves, just knocking the wind out of the punk with a boulder-sized fist to the gut, then snapping his neck with a clenched forearm. Hank figured that these people must have really disliked the guy; maybe he’d been some loan shark’s leg-breaking enforcer, or just a bullying hard-ass. Either way, they seemed to appreciate Hank having eliminated the creep.
He nodded toward the group. Given the generally loathsome nature of the criminals, psychopaths, and pumped-up thugs that he’d been systematically removing from the city’s population, maybe the real surprise was that he didn’t get this kind of reaction more often. He turned his massive frame away from them, and headed toward the next appointment he had made for himself.
Which was a Chinese restaurant. Its neighborhood wasn’t much better, but at least there were a few neon signs sizzling and crackling overhead, their lurid electric colors shimmering in the wet gutters. Most of them were for cheap bars; every commercial block in the city had at least two establishments like that. But he was looking for the hanzi ideographs that spelled out The Dragon’s Talon. He found them, at last, at the end of the block.
Hank stood outside the entrance, with its elaborate red-lacquered screens, and looked at the windows above. No sign for the martial arts school that operated up there. And no need for one; anybody who was looking for it would know where it was. He could hear the faint thump of training blows, fists pulled back just enough to keep bones from being broken, and the louder clang of dao sabres against each other.
“Where do you think you’re going, big man?”
One of the Chinese bouncers at the restaurant’s door stopped him with a hand flat against his chest. All three of the men, in their bow-tied tuxedos, might have been a head shorter than him, but shoulder-to-shoulder behind a red velvet rope they looked like more than enough to keep most people out.
“Inside.” Hank pointed past them. “I got business there.”
“No, you don’t—” The lead bouncer spotted the bloodstains spattered across the front of Hank’s jacket and trousers that the rain hadn’t been able to wash away. “Turn around—” The bouncer readied himself, hands tightening into poised fists. “And keep on walking.”
“I don’t think so.”
The other men drew back a half step from him, reaching for the lead-weighted saps that tugged down the sides of their coats.
“You’re making a big mistake, pal.” With a sideways tilt of his head, the lead bouncer signaled to the man on his left. That one brought a short truncheon swinging toward Hank’s skull.
He ducked his head, evading the blow. At the same time, he brought two fingers straight into his attacker’s eyes, dropping him, howling and blinded, to the ground.
The others jumped in, one trying to grapple his arms around Hank’s chest, while the lead bouncer jabbed a spiked set of steel knuckles toward his face. The metal points raked Hank’s forearm as he brought his knee up hard into the first one’s groin. Before the lead bouncer could set up for another shot at him, Hank had picked up one of the rope stands and swung it like a club across both their heads.
One was knocked out cold, the side of his head now concave and matted red. But the lead bouncer managed to get up onto his hands and knees, head lowered toward a pool of his own blood. Hank reached down and picked him up by his neck and leather belt, then swung about and hurled him through the restaurant’s open doorway.
The bouncer lay on his back in the restaurant’s foyer, stunned beyond any further movement. Hank stepped over his body and looked around at the startled customers inside.
The place was done up in the usual over-the-top style, with enough polished lacquer and yellow gilt to ornament an emperor’s barge from the Han dynasty. One whole wall was taken up with an expensive saltwater aquarium tank, its wavering blue glow turning the closest tables spectral. Lionfish as big as terriers drifted back and forth, fanning out their lethal spines.
“Dinner’s over—” Dragging the rope stand along with him, Hank surveyed the restaurant’s guests. “I’d advise you to get the hell out of here, if you don’t wanna get hurt.”
The expense-account businessmen to whom the place catered hurriedly got to their feet, pulling their sleek companions with them. Within moments, there was a panicky stampede toward the door, the waiters and jabbering kitchen staff on the heels of the patrons.
“I’m here for the Mountain Master—” Hank stepped back to let the rush shove its way past him. “Where is he?”
The answer came soon enough.
A couple of tables had been overturned, spilling wineglasses and laden plates across the gold-tiled floor. In the emptied room’s silence, he could hear footsteps tromping down the steps at the back. Voices shouted in guttural Mandarin as triad fighters from the martial arts school spotted him. Spangles of light glistened from the blades of the kwan do upraised at the rear of the pack. In a wavelike surge, they rushed toward him.
Twenty of them. They might have stood a chance of at least surviving a few minutes if he hadn’t been warmed up from taking out the bouncers at the door. Looking across their heads, Hank could see another figure halfway down the stairs, watching the battle. That was the one he had come for—but that meeting would have to wait.
The rope stand came apart after he had flattened a couple of the men with it, the blood-spattered pole separating from the base. Hank tossed it aside and grabbed whatever came to hand; in a restaurant, there were plenty of things to be used as weapons. From the waiters’ station, he snatched a handful of ivory chopsticks. Clutched in one fist, they served to break open two more foreheads before being reduced to splinters. Grabbing a chair, he blocked a razor-sharp halberd swinging down toward his neck; with its legs, he pinned another triad member against the wall, then slammed its top edge into the man’s throat.
Hank tossed the broken chair aside, letting the corpse slide to the floor. The restaurant was silent again as he swung his gaze over to the stairs.
“You … fight well.” Each word tightened the livid scar running diagonally across the Mountain Master’s face, from one corner of his brow to the side of his chin. Coarse, dark hair, cut ragged by the blade of a fighting knife, dangled close to the jutting edges of his cheekbones. “Better … than men I trained.” His eyes, set deep in his broad, heavy face, darkened with anger. “But now … you are mine.”
Hank braced himself as the man’s embroidered robes spread like wings, the hulking but unnaturally lithe f
igure launching a flying kick toward him. The blow struck his chest hard enough to stagger him backward, but he managed to remain upright. He could feel the shock roll through his lungs and heart, then down his spine and legs, like lightning coursing through a grounded rod.
The Mountain Master leapt back. His eyes widened as he studied Hank. “Should be dead now…” He sounded puzzled. “Why … aren’t you?”
Hank spat out the wad of blood that had risen in his throat. “I guess … I’m just too dumb to die.” He reached out and grabbed the back of the man’s neck, his weight bearing him down to the floor.
The point of the Mountain Master’s knee slammed into Hank’s midsection, hard enough to send a shock wave up through his guts. His heart went silent for a beat, then started up again as he hammered his fist against the man’s densely scarred ear.
With blood leaking from his face, the Mountain Master rolled onto one side, bracing himself against the floor so he could launch a sweeping kick across Hank’s legs. His shins would have been crushed if he hadn’t leapt back onto his hip. That gave the Mountain Master a split-second opening, in which he launched himself horizontally toward his opponent, fingers hooked into claws—
That was the Mountain Master’s fatal error. His nails scraped across Hank’s face, but not before his arm shot out and caught the Mountain Master’s exposed throat. He clenched his fist, squeezing harder until he could hear the sound, like wet twigs trodden upon in a forest, of the other’s hyoid bones cracking and splitting. Hank let go, and the Mountain Master’s head lolled to one side.
The man was still breathing. Hank could tell from the bubbles of blood at one corner of the Mountain Master’s lips. He reached down and gathered the man’s weight up against his own chest, then carried him over to the fish tank against the wall. Salt water sloshed over the edge of the glass as he dropped the Mountain Master into the tank. The lionfish circled in agitation through the reddening water near the man’s face. After a few seconds, bubbles stopped rising from his mouth and nose, and his lifeless eyes stared past the ornamental coral.
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