Death's Apprentice: A Grimm City Novel by Gareth Jefferson Jones K. W. Jeter

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