Snowbound

by Vathara

Stranded by a magical blizzard, the Ghostbusters' only hope is a Mercy Flight.

Snowbound

A/N: Airwolf belongs to Bellisario and Universal, the Real Ghostbusters to Columbia/DIC. Airwolf is AU (moved ahead about twenty years). Some spoilers for the episode "Flight 093 Is Missing". Heath Isle doesn't exist; at least not on my real maps....

~*~*~*~*~
"Are we still on course?" Marella Duval asked, tapping her simple white headset. From her jump-seat beside the flight engineer the cockpit windows showed nothing but curtains of blowing white, interspersed with blue flashes of nearby lightning.

"What course?" Even under Dominic Santini's black helmet, she caught a roll of dark eyes. "The one we were on five minutes ago, the one we're heading for, or the one we're being blown off of right now?"

"We're fine," Caitlin O'Shannessy's voice came over her radio. "Takes a lot more than a little snow to take down the Lady."

Blizzard Force 1 and increasing, a screen near Marella noted. High ionic charge detected. Rippling skin sensors to reduce standing charge. External conditions still within Airwolf parameters.
Psychic scan detects traces of foreign PKE in storm.
Don't like this.

"Yeah."

Granite speaks, Marella thought wryly, catching a glimmer of green readout light off Stringfellow Hawke's helmet as the pilot drove them through the storm. He and Caitlin had been switching off throughout the flight, keeping themselves fresh for this deadly bout of instrument flying. "I wish we'd had time to get more comprehensive information," Marella admitted. "As it stands, about all we know is the archeological team was up here for two weeks, located what they believed was an ancient Viking settlement, started excavating - then called for the Ghostbusters."

"And they called for your gizmos." Dominic jabbed a thumb back toward the missile bay, where a small pile of backpacks lurked out of sight.

"First they called for an ambulance," the Firm operative said wryly, checking her medical kit one more time. "The excavation team has a head trauma and a pneumothorax, not to mention other assorted minor injuries." Calm. Stay calm. You can do this. You know Hawke won't leave you behind one second longer than he has to. And he definitely won't leave Caitlin. "Air Rescue said it wasn't possible; then someone had the bright idea to call the Hurricane Hunters. One of whom remembered a certain stunt with Hurricane Kim and a downed airliner, and called Van Nuys."

"Who called Michael." String dipped them through the wind, snow sheeting over the cockpit.

"People may not officially know where Airwolf is, but they know where to send impossible problems," Marella acknowledged. Which was both useful and worrisome. While such roundabout contacts let Michael send the Firm's operatives where their talents could be used best, it also meant the Committee might one day lure them all into a trap.

So far, they'd been lucky. The Committee still believed Locke was the only one in contact with an Airwolf, and they seemed willing to leave St. John's aircraft in the CIA's hands. For now.

"Pilots talk. 'Specially when they see something that makes a good story," Caitlin shrugged, checking radar for any uninvited guests. The weather was lousy for it, and technically they were still in Canadian airspace... but that had never stopped anyone before. "Tailwind, Dom?"

"Gotta tell 'em something when you blow past point nine Mach and they think you're a chopper," the engineer chuckled.

"Should be almost on them," String stated. "Call it in."

~*~*~*~*~
Ray Stanz finished checking the pressure bandage, gave his first-aid victim a reassuring smile. "There you go, Dr. Ellis."

The graying archaeologist nodded painfully, breathing shallow. "My notes-"

"Will remain quite secure where they are," Egon Spengler stated, PKE meter beeping as he scanned the seared crack between the shelter's door and doorway. The tall blond frowned at enchanted frost trying to gain a foothold on steel hinges, carefully positioned a kerosene lamp to melt it clear. The main building might be large enough to hold them all - barely - but it, like the rest of the research camp, had been built for a Canadian Arctic summer. The wind-hounds' spell-storm was pushing steel and fiberglass to their limits. "Low temperatures may wreak havoc with the remainder of your equipment, but they should only preserve inked pages."

"Yeah." Blood crusting the edge of chestnut hair, Rowan Douglas tried to nod. Winced. "Read a study on that one time; said if we really wanted to keep a library for the future, we ought to stick it in Antarctica...."

"Take it easy, Rowan." Winston Zeddemore tucked a folded sleeping bag behind the only conscious grad student's head. "We're going to get out of here, but you have to stay still."

"We'll never get out of here." Dr. Cliff wrung his hands, mindless of the cuts dotting his fingers, red evidence of flying hailstones. Larger shards had laid his co-workers low, enchanted ice clipping Rowan, knifing deep into Ellis' chest.

Not with an attitude like that, we won't, Peter Venkman thought bluntly. Not that he was expecting rational behavior from a guy who'd ignored the obvious Do Not Touch runes carved all over the horn now sitting on the shelter table, fenced in by three of Ray and Egon's gadgets. The horn that had held the wind-hounds, before Eustace Cliff had pried off the red wax seal.

Obvious to anyone who could read Old Norse, anyway. How many times have we told people? If you can't read it, find somebody who can before you move it. And for the love of Pete, don't open it!

Not that Peter was going to say so in front of the three grad students sharing this shelter with them. Lean Charles Graveson and bespectacled Keith McIntosh might be out cold on the floor, but you never knew what might get through to the unconscious mind. And even before the wind-hounds had drained their PKE, those two had been chilled and scared as a pair of peacocks dumped in the polar bear tank. "Rescue said someone's coming," he reminded everyone. "We just have to keep it together until they do." He caught Winston's uneasy glance, stepped back into a corner so the dark Ghostbuster could talk without being overheard.

"Pete, you know and I know there's only a few planes that can make it through this kind of weather," the former soldier murmured. "And none of them can make a touchdown on this scrap of turf."

Yeah. Heath Isle was just too small; even if the little Canadian island wasn't half-covered in ice. And since the hounds had hit their second wind, there wasn't an inch of ground out there that didn't have a foot of snow on it. "Class Fives, Winston. They can't keep this up forever."

"They don't have to," the older Ghostbuster pointed out. "Not if they can keep it up long enough to pull the doc there all the way under."

Peter tried not to glance that way, all too aware of Egon and Ray keeping surreptitious eyes on Dr. Cliff. Well, mostly surreptitious, he amended silently, seeing Ray slip and stare at the man.

Cliff had found the horn. Cliff had opened the horn. Cliff - unlike anybody else up here without a proton pack - had only taken minor injuries.

And Cliff wasn't shivering.

Could be he's just used to the chill up here, Peter reminded himself. They might not have a hold on him. Just because a lot of Arctic supernatural entities possessed people, didn't mean wind-hounds could. With only one PKE meter left after the hounds' initial assault, they couldn't risk switching it over long enough to read Cliff's biorhythms. They weren't sure.

But every time he got too close to the man, all the hairs on his neck jumped up.

A howl knifed through the packed shelter, followed close by its pack-mates. Egon frowned at his meter. "They're moving."

"That doesn't make sense," Ray protested. "They're after the horn."

"Primarily, yes. Secondarily... someone else must be in the area." A blond brow climbed.

"In the area?" Cliff flung up his hands. "Have you looked out there? Nobody's-"

Atop the table, the archaeologist's radio crackled. "Heath Isle, this is Mercy One," came a brisk woman's voice. "I understand your uninvited guests go after heat; is that correct?"

