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

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 figure 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