The long concrete ribbon stretched eternally as mile after mile unfolded
under Peter's feet. He walked aimlessly through the City, through
brownstone and slum, eyes cast downward. The streets were far from
deserted despite the late hour -- the City That Never Sleeps had earned its
reputation honestly, from all-night delis to midnight movies. Passers-by
ranged from youthful hoodlums bedecked in chains to well-dressed matrons,
whose jewels glistened in the neon. Peter saw none of them, his emotions
so muddled as to boarder on numbness, his attention turned inward forcibly
away from the strange hunger which overwhelmed every external sensation.
Yo, Q'utah! Got a question for ya! Peter hailed the nether-entities silently, his mind reaching out to initiate contact. He waited for an answer, not altering his pace. When none was forthcoming, he tried again, also without moving his lips. Hey! Anyone there?
This time the lack of response brought a smile to his lips, little more than a grimace but as close to genuine as he was capable of coming. That proves it, he thought with enough relief to weaken his legs. They can project and influence but they can't read my mind. My thoughts are still private and I'm still ... Peter Venkman.
As he walked, he'd been experimenting, and the Q'utah, secure in their power, seemed quite content to allow it in the main. There'd been a ruckus a few times over his attempts to psionically evict them -- he'd come so close to succeeding! His training and knowledge in the areas made him a formidable opponent; unfortunately, his natural abilities were severely limited, his psi rating above normal but not excessively so. Feeling some semblance of threat, however, the Q'utah had stopped him quickly, using that intense pain they could generate to break his concentration. Given temporary control, they'd used his own body to inflict minor injuries and indignity, non-life threatening but effective. The episode had been brief, for the Q'utah were still strangers to his body and inexperienced. Peter had regained the upper hand in seconds, but their influence grew steadily as time progressed, and Peter feared their eventual victory. Since then, he'd moved, walked, forced his body to obey while fighting that eerie hunger that of itself was the most disturbing aspect of the nightmare.
He'd remained underground all day, his one attempt at reaching open air aborted by a phobia so intense the very thought of light had dropped him in a quivering huddle. He'd sensed the Q'utah's hand in the induced terror -- a defense mechanism, no doubt -- but had been unable to conquer it. Once night had fallen he'd exited the hated sewers, not knowing where to go or what to do, and too engaged in the struggle for control to care.
"Why are you smiling?" a hated voice asked in the back of his mind. "You have found something to amuse you?"
"Just wondering," Peter murmured under his breath, "whether or not I can turn into a bat. That might be fun."
"Your body is slightly enhanced," was the answer. "Our energy strengthens you. But you are not a shape-changer. Be content to be our servant."
Peter didn't reply to that beyond rolling his eyes. Instead, he turned his attention to a smoky window front directly to his left. With the overhead street lamps behind him and the illumination of the great neon sign above, the glass served as a respectable mirror, reflecting back his own image. He studied it closely, wincing at what he saw there. Ruby eyes stared back at him, desperation so clear in their depths as to be nearly painful to behold. The dark brown uniform Peter wore was stained and grimy and stank of the sewer, as did the brown hair that now stood up in unruly spikes all over his head. Peter grimaced, his expression even more sour when his stomach growled in response. "Not only am I starving," he grumbled, running a thumbnail over the nineteen-hour beard shadowing cheeks and jaw, "I look like a derelict. Wonder how many people I scared tonight."
"The night is ours," one of the parasitic aliens crowed gleefully, expanding Peter's lungs as evidence of the fact. "We have owned the night of this world for a millennium and one."
"Happy Birthday," Venkman returned dryly, hate welling up like bile in the back of his throat.
"Thanks. Got me a present, big boy?"
It took a moment for Peter to realize that the voice had originated outside his head and was of a decidedly feminine nature. He turned, directing his step toward an alley only feet away, (Serve the Q'utah right if I got mugged.) then stopping to view the female who waited there. She was petite, no more than five feet without the four-inch heels, and wore her frizzy light hair short. She was also, Peter noted with dismay, about fourteen years old.
"Shouldn't you still be in school?" he quipped, aborting the remark that a decollete neckline did her boyish figure very little justice.
The girl stepped closer, pressing her body full length against his, and anchoring them in place by wrapping her arms intimately around his hips. "I like school, mister. Think you could teach me anything?"