I don't believe it. Somebody is out there. Peter snatched the receiver. "This is Dr. Venkman. Yeah, they do. Which means they're going after your engines right now-"

"They have to catch us first." The chuckle faded. "We've got a distraction planned, but it won't last long. Are your casualties ready to move?"

"I was born ready," Rowan slurred.

Peter ran down the odds in his head. Twenty-odd Class Fives, blizzard, one guy we'll have to carry. Exchanged a glance with his teammates. No problem. "How many can you take?"

"The two physical injuries," came the matter-of-fact reply. "Get them outside in one minute, starting - now."

Winston checked over his proton pack. "Lady, there's no runway out there."

"We don't need a runway, Mr. Zeddemore. Mercy One out."

"Definite movement from the wind-hounds," Egon reported, as Ray and Winston prepared to lift Ellis' makeshift stretcher. "Northward... now westward. Now south-" He frowned. "The pack appears to be splitting into smaller groups."

"Distraction we got," Peter said hastily, taking Rowan's arm. "Come on, Ro."

The battered grad student wobbled, but gamely tried to put one foot in front of the other. "Time to make like a tree?"

Concussion. Definitely. "You got it."

"You can't go out there!" Cliff clutched his parka sleeve. "What about us?"

Egon pried loose the professor's fingers. "We'll return momentarily. Keep calm." Something on the meter's screen caught his eye, and he nudged up red glasses. "Egad."

Egad? Egad is not good, Egon. But Peter kept the comment behind his teeth, ducking Cliff's waving hands. "Calm!" the archaeologist yelped. "There are things out there trying to eat us, and you expect me to keep-"

A shriek rose outside; wind in wires, a wolf of steel. Cliff cried out, tripping over a discarded propane cylinder as he huddled near McIntosh.

"That's not the hounds," Winston called over the sudden howl, throwing open the door. "That's a-"

"Whoa," Ray breathed.

Blowing snow outlined a shape of darkness and steel; long, lean, rotors flickering overhead like starlight. The craft lowered toward them, light as drifting down, left door opening to let out light and two bundled-up, swift-moving forms.

A helicopter, Peter thought, almost gaping as he guided Rowan through snow. They brought in a helicopter? How?

And what was that faint light in the distance? From more than one point; glimmers leaked through even the blowing snow, north and south and west of here.

Heat, Peter thought, and felt like smacking himself in the head. They dropped flares.

Hefty flares, to be visible through this much snow. Good idea. Great idea. Maybe good enough to get them all out of here....

Only this bird obviously couldn't take them all. Darn it.

One eye on his meter, Egon stood guard as Ray and Winston hustled their burden to the hatch. "Going to be tricky," Winston grunted.

"Hold him!" One of the parka hoods pushed back, revealing a slim, familiar dark woman, wavy hair caught back in a tortoiseshell clip. "Easy, Dr. Ellis. I'm Dr. Duval." Gloved hands moved in a fast, sweeping check; hesitated over the bandage, slipped in a stethoscope disc to listen to the punctured lung. Duval frowned for a second, then relaxed. "You'll be fine. Dom will help you two get him in-"

"An' one more!" The form half in the hatch called, grabbing black pack-straps someone inside handed her. Peter caught a glimpse of freckles, bright, hazel eyes, and a definite shape under the tan parka, and grinned. The day was looking better already.

The pilot's black visor lifted. Cool, storm-blue eyes met his gaze.

Veteran of some of NYC's meaner neighborhoods, too many supernatural encounters to remember, and the mayor on a bad day, the psychologist fought down a shiver. And I thought the blizzard was bad.

"No g's," Duval warned the pilot, as Ray and Winston angled Ellis inside with the help of a gray-clad flight engineer. Rowan was next, helped in by steady hands and a warm smile. "They're stable for now. Any fancy flying and they'll need more help than either of you can give them."

"Don't you worry, Marella." The older crewman grinned at her. "We'll be back before you know it."

Wind blasted down as the helicopter rose, stinging exposed skin. Like a hovering falcon, the craft hesitated in mid-air - then howled south, scorching the gale in its wake.

"Sunbursts won't last much longer!" The freckled woman snatched up a green backpack and headed for the shelter door. "This is the stuff you guys wanted. Let's go!"

"Sunbursts?" Winston grabbed a blue pack. "Who are you guys?"

"Just some concerned citizens." Marella gripped her medical bag, headed after her companion.

"Sunbursts?" Peter grabbed the third and last pack, fell in beside Winston. If this stuff were the components they'd asked Rescue to radio to Janine, he'd have to kiss the lady with the freckles and take his chances with her homicidal pilot boyfriend. "Never heard of that brand of flare. Am I missing something?"

"You never heard of them 'cause they're military issue," Winston said flatly. "Supposed to be used against heat-seekers."

Military. And they already knew Duval was government, big-time. And as for that "Mercy One"....

"Peter, helicopters aren't supposed to fly in this kind of weather," Ray said urgently.

Why am I not surprised, Peter thought. "Trust me, Ray. If they brought a government play-toy out here, it can take it."

"But this is a magical blizzard! If the wind-hounds get together and attack it-"

"I doubt they would be that suicidal, Ray." Egon's face was grave. "We are still their primary targets. And while I'm not entirely certain what that craft may be, it is not a helicopter."

"Spengs...?" They were almost inside, and Peter could hear unfriendly howls gathering in the wind.

"It's a Class Six entity."

~*~*~*~*~
"Lord in Heaven." Caitlin waded through the gear and people piled in the cramped shelter, touched a slack young face slumped on a sleeping bag. Drew back from the unearthly chill invading her fingertips. "Marella, they're like ice!"

"Hypothermic?" The Firm operative knelt, touched Graveson's pale skin. Frowned, and tucked a chemical heat-pack under the young grad student's blankets. "They are a little cool."

Behind her, Caitlin heard the Ghostbusters sorting through their packs, taking out circuit boards, extra stove fuel, and faxed sheets of weird letters to murmurs that mixed relief with tense planning. Good. Means they won't be listening too close. "Not cold outside," the redhead said in a low tone. "Cold inside. Like there's nothing left in 'em. Like... like we feel, when the Lady has to pull on us and do something. Only way, way worse."

Subjects drained of PKE beyond usual human recovery levels, Airwolf agreed, sniffing through her pilot's senses. Unlikely to recover without outside intervention.
Traces of foreign PKE detected. Attempting to match to Bethancourt database.
Foreign entities marked hostile.
Calculating amount of entity PKE drain based on average human aural capacity. Amount sufficient to be dangerous to Firm operative or pilot. Operative likely result: recoverable coma. Pilot likely result: one assault, temporary blackout. Two, recoverable coma.

"Don't let these things touch you, Marella," Caitlin said bluntly. Graveson's flesh wasn't warming; if anything, it felt ever more chill to the touch. "Angel says one hit would take you down, and two would get me." Anything you can do about that, Angel?

Don't know.
Can try to shield.
Most offensive measures require touch or weapons contact.
Sidearm use problematic in current situation. Knife possible.
Noise?

Yeah, some kind of weird beeping behind them. Caitlin frowned, turned-

And found herself staring down the flashing lights of Egon's PKE meter.

Still kneeling by her patient, Marella cleared her throat. "I can explain."

