The Iron Hunt by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

grand piano, my mother’s battered oak chest of
journals and other artifacts. Lights were on, and the air was golden and warm.
I glanced at Grant as he limped up the final steps, his breathing slightly
rushed, and he pointed to the spare bedroom near the kitchen.
    No
one had used the room in the two months I had lived here. Grant did not have
many visitors; fewer now, I supposed, since my arrival. Zee and the others
would have made it difficult for guests, even if the boys stayed out of sight.
    The
spare bedroom was just that, though: spare, almost empty except for a bed and
nightstand, and a battered oak wardrobe that had been bought from an antique
shop. Grant pulled back the covers. I laid the boy down and took off his shoes.
He did not respond, or make another sound.
    “He’s
hurt. In his heart.” Grant leaned hard on his cane, staring at the teen. His
left hand made a fluttering motion. “Something is… off.”
    “Good
or bad?”
    Grant’s
frown deepened. “He’s not going to go looking for the kitchen knives. But he
might run. He’s not going to trust us.”
    “Some
psychic you are.” I lightly punched his arm. “I could have told you that.”
    A
smile flitted across his mouth. “I can try to heal him. Or at least take away
some of the fear.”
    “Not
yet. Not unless you think he’s going to hurt himself or someone else.”
    “He
won’t.” Grant pointed at the boy’s chest. “He’s got a soft spot, right there. I
wish you could see it, Maxine. It’s a light, pulsing, above his heart.”
    I
wished I could see it, too. “Means good things, I assume. ”
    “Means
there’s hope,” he said quietly. “Means he’s a good kid, deep down.”
    I had
thought as much. “I need to check Badelt’s office. ”
    Grant
said nothing, not right away. Just regarded me with that silence I had come to
think of as another kind of music, his quiet voice. A faint smile touched his
mouth. “You’ve got that soft spot, too, Maxine.”
    I
looked down. “Probably the size of a pin.”
    “Try
the sun,” he said. “Bigger and better than the sun.”
    Heat
flooded my face. He bent and kissed my cheek. “I’ll stay with the boy. Just in
case he wakes up.”
    I
rubbed my hand against my thigh, still thinking about his words, how he affected
me with them. “Try not to let him get away.”
    “Don’t
let this bum leg fool you.”
    “Like
greased lightning,” I said, trying to smile, and failing. I peered up into his
face, wanting to ask him if everything would be okay, if we would survive even
past the end of the world, but that was stupid and sentimental, and saying it
out loud would have frightened me. I wanted to be here, in the moment, and not
worry about the future. Because even if Edik was wrong, and the veil remained
until my death, I was still going to die. Everything ended. Nothing lasted
forever.
    “Better
go,” Grant said. “Before you scare me into keeping you here.”
    I
hesitated. “I’m that obvious?”
    “You
can’t hide your soul, Maxine. Not from me.” His gaze grew strained. “Go. Call
if you need help. Keep the boys close.”
    Close,
or death. No alternative, not in my life.
    Not
in theirs, either.
    I
missed the Mustang, but it was—hopefully—still parked by the university, and
the Jeep had a good engine. Little hands appeared from the shadows by my knees
to fuss with the radio. The boys found the eighties station. Whitesnake wailed,
then rocked into AC/DC. Dek and Mal boogied, the tips of their tails thudding
against my collarbone. I drove fast.
    I
reached Chinatown in ten minutes and found the address Grant had given me. It
was a small brick building crammed between the glowing neon lights of a crowded
noodle place that had red Chinese characters emblazoned on the steam-clouded
front window; while on the other side, pounding with loud music, was a movie
rental shop plastered with international posters, yellowing with age.
    Badelt’s
office was on the second floor of the narrow