Peter turned so that the streetlamp fell across her face. Despite her years, her eyes were hollowed as though she hadn't slept in days, and there were fine lines crisscrossing her forehead and mouth. Had he wanted to look, Peter was sure he would find the tell-tale tracks of a mainliner -- one who injects drugs intravenously. Crank, he diagnosed, catching sight of her pupils by light of a passing truck. Or ice. He shook his head sadly. Such a waste. Aloud, "Sweetheart, I doubt there's much of anything I could teach you."
"We could teach her," a voice interrupted from a point directly behind his eyes. "Teach her how to die -- teach you to feed. We need!"
Fatigue. Lust. Disgust. Anger. All poured from the girl in waves, her emotions becoming Peter's own. The hunger slammed into him then, worse than before and having nothing to do with the empty state of his stomach. Peter recoiled as though scalded, coming up short against a urine-scented brick wall. "No."
"Yes!"
Unaware of the internal dialogue taking place, the young prostitute moved close again and ran her fingers up and down his arm, stopping at the Ghostbusters insignia sewn onto the sleeve. "Hey, I know who you are! You're one of them guys what catches ghosts, right?" She donned an impish grin, looking heartbreakingly younger. "Wow! I never did a celebrity before! I almost don't want to charge you ... much."
Exerting themselves, the Q'utah forced Peter's arms up until they wrapped around the girl, his fingers gouging the flesh of her shoulders. She winced but didn't pull away. "If you want it rough," she gasped, gulping, "I-it'll cost extra, okay?"
The Q'utah laughed and it was Peter's voice that emerged, a low grisly chuckle. Peter clamped down on it immediately, concentrating all his attention on his hands. Grimly he forced his fingers open one by one, releasing the girl and stepping back. "No," he gasped, staggering farther away. "I won't."
That won him a pout. "I'm real good, Mister Ghostbuster. No AIDS or anything." She extended her hand toward his groin and Peter again moved backward, this time reaching the safety of the street.
"I won't let you," he snarled so fiercely that the girl, thinking he was addressing her, also recoiled.
"M-maybe some other time then," and she was gone, melded with the shadows.
Peter wiped his forehead, resisting an urge that was not his to follow her, and ignoring the screaming rebuke that only he could hear. "We will have what we need!" came through loud and clear, as did the low ache of his still-developing canines. "Our control will grow and you will obey us ... forever."
Peter believed them. The struggle to release the girl had taken nearly every erg of mental energy he possessed. There was no choice, he needed help and he needed it now. Resolutely he turned his steps downtown toward the firehouse.
"We know what you are about," the Q'utah whispered as though it would be hard to guess. "Your friends cannot help you." Peter didn't answer, just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. "We control you much now," the voices went on balefully, a tripled symphony of malice.
"They will not know anything is wrong."
"We will force you to kill them."
Could they? Peter didn't know. He'd nearly killed the girl. He'd wanted to kill the girl. But if he waited much longer his control would be completely gone and he'd be a helpless slave. This could be his last chance.
His stride had by now taken him several blocks. He stopped again and stared into the next window he came to, forcing himself to meet his own eyes there. "I don't want them to see me like this, he whispered with a sense of shame. They'll never act if they see me like this first -- they'll need time to absorb the situation and ... I don't want them to see me like this. He imagined the horrified sympathy that would be on Ray's and Egon's faces, and shuddered. They'll never defend themselves if they don't have time to prepare. But how much time do I have before I can't control ... them? There was no choice. He would have to take the chance that his friends were sharp enough to act decisively no matter what their feelings.
He gulped and moved on toward Mott Street. "I'm going to tell them what's wrong," he decided, paying no heed to the continued threats from within. "You can't stop me from doing this."
"We will stop you! We will make you rip out their throats! We will make you feed"
Peter ignored them for the firehouse was now in sight. Fatigued muscles trembled as he fumbled for his key and inserted it in the lock, trepidatious longing tight in his chest. As expected, the garage was deserted; Janine would have long ago gone home. She had a hot bath and dinner, Peter thought enviously, and is sleeping between clean sheets. By now even the worried Ghostbusters would have turned in. He made his way upstairs without incident, able to see perfectly even in the near total darkness. Rather than actually changing his body, the Q'utah seemed to have simply reinforced what he already had. Sight, hearing, smell and physical strength were all augmented somehow, and weakened though he felt, Peter could sense some form of energy coursing through his veins, driving him on.
The second floor was dim but not completely dark, lit from without by both streetlamps and business signs. He felt it then, a strange force flaring in his brain like a miniature nova. It grew then exited invisibly and he could sense it spreading outward, engulfing his friends. "What just happened?" he asked aloud, puzzled.