The tall physicist studied his meter. "Dr. Duval, your readings show the same aural traces we've recorded before; the protective influence of a Class Six with apparent benevolent intent. Your companion, however...." The blond brow climbed.

"She's one of them?" Dr. Cliff paled.

Caitlin snorted, careful to keep it casual. This guy's right on the edge. "Do I look like a flyin' snow-cone?"

"Dr. Cliff, she can't be a wind-hound." Ray waved the archaeologist back, taking his own look at the readout. "They're low-level Class Fives. They can transform into wind and ice, but they can't look human, not really. She's just-" Words seemed to stick in his throat. "Uh-oh."

Peter whistled. "Biorhythms, Egon?"

"The majority of the pack is still too close. Though I doubt we would see a perceptible difference if we were scanning... hmm."

"Oh god, she's one of them and you let her in-" Cliff's hand scrabbled toward an ice ax.

"Dr. Cliff, put that down. Now." Marella's dark eyes flashed, uncompromising as the raging winds. "Caitlin's a pilot. I've worked with her for years, whenever storms are brewing. There aren't that many people who could get us through these skies in one piece. Do you want to get out of here or not?"

"Pilot, huh?" Winston gave them both a long look. Deliberately drawing Cliff's attention away from the ice ax, Caitlin saw; Peter eased in and slipped it out of reach while the archaeologist was distracted. "What kind of bird were you flying out there? Don't think I've ever seen anything like it."

"Bell 222-B, NOAA special order," Marella said smoothly. "Modified for atmospheric monitoring."

"Yeah," Caitlin picked up the cover story, biting back a smile. Trust Archangel to have a legend made up special for the Lady. And like the best legends, most of it was true. "Bad weather, hurricanes - think we've even dodged a twister once or twice. Between the GPS and the weather radar, we can get in all kinds of places."

"You're - weathermen?" Cliff stared at them, hands limp by his sides, utterly lost. "We ask for help and they send weathermen?"

"But-" Ray started; hushed at a quick look from Peter.

"Perhaps you can assist me, Dr. Cliff," Egon said firmly, shuffling sheets of paper in the light from a kerosene lamp on the far side of the shelter. "These appear to be faxes of the documents we requested from Janine; counter-spells and folk charms related to Arctic and airborne creatures of the Norse mythos, specifically the Wild Hunt. Our own countermeasures would be most effective if we could find a direct correlation between the runes on the horn and those within the text." The gaze behind red glasses was perfectly frank, but Caitlin could have sworn she caught a subtle wink. "I'm moderately well acquainted with the Futhark system of the Scandinavian peoples, but a specialist would be of great use."

"Wh- yes. Yes, of course." Cliff lumbered that way, dropping into a discussion of thorn and ach and whether or not a certain rune was meant to stand for a letter, a number, its symbolic mythological identity, or some combination of all three.

"That ought to keep him busy an hour or so," Peter said judiciously. "All right, Marella. What's really going on?"

"And what are you really, Caitlin?" Ray asked earnestly.

"A pilot," Caitlin shrugged. "An' I do work for NOAA. Sometimes."

"Yeah, that's what you do." Winston crossed his arms. "Man asked what you are."

"I mean, if you're trying to hide around humans, we understand," Ray said in a rush. "Nobody's going to hurt you. But we haven't even seen fay folk blend in this well! If it wasn't for that bright streak - that's your link to the rest of your power, right? With your guardian spirit? I mean, it looks like a wizard-familiar link, but the frequencies are psychic, not magical. Neat!"

Hide? Around humans? Caitlin swallowed dryly. "Don't know what you're talking about, Dr. Stantz."

"It's okay. Really." Ray eyed the meter again, grinning. "This is just great! You keep most of your PKE shunted out with the Class Six, so your biorhythms will look almost human, and nobody's going to ask why the same pilot always flies one special-purpose helicopter - Peter?"

"Deep breaths," the psychologist advised, hand on Caitlin's coated shoulder. "That's right. Nice and easy." His green gaze sought Marella's, full of questions. "She doesn't know?"

"I didn't know, Dr. Venkman. Your currently-published research on biorhythms doesn't apply to this type of phenomenon." Marella drew in a shaky breath. "Caitlin, I think they're reading Angel."

"But-" Caitlin blinked, tried to make sense through the overwhelming confusion. Not human? Why do they think that? These were the Ghostbusters; they ought to know the difference. "The Lady's not here."

"She's linked to you," Marella answered bluntly. "Insofar as we've been able to determine from our own tests, she is here. Just as you're always with her."

"Up in the furball, yeah, but-" Oops. Ah, hell.

"Not just a storm hunter, are you?" But there was a wry humor in Winston's smile; a careful caution, clear in the way he positioned himself so Dr. Cliff would have no chance of overhearing them. "You fly combat in that black bird? Angel?"

"Came up here to help," the redhead said decisively. "All I can tell you. What's that thing mean?"

Ray's eyes were wide, but he re-tuned the PKE meter with steady hands. "It means... well, according to the frequency shift... you didn't know?"

"On the meter, you read like a wizard," Peter said, straightforward and serious as Dom reading off a carburetor fault. "Almost normal. Only you're not." He squeezed her shoulder lightly, backed off. "After we get out of here, we've got to talk."

"What matters right now, lady, is you're a target," Winston stated. "Those hounds are looking for energy, and you got a lot of it."

"From my information, gentlemen, so does everyone else in here." Marella scanned the white steel and fiberglass walls, the kerosene lamps propped in corners; the scorch marks along the doorjamb, undoubtedly made by the proton packs the Ghostbusters hadn't taken off for a moment. "What's been keeping them out?"

"Like many supernatural creatures, the wind-hounds appear to be incapable of crossing the threshold of a dwelling without human invitation," Egon spoke up, separating his stack of papers with a decisive ruffle of pages. One stack he laid neatly beside a polished ivory-and-black twist on the camp table; the other he began thumbing through with more concentration, as if he'd separated out the dross and was now searching for the gold.

PKE traces match hostile foreign entities, Airwolf noted. Bethancourt database advises avoiding direct contact with enchanted artifacts.

No kidding. Caitlin eyed the ivory of carved bull's horn, stomach churning at its sinuous twists of silver and amber. Red wax lingered like blood on the black horn lip, matching the crimson residue edging the flat crystal lens on the table. She wouldn't have touched either of them, not for all the oil in Texas.

"You can't be serious," Cliff snorted, reaching out to finger golden amber. "Such a simple prohibition-"

Winston intercepted his hand. "Uh-uh. Don't touch."

"No?" Dr. Cliff's smile was blandly innocent, but Caitlin felt chill.

He's with them.

Not a rational thought. Not the court-of-law conclusion an ex-cop was supposed to draw. It was an operative's reflexive coupling of fact with implication; situation and training and intuition honed by too many tight spots to count all melding together in one violent surety.

One hand shaping a silent warning to Marella, Caitlin reached for her gun.

~*~*~*~*~
Enemies. Enemies in the wind.

Airwolf crouched in the confines of her processor, ready and waiting for the attack. Ready and angry, sensing alien energies in the storm, the way the gale twisted and doubled on itself as she flew, trying to trap her in ice and downdrafts. How dared these creatures taint the very winds she raced?

Angel? Wary query from String and Dom; they could read the weather radar almost as well as she. They could feel the wrongness in the storm, the gusts and micro-bursts and spiraling drafts that had no place in a northern blizzard.

