The Iron Khan by Liz Williams, Marty Halpern, Amanda Pillar, Reece Notley Page B

for hundreds of years — many people know about it. There is a chance that it still remains.”
     
    Raksha took Omi’s arm. “You can borrow my crane, if you wish. Faster than going on foot, and safer.”
     
    He did not want to show her how afraid this idea made him. But she was right. “Thank you,” he said, swallowing. “I will.”
     

FOURTEEN
     
    At night, the villa belonging to the Khan was substantially more sinister than it was by day. This cliché annoyed Zhu Irzh, who was hoping that he could use irritation to carry him through his nerves. If there was anything “sinister” around here, he thought, it ought to be him. All the same, he hesitated at the gate, trying to work out exactly what it was that had so disturbed him about this place. It wasn’t that image of the Khan, seated, roaring over his dinner of human flesh, that had got to him, but some quality of the Khan himself — reanimate or whatever he might be — a voraciousness that Zhu Irzh had rarely encountered, even in Hell, where spirits could afford to be more laid-back. After all, once you were already dead, a certain degree of urgency was lacking, whereas the Khan clung to life…
     
    Better get on with it. Zhu Irzh spoke the words of the concealment mantra with which Roerich had provided him.
     
    “It’s very old,” Roerich had said, “but not as old as the Khan, so he might know a way round it. I’m hoping he doesn’t. It’s a Buddhist spell, so be careful with it, given that you’re a demon.”
     
    His instructions had been precise and meticulous, and Zhu Irzh, mindful of consequences, followed them to the letter. When the mantra had been spoken the requisite three times, he waited for a moment. He felt no different, but the air smelled of an unfamiliar magic. This was encouraging; so once more, the demon made his way down the path. This time, the front door was closed and Zhu Irzh could find no way to open it. It was very tempting to give up the entire idea, go back and tell Roerich that he’d been unsuccessful. But the demon found, to his considerable frustration and annoyance, that he was as incapable of letting Roerich down as he was with Chen.
     
    Damn.
     
    It would be easier to let Jhai down. She might not forgive him, but he knew she’d understand. It was other people’s disappointment that he had such a hard time with. When he got back to Singapore Three, Zhu Irzh told himself, he was going to get the number of a good demon psychiatrist and stick to therapy, even if it meant weekly visits back to Hell.
     
    But he could see the newspaper headline now: Emperor’s Stepson Seeks Psychiatric Treatment for Attacks of Conscience. “I try to be evil,” Seneschal Zhu Irzh, aged 372, formerly of Bone Avenue, told this reporter. “But I keep suffering from attacks of sheer decency. My life’s a living — oh, wait.”
     
    And imaginary press persecution notwithstanding, he knew he wouldn’t do it, any more than he’d sought therapy after leaving Hell and taking up a new life as Chen’s right hand. Time to grow up?
     
    At this depressing thought, Zhu Irzh marched around to the back of the building, looking for another means of ingress. He finally found it in the form of what appeared to be a scullery window, which was closed but yielded to force when shoved.
     
    The demon wasn’t remotely stout, but it was a tight squeeze all the same. He landed on the scullery floor some minutes later and looked around him. Nothing unusual. Rows of pots and plates were arranged along the shelves and the place smelled of mold. Zhu Irzh opened the door and saw a long, dark hallway, similar to the main hall of the house, but narrower.
     
    The Khan was home. The demon could feel him. But he wasn’t sure whether the Khan could sense him in return: he hoped that Roerich’s spell was working. He hadn’t liked to ask Roerich if anyone had tried the spell before — if it was that old, then they almost certainly had. And had almost