This time the Q'utah were silent.
The room, however, was not. Peter followed a snorting sound to the couch and hiked one eye over the backrest. Winston Zeddemore lay full length there, still fully dressed and obviously enjoying the reward of the righteous. Relief washing over him at the sight, Peter reached down and shook one powerful shoulder, receiving for his trouble an impression of dependable foundation and friendship. "Winston?" A light sleeper, the man should have shot up like a rocket; instead, he snorted again and burrowed deeper against the arm of the couch. Frowning, Peter tried again. "Yo! Zed! You in there, booby?" This time there was a response, not from the negro but from within.
"Do you think us fools?" a voice sneered in his ear. "We grant the sleep that cannot be broken. We will not let you tell anyone about us. If you try again, we will kill them." There was a pause as of deliberation. "This one could not resist if we were to feed," came seductively.
"Slimeballs," Peter groaned, tears forming in his eyes. A new thought presented itself. He would have help, if not tonight than come morning! His stomach rumbled, hunger mixing and roiling with need. Without protest from the Q'utah, he made a first stop in the kitchen, ducking into the refrigerator and emerging with an apple. "Vampires are supposed to drink blood," he said aloud. "But I probably need a little more fiber in my diet than that." He ripped off a piece with his canines, chewed and swallowed. To his stomach's delight, it stayed down. "Terr'f'c," he mumbled around another mouthful.
"Your body must eat even as we must feed," the Q'utah informed him, breaking a minutes' long silence during which Peter finished off not only the apple, but a glass of milk and a bologna sandwich. "First you feed, then us."
"Fat chance," Peter growled, dumping his empty glass into the sink. Thinking ahead, he stuffed another apple into his coverall pocket, then directed his step into the living room and to the little desk beside the entertainment center. Without turning on the light, he rummaged in the top drawer and found a pad and pen.
The note was harder to write than Peter had ever imagined it could be. How do you tell your best friends that you are no longer human ... maybe even no longer alive? Or worse, that those same friends might have to ensure he stayed no longer alive ... or functional ... whatever. Engrossed in the dual battle of finding his words and fighting the Q'utah's attempts at usurption, he'd started it twice, before a shuffling sound alerted him that he was no longer alone. Reacting instinctively, he melted back behind the circular staircase where the shadows were thickest. The sleepers could not have awakened; intuitively he knew that the Q'utahs' hypnotic command ensured that. A prowler, then, who could be dangerous to his enthralled friends! Tensing, he tracked the unseen figure by sound alone, waiting until it had taken a single step past his position before leaping into action. One well-muscled arm he slipped around the man's neck; the other hand he brought up to cover his mouth, preventing the man from crying out -- not that it would have done him any good with the rest of the house comatose.
The intruder struggled mere seconds before going still; rather than striking out, he raised one hand to tap his captor on the arm. Cautiously, Venkman eased his hold enough to hear the whispered, "Peter?"
"Ray?" He spun the other around to find himself peering into a pair of delighted brown eyes above a wide grin. "Ray, what are you doing awake?"
"I couldn't fall asleep tonight. I was worried about you." Ray's gladness spilled over into his voice, his whole face alight. "Where have you been? We've searched everywhere." He grasped Peter's forearms and it was only then that Peter realized how painful his own grip must be -- his fingers were sunk into Ray's flesh. He closed his eyes briefly, his new psionic powers transmitting a steady wave of gentle affection and concern from the younger man. Peter basked in it, having needed this kind of comfort for far too long. Ray was so open. ... So much warmth.... And to feed on it directly like this....
With a start he pried open his fingers and stepped away; touching Ray felt too good right now. It was so easy to ... let go. "Ran into a little ... trouble," he began, clearing his throat. "Back in the sewer."
"Yes?" Stantz prodded, reaching for a lampswitch. Peter grabbed his wrist, stopping the action then releasing him immediately.
"Don't. No lights. I can see you well enough."
Ray hesitated, then nodded. "All right." Another pause. "Tell me what's wrong?"