And now hail was rattling against her skin sensors, trying to rip, trying to tear. Flying upwind, struggling to lodge in her intakes.

"Santa Maria!" Dominic, flipping switches and rerouting circuits as blue-glowing hail pounded them. "Rowan, hang onto the doc!"

The wounded woman gripped her prone fellow passenger, eyes wide, aura shedding fear. "What's happening?"

"Don't know what this stuff is, but it ain't hail!" He yanked open a hatch, overrode part of Airwolf's stealth to heat the edges of her intakes. "Grab hold, kid. It's gonna be a bumpy ride!"

There! Airwolf howled. IR and radar and psychic scan melded into one composite view, marked knots of tainted gale, of energy and cold and hate for all that was human. There, there, there!

Cool calculation swept her; String, already bringing up the targets on visor. "Chain guns!"

Tungsten talons raked the skies, the heat of tracers leading the way. Airwolf clawed the air her pilots marked, pouring heart and soul and will to survive into flung metal.

My pilots!
My sky!
Won't die here!

In the shadows of her mind, hounds were shaken off a lone wolf, battered away by claws and wings. Four slavering muzzles pounced - and were driven back, by a bright slash of fang.

Got you!

Airwolf seized a short-furred neck in white jaws, even as her rotors sliced the poisoned knot of storm. Tore and savaged and shook the enemy, dragging it along as she ran. Ice-blood sluiced over her fur, liquid amethyst dripping into the tempest.

A final shake, a bony crunch-

And the hound burst into snow.

For a heartbeat, the storm about them calmed.

"Turbos!"

White paws dug into snowy air, matching the beat of winter-sky wings. Run. Run. Run!

And Airwolf punched into the blizzard's outer edge, out-racing the wind.

~*~*~*~*~
"Auughh...." Cliff whimpered, low in his throat, huddling on himself. The sly knowing had vanished from his gaze, Winston saw; this was a human soul, tortured and drowning. "Help me. Get it out of me...."

"Fight it, man!" Winston gripped the academic's shuddering shoulder, fixed him with a fierce gaze. They didn't have Cliff's base biorhythm, they couldn't pull the spirit out with throwers. But he knew that gleam in Egon's eyes. If Cliff could just hang on a few minutes more-

"You dare!" Something that wasn't Cliff shrieked, twisted Winston's arm aside with inhuman strength. Snatched up the horn, ice pouring free in a gust that tore Egon's papers to shreds and slammed Ray into the nearest pile of gear. "You dare slay one of mine!"

Knew I was too close, the dark Ghostbuster thought, trying to break the possessed man's hold. No good; his countermoves should have shattered bone, but Cliff's icy grip held fast. Got to get loose so the guys can blast him. Not that they could get the spirit out of Cliff, but it'd slow him down.

"Hold it right there!"

The archaeologist's eyes glowed white and savage as the howling storm. "You won't shoot. Not while we hold one of your frail mortal kind."

"Oh yeah, she will," Winston gritted out. Freckles might stand out against Caitlin's pale face, but her aim was rock-steady as the pair of women moved closer. She would shoot.

From the tension in Peter's grip on his thrower, he'd seen it too. "Hurt him and the ghost might take over all the way," the parapsychologist said in a rush. "Just hold him there, while we-"

"Aha!" Egon snatched a page from iced air, read out words that cracked and snapped like granite grinding together.

"No!" Cliff raised the horn, and the shelter began to shake. "Come, my pack-"

Hssh!

Winston coughed, felt something burning lips and throat. Gas...?

~*~*~*~*~
Marella jammed her knockout canister into her pocket, helped Caitlin untangle an unconscious Zeddemore from the semiconscious archaeologist as wind tore at the shelter eaves. Cold breathed through, chilling more than her face. The roof's coming off! "He didn't invite them!"

Egon jammed a spare sock into Cliff's mouth, held thrashing arms while Marella bound possessed wrists with a plastic restraint. "Given that he appears to contain a hound's essence, Cliff's intent alone may have been sufficient to breach the intrinsic psychic field of the threshold," he called over ominous creaks. "These entities are working as a pack, pooling their power to demolish our defenses!"

"Now would be a good time to keep reading, Egon!" Peter called, firing at fingers of wind as the far end of the shelter gave way. Steel shrieked into the night, whirling loose into snow-torn blackness.

"It's far from a permanent binding-"

"Permanent can wait! We need now!"

The physicist grabbed a flint striker, growled something in what Marella thought might be ancient Sumerian as the spark was snuffed out. "The containment spell requires an open flame! Without some means of calming the air-"

Ray's proton stream joined Peter's, smashing back a hound in a flurry of snowflakes. Peter flashed the redhead a relieved grin, turned his fire to the oncoming wave of icy fur. "Unless you know some way to shut them down, Egon, that's not happening."

"We don't have to!" Despite the lump rising on the side of his head, Ray's eyes were bright. "All we have to do is reestablish the threshold. Just for a few minutes!"

Crack! Crack! Two hounds yelped as lead burned through them; dodged aside, licking their wounds in the wind. "Yeah?" Caitlin lined up another shot; held her fire, as sleet blew into her eyes. "Case you guys didn't notice, the roof's gone! Can't exactly go out there and ask 'em to give it back."

Marella risked a shot of her own, held back rude words in French as lead passed harmlessly through a snickering hound. Right. I don't have an Angel backing me-

And fur and fang was on her, teeth snapping for her neck. She tried to shove it away - only to feel gloved hands pass through like so much mist.

Cold. So cold. Wind sucking heat like the dead of space....

And a rush of warmth, as a swearing Texas wildcat pried off snarling snow. "No - you - don't!"

As it hurtled into the night, Marella could have sworn the hound flashed them a center toe.

"Arctic spooks have no sense of humor." Peter nudged Marella with his elbow. "Okay, she's got handling PKE down. How's her shielding?"

"My what?"

"Check the Bethancourt protocols for wide-area defense," Marella managed, shivering. Hoping she'd read enough in Airwolf's unusual database to be on track. "Maybe t-try bending a dazzle over the hole...."

"Maybe. I don't know...." Caitlin shot Peter a glance as the Ghostbuster kept firing. "They're dogs, right? They act like dogs?"

"Pant, slobber, try to take your head off-"

"Then I got a better idea." Caitlin spread her fingers to the wind-

And fury swept out.

Mine, Marella felt, ringing in her soul like struck crystal. Tugging at her, urging her gaze south, toward the source of that howled threat. My territory. My sky.

I challenge you!

Spirit to spirit. Light to dark. Hound... to wolf.

Pack-challenge, Marella realized. Dog packs hunt wolves. They have to. It's their nature.

A decoy!

Wind hesitated. Picked up again, moving away. South.

Sparks struck; Egon rattled off ancient words even as the alcohol lamp caught. "Ray, now!"

The redheaded Ghostbuster dusted black herbs into the flame, turning golden fire silver-bright. Brandished a lump of red sealing wax near the dancing flames, letting silver sparks soften it to crimson putty.

Still chanting, Egon waved the horn north to south, east to west, a slow circle that took in all of earth and sky....

And snow howled past them, caught in a vortex of power, spiraling into the horn as if it were a cosmic drain.

Red smeared horn and crystal, and all was silent.

Thrower off, Peter grinned. "What do you know? You two are better than a rolled-up newspaper."

