The Gray House

Its insistent knocking finally attracts attention. The window is opened and in flutters a big-eared creature, resembling a half-baked hyena with faceted wings made out of flower petals. It flaps futilely under the ceiling and crashes down on our table, overturning Noble’s plate and sending up a cloud of pollen that makes my nose itch.

“Look at them,” the hyena says indignantly. “I’ve been searching all over for you. Where have you been, you bastards?”

“Nowhere special,” I say. “We’re having a lunch, as you can see.”

“A lunch, huh,” the winged hyena drawls menacingly and breaks into a coughing fit. His open maw drips saliva that crystallizes and cascades down with a glassy tinkle.

“Where’s my grub?” the flyer demands hoarsely. “And after that I’ll deal with you, and it’s not going to be pleasant.”

Noble drums his fingers on the table.

“Hey, Sphinx. You think it’s time we got out of here? Before the rest of them arrive?”

The hyena transforms into a frail, pensive, middle-aged Sikh. No sign of wings. Black suit, snow-white turban. He unfolds the napkin and takes a plate off the tray.

“I am very sorry if I seem intrusive,” he says politely. “But if I were you I would refrain from sudden movements at this time.”

“We will,” I assure him. “I’m waiting for someone. And if that someone isn’t here in the next half an hour we’ll try to scramble out. I just need some time.”

Noble sighs and takes out the cigarette butt he salvaged. The pendant around his neck is pulsating in sync with his breathing. The Sikh, humming softly, produces a gold-plated hookah out of thin air.

Blind’s soft hands rest on my shoulders, giving me a substantial electric jolt. I startle.

“How are you?” he asks considerately.

“Lousy.”

Sightless One sits across from us. He looks exactly the way he always does, no image changes for him. Maybe a little more transparent, that’s all.

“That’s not good,” he says. “Pull yourself together. You’ve got responsibilities.”

“Keep your leadership lectures for another time, will you,” I say. “I’m not in the mood.”

Blind agrees with surprising amiability.

“As you wish. Except there might not be another time.”

The lights blink and switch back on. Twice. The beards in the corner whistle disapprovingly.

“Wow,” Noble says, aghast. “Will you look at that . . .”

I turn around. There’s a strange creature making its way toward us between the tables. It’s naked and skeletally thin, with stubs of wings over its shoulders, covered in sores and welts from head to toe. A rusty iron collar encircles its neck, trailing an equally rusty chain all the way to the floor.

“What kind of sick thing is that?” Noble whispers. “Night of the living dead?”

“Of course it’s not dead,” the Sikh says reproachfully, taking a break from the hookah. “This is our dear Alexander.”

The mangled angel stops in front of us, holding his chains gingerly, and waits. The white feathers that he has on his head instead of hair are hanging down over his face, the remains of the wings expose the bones. It would be better not to look too closely. Every wound is crawling with something that would be better not to notice. The face bears an expression that would be better not to remember. Noble turns away and fumbles for his crutches, taking sharp indrawn breaths.

“Alexander,” I say. “Enough with the crazy.”

He raises his eyes at me. Wine-red eyes on the white face. I see that it’s in fact Ancient. Or that he looks like Ancient.

“Stop this, please,” I beg him. “I’ve already forgiven you. There is no blame on you.”

“Really?” he says in a cracked voice. “You’re not just lying to me out of pity?”

“I never lie out of pity.”

The lights go out again. Screams in the darkness.

I close my eyes, and when I open them I’m back in the canteen. A boombox is blaring under the Rat table, a continuation of the screams that ended my visit to the Not-Here. Lary nods in sync with the music, wiping a plate with a piece of bread. Tubby is dozing next to him, face down in a stained bib. Alexander is busy with his soup, bent low over it so that no one can see he’s crying.

Tabaqui shoots me a withering look.

“Sphinx, what’s going on here? I demand to know what’s going on!”

“Nothing,” I say. “What possibly could have happened here?”

“You hurt Alexander, didn’t you?” Jackal presses on. “Because I’m going to kick the crap out of you if you did!”

“Everything’s fine,” I hiss through clenched teeth, getting slowly steamed by his nosiness. “Calm down and leave me alone.”

“If everything’s fine, why is he crying?”

“And why are you asking Sphinx?” Blind inquires, throwing a crumpled napkin on the plate. “Can’t a member of this pack have a cry in peace without you butting in?”

“Sphinx has promised something to him,” Tabaqui persists. “And now Alexander’s crying.”

I get up and leave the canteen before he has a chance to really get to me.

Right outside the door, I walk into Noble sitting on the floor with a look of someone just condemned to death, hugging his crutch. I sit down next to him.