"Wrong?" A bitter smile twisted Peter's lips. "Hope you've got some time -- it's quite a list." He deliberately turned away, making sure his features were concealed in the shadows, though it was unlikely anyone without enhanced vision like his own would be able to see more than generalities. The hunger was almost all-consuming now, and growing by the minute. But he had to hold on if he was going to receive the help he needed. A glance into gentle brown eyes brought the realization of just how concerned Ray had been for him -- actually frightened in fact, if the continuing empathics were to be believed. Perhaps the Q'utah could make good on their threat to force his body to kill his friends. Perhaps not. But he had to hold on -- he needed Ray's expertise if there was to be any end to this nightmare. Besides, he admitted honestly, even aside from technical assistance, Ray's sympathy and support were exactly what he needed right now.
"What's wrong?" he repeated, wetting dry lips. "To begin with, I killed a man last night." Ray drew in his breath in a sharp hiss and reached for Peter's shoulder, but the psychologist moved away and Ray let his hand fall to his side. "It was an old man, Ray, must'a been a hundred if he was a day. Couldn't even walk much any more. He ... stumbled at me out of the shadows and I ... shot him."
Silence draped them, so heavy as to muffle even the living city without. Within its cocoon Peter could hear his own heart, beating loud as thunder. "Is ... that why you left?" Ray asked carefully, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed.
Venkman shook his head. "If it was only that...." A short bark of laughter escaped him, hysteria as close as was the craving. He reined himself in, wrapping his emotions in a jumbled knot; it wouldn't do to lose it here -- not so closed to what he needed so badly. "Killing a man was bad enough," he went on, forcing a note of calm. "But it wasn't just a man that I shot. This man was ... possessed."
"A ghost?" Ray stepped closer, brightening. This was something he could understand. "A human controller or nether-entity?"
"Vampire."
The word filled the room, bringing with it an indefinable chill that stirred the edges of the consciousness. Peter repeated the word, tasting it as though for the first time. "Or should I say, vampires. There are three of them -- old, evil. Hungry."
Cat-sharp vision pierced the gloom easily, though Peter needed no special talent to imagine Ray's frown. "Vampires," the engineer echoed blankly. "But vampires aren't N.E.'s -- they're corporeal beings -- humans transformed into the undead. Well, according to legend, anyway. The only ones we ever met were shape-shifters, like Egon said."
"The Q'utah were never human." Peter traced patterns idly over the back of the sofa; the nappy material rasped ever so lightly under his fingertips. Oblivious, Winston slept on undisturbed. "A long time ago they came to our world from ... somewhere else. They were the origin of the vampire legends; they bragged that they were the worst of their race to have ever existed until they were driven out by their own ... people, for want of a better word."
"We killed many," the Q'utah gloated, but only Peter could hear.
"The bodies were destroyed?" Ray guessed, peeking over the top of the sofa at the slumbering Zeddemore. "Is he all right?".
Venkman nodded, not smiling when Winston emitted a loud snort and turned over. "He won't wake up until I'm gone. They have powerful psionic capabilities." Ray was so close Peter could feel him body and mind; unsettled, he left the couch to take up a stance by the writing desk. "It wasn't their bodies that were destroyed," he picked up after a minute. "In their own dimension they don't really have bodies -- they inhabit other living beings like parasites. The Q'utah are different from the type of vampires we've met; they're not Bela Lugosi undead. When the host body eventually dies, they move on to another, one after another until...." He stopped, a pain far deeper than physical making his voice shake. It was Ray who finished the sentence.
"Until they got to you." He came nearer, again reaching for Peter's shoulder and this time the psychologist did not retreat from his touch. Ray's hand was warm against his skin, the heat radiating even through the filthy uniform. There were other sensations, too, love and concern -- old bonds washing through the psychologist in waves. Mixed in was one the psychologist recognized as one of his own -- the desire to feed. The results were ... intoxicating ... and then Peter had again jerked away.
"Hunger!"
"For the love of ... stay away from me!" The command had to be forced for the last thing in this world or the next Peter Venkman wanted was for Ray to move away. But he made the effort and the words came. "They're here now, Ray," he gritted, clenching his fists. "They want blood -- need blood to survive and ... God forgive me, I think I do, too." He stepped into the weak light from the window and the younger man retreated a single step from the ruby glow which lit Peter's eyes. The gleaming canines were even now over an inch long. "The hunger ... hurts. I don't know how long I ... can hold ... them back."
He turned to flee then, feeling his control nearly gone. Ray moved to intercept him, his white pajamas giving him an unearthly aspect, like a specter himself. "No, Peter, don't go. Not yet."
Unafraid of his friend's transformation, Ray laid his hand on Peter's back, and Peter again tasted the essence within -- the pure pulsating life force only millimeters beneath skin. With a start, Peter again jerked free. "You don't understand," he managed, his voice shaking harder. "It's you I ... they ... want. Your blood."