As if from far off, Marella heard Caitlin giggle. Caught the speculative glance the psychologist cast the pilot's way. Ah, yes, Marella thought. Dr. Venkman, who never met a woman he wasn't interested in asking for her number. I ought to warn him about String....

Snap.

Quiet. Subtle. Chilling to the core.

Snap.

Marella's eyes widened as glowing frost spread over plastic restraints, turning Cliff's bonds fragile as spring ice. A white-on-white gaze turned her way; with a negligent wave, the possessed professor gestured two shuffling bodies forward.

The students! Caitlin-

Chill spread from grasping hands. The world slid sideways, and darkness sucked her under.

~*~*~*~*~
A temporary setback. Haazreth the wind-master stalked the drifts in his borrowed body, a white haze of snow-dust raised about him, mind-chilled zombies trailing in his wake. One hefted his captive, his prey; the life he would need to shatter that human wizard's binding.

And then the winter would be his.

"You'll pay for this, you will-"

Oh, be silent, fool, Haazreth sneered. Your form is mine now. Accept it, and perish.

Annoying humans. Any respectful lower life form would have had the decency to extinguish itself when he possessed it. Instead Cliff hung on, psychic fingernails clinging to his body.

Oh, for the days of snow and glory, when the naked apes cowered and perished at our claws. But those days were millennia past. Humans were simply too resilient, and had been for centuries. Why, the wind-master neither knew nor cared.

But sturdy as their spirits might be, human flesh and bone was fragile as any other living creature.

Even if that human was a sorceress.

Ah, yes. Waving one of his servants forward-

"Keith. That's Keith. What have you done to him-"

Snarling, Haazreth slapped the human down once more. Names, human names; what did they matter? It was his servant now, no more. "Wrap the creature warmly," he ordered, eyes moving indifferently over freckled skin. "We must not kill her too quickly."

~*~*~*~*~
Good news is, the storm's gone, Peter thought fuzzily, blinking his eyes clear as he tried to figure out why he was flat on his back in a snow-drifted trailer. Bad news is, so is Cliff.

Headache. That's what he had. Not a concussion-type headache, he'd had enough of those to know the difference. More of a knockout-drop jackhammer in his temples, the kind that was heavy and pounding and made you very, very cross with the world. "Guys? Marella?"

"She's still out, Peter." The misery in Ray's voice spoke volumes.

"But she is not chilled." Egon let his fingers rest a moment more on the doctor's steady pulse, pulled a sleeping bag around her. "Apparently the Class Six's protective influence blocked any attempt to impose an alien pattern of PKE on her behavior, yet was not sufficient to prevent an energy drain. I doubt she's encountered enough hostile supernatural entities to build up a resistance."

"Oh, man...."

"Winston?" Peter pulled himself upright, made his way over toward his wincing buddy. Counting bodies as he went; Egon, Ray, Winston, Marella-

Caitlin was gone.

And so was the horn.

This is bad. This is very bad. How long were we out?

"Heath Isle camp, come in!"

A little too long, Peter thought, diverting to the radio. He knew that growl; someone wanted to redecorate the ice in Late Ghostbuster. Ten to two that's the boyfriend. "Mercy One?"

"Where's Caitlin."

As in, answer or I spread you all over the pretty white snow, the psychologist thought dryly, looking out what was left of the door into drifted flakes. A few skirls of white blew by, smoothing out dents in the crystalline powder, aimless as the wind. Two words, guy. Anger management.

Then again, this was the type of guy who ate counselors for lunch, with a little pretty guided imagery on top. "Looks like Cliff's got a houseguest. He took her."

"Probably because she's a high PKE source," Ray added.

Silence on the line. "When." Cool. Collected. Ice.

Peter swallowed dryly. Oh boy. This is not good. Cool, calm, and collected in the face of your girlfriend being kidnapped by a demon-possessed archaeologist meant one of two things. Either he didn't really care about Caitlin in the first place, or....

"We better get to Cliff before he does," Winston muttered.

"You won't."

Peter pursed his lips in a silent whistle. He heard that?

Wait. Dents in the snow. "I think we've got a trail."

Winston glanced where he was pointing, checked a compass, rechecked the reading against the little chart Egon had brought along of latitude-versus-magnetic poles. This might not be the High Arctic but you still couldn't trust the compass completely. "Looks like they went northeast."

"She's north-northeast of you guys," the engineer's voice broke in. "We can't narrow it down much farther. Something's messing with our signal."

Ray whistled. "Cliff can interfere with a Class Six's psychic link?"

"Don't say it, Egon." Peter flung up his hands. "This, is bad."

"Indeed."

~*~*~*~*~
Low-down son of a snake-

Icy hands were steel bands around her arms, dragging Caitlin along despite every effort to break loose, go limp, or kick the living daylights out of her captors. Sore as her feet felt, Graveson and McIntosh ought to be writhing on the ground, leg muscles knotted into one huge bruise. Yet the pair slogged on in their master's wake, uncaring as snow.

Clawing them hadn't helped either. The bits of their flesh she could awkwardly reach resisted her nails like smooth ice.

And none of that scared her as much as the white-on-white disorientation swirling around them.

Like the Lady's dazzle, Caitlin thought, trying to at least keep track of the way terrain shuddered under her boots. Snow-and-light, white-on-white. Only it's all shadows....

She slipped and skidded, fighting for purchase as they dragged her onward. Whoa! Ice?

Ice, definitely, under the shifting snow. We're not on the island anymore.

"Neither land nor sea." The thing that wasn't Cliff held up a hand to halt his zombies, sneer stretching human lips beyond their limit; blood trickled over pale skin. "Neither sea nor sky."

An in-between place. Daughter and granddaughter of story-telling Irish Texans, Caitlin felt her gut clench. A place where the Good Neighbors walk through. An' some who aren't so good.

"And already, the seal begins to crack." The creature snickered, shaking crimson dust off that horrible horn. "Human binding spells are so predictable."

Keep your head, Caitlin warned herself. You can't hit him where it hurts, so aim for the ego. "You gotta be kidding me," she snorted. "I saw Ray slap that wax on, remember? If that's the best you got, we're gonna be here into next week."

The possessed man snarled. For a moment she saw another face, drawn and white and inhuman as the wind.

"And you don't have a week," Caitlin taunted, trying not to shiver. "Cliff's still in there, and he's giving you the great-grandma of all conniption fits-"

Ice slashed down her throat, a bolt of pain and cold and tearing....

"Who needs time, little mortal?" The creature brandished the horn, point-up, smiling as the dark tip soaked in scarlet drops. "I have you."

Oh lord, oh lord - breathe. Caitlin clenched her jaw, feeling the slow, warm trickle of blood into her collar. It's not that bad. So he cut you-

The crimson dust was thicker, now, drifting across her parka. Caitlin kept her gaze fixed on his, hazel challenging inhuman white. Fought not to blink; blinking meant shutting her eyes, and she wasn't sure she'd ever get them open again. Chill seeped into her blood, as if the wind itself wriggled through the tear in her skin. She was so cold....

Resist! A howl in her mind; fear and love and terrible, terrible fury.

Can't come through.
Turbos enabled.
Remote operating protocol "Tulpa" not accessible while AI necessary for flight.

Hell, no. Flying Airwolf cold was possible. Flying Airwolf cold at Mach one plus - might as well call the church and order the funeral wreath, sonny. You'd auger in so fast you might not even feel it.

