The Gray House

Humpback springs up and stuffs the pipe back in his pocket, swearing when it burns him. Straightens out the straps of the backpack clumsily and heaves it over his shoulder.

“You mean like this? Barefoot?” he says, but meets Sphinx’s stare coming the other way again, nods and departs hastily, muttering under his breath.

Sphinx continues to sit motionlessly for a while longer, then gets up and slowly shuffles toward the House. The first drop of rain pecks him on the forehead when he’s already on the steps. He turns to look at the shaved heads, to see if they are leaving yet, and to his surprise sees Red in front of them, on this side of the fence. Rat Leader is talking them up, smiling from ear to ear, all effortless charm. In cutaway jeans, barefoot, and shirtless, but with the bow tie around his neck and a bowler on his head. According to his, that is, Rats’, standards, he is dressed for the occasion. The shaved heads are apparently of a different opinion. It is possible they take the Alpha Rat for a village idiot. Sphinx cannot distinguish the expressions on their faces from this distance, but he’s learned in the past three days that those expressions never change. They listen to Red, clinging to each other tightly, and no one is hanging on the fence anymore. Are they confused? Astonished?

Without a pause in his smiling and blabbering, Red pulls off his glasses. The enchanted zombies immediately take a step forward and get stuck to the fence. Sphinx, filled with contradictory emotions, rushes inside. No, he’s not second-guessing Blind’s decision to send down to them an angel that’s so different from the one they were looking for. He himself was ready to do anything he could to make them go away. Still, he pities them a little. The poor, deluded, poisoned strangers.

There’s a cat huddle by the trash can on the landing between the first and second floors. Smoker is also there. On the wall next to him, a charcoal portrait. A grotesquely scowling, ugly face that nevertheless looks very much like Vulture. Sphinx stops to look at it, and a gaggle of Logs thunders by on the way down, motivated by Jackal barking commands at their backs.

“Atten-tion! Squad A, search the yard. Squad B, reinforce the door defenses!”

Tabaqui notices Vulture’s portrait and puts on the brakes.

“Yechh!” he says. “Sickening!”

Logs, pushing, shoving, and clattering, throng around for a look. Smoker, scandalized, smears the drawing with the palm of his hand, but even in the resulting blob, Great Bird is still easily recognizable.

“Tut, tut,” Tabaqui sighs. “Total disregard for the exalted stature of a Leader, imagine that! Sphinx, I sincerely hope that you shall explain it all to him thoroughly, because I have a much more important task ahead of me at the moment.” He points at Logs. “There. Volunteers. We’re going to reinforce the approaches to the House. Lock ’em down so tight not even a mouse could sneak in!”

The volunteers stand to attention. Horse has a huge padlock in his hands. Monkey is carrying a bunch of wires, probably the remains of the alarm system.

“At ease,” Sphinx says. “It’s just that there’s rain about to start out there.”

Logs exchange excited glances and cascade down the steps, hooting and hollering.

“Quiet! Distance at two paces!” Tabaqui shrieks, rolling down the ramp.

It does become quiet for a spell. Then the door is thunderously thrown open and slammed shut again. Mona, dawdling around the trash can, instantly sprints down and catches the plastic bag blown in by the gust of wind. While she’s busy disemboweling it, as if it were alive and could be therefore killed, Red saunters past Sphinx and Smoker, whistling, but not before saying to her, “Thanks, babe!” There’s so much genuine gratitude in his voice that Smoker’s eyes open wide, and they become almost round when Red, not slowing down and not even taking a good look at the wall, sweeps off the bowler and pays a bow to the dirty spot that had recently been Vulture’s portrait.

“I thought this was a secluded spot,” Smoker says glumly. “I thought I could just sit here in peace.”

“Just sit and just draw,” Sphinx clarifies. “Never draw anyone’s portraits on the walls, Smoker,” he continues sternly. “This is not done. Or were you aiming to start a rumor that you’re putting a hex on Vulture?”

Smoker, deathly pale, shakes his head vigorously.

“Then don’t do this again. And if you are looking for seclusion, keep away from the stairs.”

Sphinx climbs up to the second floor to the accompaniment of the rustling that signifies the hurried and thorough destruction of the portrait.