"We could touch down. Let the Lady loose."

Dominic. Just like that raw pain vibrating near was String, trying to shut out all thought of jinxes and curses and Death that hovered over him like wings of night.

He believes everyone he loves will die, Michael had told her once. Of course he's cold. He wants to protect you.

Hells of a way to find out you were loved.

And what if Angel can't take him? Caitlin shoved back. Two on three's no way to fight; you taught me better than that. The point of the horn glistened red, echoing the gleam in white eyes; she shuddered. I can handle it. He likes the pain; he's not going to kill me, not yet-

Pain. Ice. Blood.

And flakes of wax, now, falling free into the wind.

She gasped. Fought for breath. Hot salt trickled down, stung the ragged wounds. Just get here!

Rough estimate GPS coordinates: you-are-here.
PKE shunt enabled.
Don't sleep!

Warmth trickled through Caitlin's veins. Not enough to beat the chill back... but it held ice at bay, wrapped the heart of her in fur and feathers.

Combat high, she thought, in the Lady's crystal clarity. Call it. Use it. Nobody sleeps through that.

No one could live in it long, either. Airwolf was built for sneak-and-run, not hours-long battles. Wrapped in the link adrenaline burned white-hot, focussed by the Lady's pure will to survive. Burned - and flamed out, dropping unwary pilots in their tracks.

Coming!
Take what you need.
Be with me.

Warmth. Fire. Flame.

Caitlin flung open her half of the link, welcoming that innocent savagery into her soul. Airwolf didn't care about laws, or nations, or the greater good. Airwolf knew only that there were predators, and those-to-be-protected, and prey.

And Airwolf would never be prey.

No one does this to me!

~*~*~*~*~
"Hmm."

"I know I'm going to hate myself for asking, Spengs." On point in the whirling whiteness, Peter didn't even glance back. "What hmm?"

Egon looked over his readings once more, aware of Winston's solid presence bringing up the rear. They'd left Ray with his proton pack and a still-groggy Marella; the occultist might or might not have a concussion, and the doctor was in no position to protect herself, much less follow them into a blinding distortion of reality.

No change. "There are now clear emanations of a Class Six, along with the possessing spirit in Cliff and the overlying residuals in the two students."

"But Angel's not here," Winston pointed out. "Hospital's hundreds of miles from here. No way they can make it back in time."

"Precisely. I believe Caitlin is channeling the Class Six's power for her own defense." Egon knew he didn't need to explain further. No human, however altered, could stand that amount of supernatural strain for long.

"Terrific." Peter held up a halting hand. "Tracks are getting fresher-"

Quite fresh, given the scream that rang through the distorting haze.

"Stay still." Cliff's voice might have been a moaning katabatic gale; not at all the hound-like growl Egon had expected. "I might miss. And you wouldn't want that, would you, little sorceress? No, I know your kind. I know how you cling to life, whatever the cost...."

"Stay still, hell! I bet you'd give a fire ant heartburn!" Caitlin's breath was ragged. Blood had soaked her furred collar, running from four parallel gashes down the curve of her neck. Tan parka sleeves were torn and ragged where the students-turned-zombies gripped her arms, exposing glimpses of gray. But there wasn't an inch of give in her face. "When's the last time you looked up? Don't tell me - you got tired of seeing sidewinder's bellies!"

"I like this lady," Peter murmured. "Yo! Ugly! You, with the icicle envy!"

Bloody horn in hand, the possessed professor tossed a bolt of lightning.

Three Ghostbusters hit the snow, scattering away from scorched-black ice. Winston shook off bits of ice, circling back. "Egon, what gives?"

A valid question; humans, however possessed, did not usually throw energy bolts. "We may be dealing with a second type of entity," the physicist said swiftly. Moving himself; white sparks were beginning to dance in their opponent's hand, and he had no intention of presenting an accessible target. "Whatever is possessing Cliff seems to demonstrate an intelligence and breadth of knowledge beyond what we would expect from a wind-hound. Far beyond what we've seen from terror-dogs. He did say one of mine, not one of us."

"We got the head guy," Peter translated.

"And he's got Caitlin," Winston grimaced.

"So long as he's attacking her physically, very few defensive measures can prevent him draining her energy," Egon nodded. "Angel can replenish it, keeping her free of possession-"

"But giving Cliff a built-in battery." Peter's eyes narrowed, white reflecting off green as they dodged another bolt. "Cait! You've got to shut down the power!"

"Oh, do," Cliff all but purred. Resting the bloody horn-tip atop what Egon suspected was one of Caitlin's carotid arteries; from the way Peter tensed, the psychologist could see skin pulse against crimson. "Your energy frees my pack... but your death will free it much swifter."

"He bluffing?" Winston bit out. Obviously wanting to fire; if the spirit had amassed that much PKE, they could target him and not worry about neutronizing the innocent human it had possessed. Just as obviously held back; one twitch, and his hostage would be in mortal peril.

"No." Even from here, Egon could see red wax flaking away. A deliberate sacrifice would shatter the seal irrevocably. And to think I didn't consider that a peril. Given the strict circumstances such a vile act would need; a Class Six supernatural, and an intersection of at least two mystical boundaries-

Creak.

"Ah, guys?" Peter pressed a boot gingerly into snow, paled as it darkened. "We're on ice."

"Thus fulfilling one of the mystical conditions," Egon nodded. "Neither land nor sea-"

Another bolt arced toward them; Peter fired, deflecting it away. The resulting hole groaned, dark against the surrounding whiteness. "Thin ice, Egon. Over very cold water."

"And the hounds aren't piling on the storm anymore." Winston looked gray. "Which means this stuff is melting."

Indeed. Given the evident thickness of the remaining sheet, the probable surface area affected by the spell-storm, and the average air and water temperatures of an Arctic summer, the estimated length of time that this piece of ice would continue to withstand their weight was... "This is bad."

"Hey, Winston," Caitlin managed, not looking their way. "You ever see the Blue Angels sneak?"

"Say what?"

Holy Heisenberg! "Down!"

And darkness howled from the sky.

Air smashed him, driving breath from Egon's lungs like a hammer-blow. The black-and-white aircraft's downwash blasted snow off the ice, filling the sky with white, blocking all sight of hostage and captors alike.

Peter's thrower zapped out, proton stream snaring a humanoid form that snarled and swore in a language Egon had never heard. "I got Cliff! Get the students!"

Egon blinked snow from his vision, fired a short burst at Graveson. The student writhed and crumpled, cracks spreading beneath him as the wind-hound's mystical overlay fought to maintain control. I believe I need to revise my estimate downward.

Tan-on-white caught his eye; Caitlin twisted around McIntosh, spun his frigid grip into a judo hold that flung him away from her - straight into Winston's stream. "Hawke!"

Silver-and-black swung between her and their assailants, predatory intent clear as a stalking wolf's. Egad. Are those guns?

"Egon, Winston, take him!" Peter dove aside as lightning deflected his stream. Pulled out his radio as his teammates fought energy with energy. "Mercy, we've got a problem!"

"Yeah?" The engineer's voice, for which Egon was heartily grateful. "What d'you want us to do, shoot the guy?"

"That would be highly inadvisable," Egon argued, projecting his voice over the helicopter's howl. Not to mention unethical. "If the host perishes-"

"Yeah, yeah, Cait told us. You got a better plan?"

Caitlin had told them? Recognizable two-way communication? Amazing!

"You've got a Class Six entity in there," Peter argued. "We can't drag that spirit out of Cliff. Not without a lot of equipment and time-"

Zap! Craackk....

Peter fell back behind Egon, away from the gaping darkness of lightning-blasted ice. "And we don't have time." One hand held his thrower, ready to activate the moment he no longer needed a hand for the radio. "But she can get him."

"You'll hurt her." Hawke. Chill as the splintering ice.

Peter's mouth hardened; he nodded once. "Shut down."

Winston glanced his way. "Peter, you sure?"

"Just do it!"

The crackle of protons cut off, leaving only the helicopter's howl. Cliff's form rose smoking from the ice. Bared teeth at them, sparks gathering in his hands-

Snow - light - hunger for sky-

A white wolf leapt from the black hull, wings a sky-blur of azure-touched mist, teeth an ivory flash at Cliff's throat. Bit and tore and savaged, white claws raking through flesh like fog.

Enemy!
Hurt my pilot!
Stopping you!

"Definitely a psychic projective," Egon muttered, flinching at the waves of sheer emotion crashing through him. He'd lost count of the number of Class Sixes they'd faced; he knew their power, their inhumanity. But this....

Fury, hate, threat-to-beloved-

Fangs tore something gray and filmy from Cliff's body, left the professor gasping on hands and knees. The winged wolf backed up one step, two, teeth fixed in an arm that was long and leaden and cold as hate.

You dare! The Arctic entity hissed at its assailant, blizzard lightning flickering about clawed fingers. Its face was holes of storm cloud, set in angles of ice; nothing that could be mistaken for human. I am Haazreth! The Wind-Master! I will have your guts for my playthings, whelp!

Wolf! Hammered back, a snarl of teeth, a beat of falcon wings. Angel!

"Cliff!" Peter called across the ice. "Help us out here, buddy! That's your body. No subletting allowed. Tell that creep to pack up and get out!"

Haazreth laughed, like the first whispers of an avalanche. He cannot hear you, mortal fools-

"No," Cliff murmured; a bare, voiceless whisper. Gazed at the bloody horn in his hand and numbly let it tumble to the wet ice. "No."

As repudiations went, Egon had heard better. But it was enough. "Now!"

Three proton streams lashed out.

Like the helicopter that was her host, Angel leapt up.

You dare! Lightning beat at the trapping streams; clawed fingers tore at protons, struggling to break free. I am Haazreth! I will have you all, bleeding into my pack's throats; I will-

Tan flashed under the cover of black. Freckled hands grabbed Cliff's. "Come on!"

A leaden fist smashed down. Mortals - die!

And ice was splintering around them, cracking like gunshots, and there was barely time for Egon to snag Graveson's collar before the sea surged up to swallow them-

Cold. So cold.

Refuse to panic. Unstrap the pack, let it fall away. Keep a grip on the victim. Do not flail; watch the bubbles fly past, follow them up toward air and light and life...

And gloved hands were pulling him from the water; pulling them, strong and worried and unyielding as the sea.

Egon coughed, shivered; shivered more intensely, as a sudden blast of warm air fought the numbing cold. Warm? Where?

"Get him inside." Hawke's voice, unaccountably gentle. "The Lady can keep him warm."

~*~*~*~*~
"Oh, wow." Aching head all but forgotten, Ray circled the killer whale-marked helicopter, taking in every last detail of hull and engines. "Egon, look at these pressure sensors!"

Blond curl still damp, the blanket-wrapped physicist gingerly pressed one of the minuscule squares covering the black hull. "Double-duty? Environmental input and drag reduction?"

"Yep. Lady thinks of 'em kind of like fur," Dominic nodded, running a loving hand over the composite skin. "A little ripple, and we slide right through the wind."

Well, yes, Ray knew, given the fluid dynamics of air that definitely would help. But this many sensors? All over the hull? For it to make that much of a difference.... "How fast can she go?"

Dom waggled gray-streaked brows. "I ain't telling." A grin crinkled his face. "But just between you, me, and the wallpaper? You're never gonna want another roller-coaster ride."

"Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch." Peter growled at his PKE meter, handed it over to Winston. "Not even a blip from our zonked-out trio in the trailer. You see anything?"

"Besides her?" The older Ghostbuster jabbed a thumb back towards the Lady. "Uh-uh."

Clouding readings?
Could shield.
Effects of "Dazzle" on PKE valance detection unknown.

"No, that's okay," Ray said hastily. "If Haazreth or the horn were in range, you wouldn't block the readings." So warm, he thought. Like snuggling up to a downy puppy.

A puppy with teeth, given the guys' account. "So you're what Jane was working on?" Ray glanced through the windows, trying not to be too obvious about his curiosity. From what Egon had mentioned there were systems inside that NASA didn't have. "A ship spirit integrated with an AI?"

?!?
Clearance level?

"And just what leads you to that conclusion, Dr. Stantz?" Marella rounded the black hull, dark eyes wary.

"Before her demise, Dr. Bethancourt was a noted artificial intelligence expert," Egon replied, attention equally split between the doctor and her unorthodox transport. "We have in our possession some papers that attest to her interest in ship spirits, tulpas, and tupilek, as creations of patterned PKE."

"Doesn't take much to get from that to Angel, here," Winston pointed out. "But Class Six? Man! What happened?"

Ask clearance level.

"How much can we tell 'em, Marella?" Dom asked.

"She can't hear you?" Ray blurted.

"I'm not a sensitive." Marella touched the hull as if it might bite. "I've only talked with the Lady via a computer screen." She shrugged, a fluid shift of white in the returning sunshine. "Short version, gentlemen, since I know you've heard some of the details from Ms. Courtland. One of the designers decided he would take Angel, and did his best to kill everyone who'd ever worked on her." Her voice dropped. "He very nearly succeeded."

"Only he missed String," Dom put in.

"A common, and usually fatal, miscalculation," Marella noted dryly. "Unfortunately, it seems Moffet knew more of what Bethancourt was up to than we did. He was able to install a blocking protocol in the AI that restrained Angel's ability to act on her own. We literally didn't know she was there, until...." She hesitated.

"Until some weird demon-lady tried to eat a guy we know, and the Lady had to go through String to keep him breathing," Dom said bluntly. "I been talking to choppers for years. First time one's ever talked back."

Ray whistled. "But if she can manipulate psychokinetic energy through you as hosts...."

"She's part of your auras." Peter's lips pressed into a thin line.

Yes.
Pilots.
Mine.
Why worried?

Ray blew out a slow breath. "Angel, do you know what happens if you get... hurt?"

Yes. A whisper of sadness, acceptance. I know. We know.

"She goes, we go." Dom lifted a shoulder, let it fall. "We go - maybe Angel hangs on. If she's got someone else to latch onto. Ain't like I was looking to die in bed, kiddo. I'm a pilot. Long as I'm breathing, I'm flying."

"Which could, theoretically, be quite long indeed." Egon took the meter Winston handed him, started adjusting for biorhythms.

"Excuse me?" Marella's brow arched.

"This should be confidential...."

"She's the closest we got to a regular doctor," Dom pointed out. "Only one who knows what's going on."

"And so far, outside of an annoying tendency toward high-g tolerance, I haven't found anything that shouldn't be there," Marella stated.

"This probably wouldn't be something regular tests would catch," Peter said judiciously. "We're going to have to check the rest of you to be sure, but Caitlin's aura looks a lot like the psychic version of a wizard-familiar link. And wizards tend to hang around a long time."

"We're not exactly sure what happens," Ray added. "It's got something to do with how much PKE goes through your aura on a regular basis. Some people can actually build up a tolerance for the energy. And once you hit that point, well...."

"Put it this way. If you go in bed, Dominic, it'll be because a safe fell on you," Peter finished.

"Now, that sounds like fun." Dom waggled his brows at Marella. "So when you gonna try that with Michael?"

"Oh, please." The doctor's glance sought Winston's. "No sign of that creature?"

"Probably went right down with his horn." Winston crossed his arms, glanced toward the melting remnants of ice. "If somebody pulls that up, we got big problems."

"Work out a plan of attack for locating and disposing of the artifact, and we'll see it reaches the proper Canadian authorities," Marella said briskly. "We can ask them to put this area off-limits, and arrange for the loan of certain types of equipment if you think it necessary. A boat, a few divers, side-scan sonar."

Winston shook his head. "Who are you, lady?"

Marella glanced at the helicopter. "I can't tell you."

"She's a secret, isn't she?" Ray asked softly.

Yes.
Classified.
Sentient existence highly restricted information.

"She gave you guys a start, and you deal with weird stuff all the time," Dom said seriously. "What do you think a bunch of bureaucrats would do if they knew the Lady was alive?"

Winston grimaced. "I can guess." He shook his head. "They won't hear it from us. But Cliff, and the students...."

"As far as I can tell, they seem to be suffering nothing worse than exhaustion and a little frost-nip," Marella said briskly. "I've called in the ordinary Rescue personnel. Now that the weather's clear, they should be here inside of an hour. Which means we really should be going."

"Ah," Dom shuffled his feet. "Can't we give 'em a few more minutes?"

"Yeah; how are the two lovebirds?" Peter grinned.

Marella held up a warning finger. "They have extremely good hearing, Dr. Venkman. And String tends to flinch from the very word love." She lowered her hand. "I'm hoping if we're quiet enough, they'll forget we're here."

Yes!
Feels nice.
Gentle-in-link.
Shedding dark frequencies left by enemy spirit.
Don't want to startle.

~*~*~*~*~
"Ow, darn it!" Caitlin hissed under her breath, tried not to squirm.

"Sorry." String dabbed on the last bit of iodine, started on the bandages. His hands were even and steady, moving smooth as if he were easing Airwolf's cyclic through the sky. "You okay?"

"I will be." Soon as she could stop remembering that horrible glee in Cliff's possessed face, when he brought the horn down-

Stop it! It's over. It's not gonna happen. Never again.

Easy to think. Harder to convince the heart you had any clue what you were talking about.

"You okay?" Quieter this time. With a searching glance from storm-blue eyes, as if he were afraid to look too long.

You okay. Two words he'd used as long as she'd known him, after bombs and would-be rapists and too many bodies to count. Simple syllables, to hold such a wealth of meaning. Can you keep going? Have you seen too much?

Is this the moment I lose you?

"String." She caught his hand in hers, felt the well-known pattern of callus. That was a wrench, those nubs the cyclic, that ridge the familiar grip of a gun. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

Almost too much; Caitlin saw the flinch. Saw the fight in his eyes, not to pull back. His mouth hardened. "People die around me."

"Yeah," Caitlin acknowledged. "Yeah, I know."

"You could die."

"I could get hit by a truck tomorrow, too," Caitlin pointed out acerbically. "You been in L.A. traffic lately? Come on, Hawke! Bad things happen. You gonna let them keep you from the good ones forever?"

Silence. Terrible, chilling silence.

But he didn't look away.

"I didn't sign up with the cops to stay safe," Caitlin explained. Hold your temper, gal. He's a guy, which means dense. And scared. "I didn't come looking for you all the way out to California 'cause I thought you had a white picket fence and a nine-to-five. And I sure as hell didn't sign up with Dom and the Firm 'cause I thought I'd wear a dress and look pretty. I came to fly, String! I came to whirl that Lady of ours through the air like a dragonfly making good in the rain." She rubbed her fingers over his knuckles, kneading at the white-bone tension. "And like that dragonfly, Hawke, I know the odds."

Something finally loosened in his shoulders. "You... interested in dinner tonight? Dom wanted to stop by the cabin, talk over some flight plans for the Bellisarius footage...."

Well, it ain't "I love you," Caitlin thought wryly. "Depends. You cooking?"

A shadow of a smile. "Yeah." String leaned closer, studying her face. As if he'd never seen that particular arrangement of freckles and hazel eyes before, and it was vitally important he note every detail....

Dominic says time to go, Airwolf bounced at them, fur and feathers and happy at the clearing sky.

A low growl. "Yeah."

Nice timing, Angel, Caitlin sighed mentally, following the grumbling pilot back toward the helicopter. Waving at the Ghostbusters as they cleared back; good, looked like Ray knew enough about choppers to keep his teammates clear of the tail rotor.

Yes!
Dominic says a little frustration's a good idea. "Stop him before the poor, mixed-up guy thinks too much and talks himself out of it."
Michael says pick a good wine.
What's a good wine for?

~*~*~*~*~
Don't think I've ever seen Caitlin turn quite that shade of crimson, Marella thought, watching the redheaded pilot snatch up her helmet as they prepared to take off. The operative glanced at Santini, hoping he'd read the question in her eyes.

Date tonight, Dominic mouthed, and winked.

Well. Well, well, well. Marella stifled a grin. Don't smile. Don't even hint at it.

She might not believe in jinxes. But she knew enough about operatives' psychology to know how easily String could trip himself up. If they let him.

"So..." Dominic let the question slide out casually as he brought Airwolf's systems up. "You got the maps so we can figure out a good route for the canyon footage?"

"Yeah." String stabbed the ignition button.

"Lot of cross-winds down there," the older pilot observed, casual as if he couldn't hear the growl. Keeping the turbines smooth and even as snow-soaked ground fell away. "Could take a while for us to figure out a couple of different routes, so we can get the shots even if the weather don't want to cooperate. Right, Cait?"

"I guess...." Under the helmet, hazel eyes were almost as wary as String's.

"Maybe we better figure on staying over the night, huh?"

As in, a chaperoned night. Marella bit back a smile as she saw the shoulders in the right seat ease. Good call, Dom. He's been alone so long... oh, he knows love 'em and leave 'em. Almost as well as Michael.

Yet neither of that pair had ever made a move on Caitlin. Archangel had apparently folded her into the category of "angel" the moment the ex-cop's file had crossed his desk, and Hawke....

Hawke had just watched her. As if a falcon had flown in to nest in Santini Air's hangar, and he didn't dare twitch, for fear of frightening her away.

She's stronger than that, String. And now Marella did smile, eyeing the half-wrecked camp below.

"What's so funny?" Caitlin demanded.

"Just thinking," Marella chuckled into her mike. She pointed down. "If that mess didn't scare me out of the business, nothing will!"

She almost missed it. Just a hint of curved shadow, a breath of laughter in her headset....

The rumors are true. Stringfellow Hawke actually can smile.

"Turbos!"