Ray's hesitation lasted a fleeting moment, and then he was turning Peter towards him, his eyes as warm as his skin. "If you leave here, you're going to kill someone. Legend says that if you do, you really will be damned ... whatever that means."
"No alternative," Peter returned. It was getting difficult to talk over the swelling in his own throat, and his proximity to food ... Ray ... reduced his concentration to shards. Whether he stayed or not, THEY would soon control completely. "I'm going to be a murderer, Ray ... unless you can ... end it now?" He examined his friend with a spark of hope dimming the hunger-lust. To be dead was certainly better than being a murderer and a slave. The spark flared and then faded when Ray bit his lip.
"Not right now," he said, spreading both hands apologetically. "I have an idea on how to drive them out, but...."
"I said end it." Peter grabbed the younger man's shoulders, his expression conveying his meaning more clearly than any words. "Forever."
Dark eyes widened fearfully. "I couldn't do that!"
Peter's hope died. In an abrupt move he released Ray, shoving him aside. "Then I have to go. If I stay...."
Ray snagged his arm again, hanging on for all he was worth. "You've got to stay, Peter. If you leave, you'll kill someone and there won't be anything any of us can do."
"We need the blood," the psychologist intoned defeatedly. "There's no other choice."
Ray smiled gently. "Maybe one other."
Peter attempted to free himself but the younger man's hold was tenacious. "What do you mean?"
"Me."
Peter stared, that single soft-spoken word fanning the hunger to new heights. He lifted his free hand and placed in on Ray's chest, feeling the thump-thump of a healthy heart against his palm. Ray was young and strong, his emotions were close to the surface making them eminently assessable. The meal would be enjoyable.
The words were not his own ... and yet they were for Peter, who had been raised by a man who made a living out of deceit and a woman who had learned the hard way not to trust, this lowering of the barriers was an experience never before dreamed. "I can feel you," he said, awed. "Every emotion ... thought ... memory...."
"He will be good," the ancient evil rejoiced, forcing Peter to close the distance to their prey. "Taste him."
Enchanted by this one-way mental intimacy Peter obeyed they prodding, running light fingers across Ray's cheek. "I love you too, Ray," he whispered, responding to the unspoken sentiment, awash in perfectly unshielded affection. "You are my little brother in every way that counts." He blinked, the realization of what he was doing slamming into his soul like a speeding locomotive. "Which is why I'm not going to kill you. I'm a vampire, kid; if I stick around I'll do something I can't help ... and neither of us will like it."
Refusing to be persuaded, Ray insistently shook Peter's arm. "You said it yourself -- you're not a vampire. You're still human inside -- still a man. I've trusted that man with my life before; I'm willing to do it again now."
Peter stared, uncomprehending and frightened. "What are you suggesting?"
"You need blood -- take mine." Ray smiled shyly at Peter's incredulous look. "I doubt you're going to need more than I can handle, and if you can just make it through tonight...." He left the words dangle, allowing Peter to finish the thought for himself. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow Egon and Winston will be involved. Tomorrow brings hope.
"One boy can do nothing," the entities boasted. "Three even les. Our power has conquered centuries."
Peter raised his right hand and very gently cupped Ray's jaw and cheek. "Do you know what you're offering?" he rasped. "Or what you're risking? If I can't stop...."
Ray swallowed hard but nodded without reservation. "It's your only chance. You take just enough to survive. That'll buy us the time we need to help you."
There was no answer to that, and no time to seek another. "Ours!" the Q'utah crowed, exerting themselves more strongly than ever before. Peter hesitated one split second, long enough to peer deeply into those trusting amber eyes. "R--" And the Q'utah took him. Control vanished entirely leaving nothing but the fire which seared every nerve and embraced this willing sacrifice to the flames.
He pulled Ray closer, again feeling that outrush of mental energies like a hot wind. Ray came to him unresistingly, lifting his chin to allow Peter access to his throat. Peter bit down immediately and Ray jerked aside, Peter's new fangs digging into shoulder muscles and skin. Ray gasped at the sudden pain but did not pull away. His eyes were dulling under the Q'utah's psionic assault, and he spoke dreamily, as if distracted. "Promise me, Peter," he mumbled. "Promise that you'll always come back to me for blood rather than touch anyone else."
Peter licked his lips lightly, maddened beyond bearing. "Sure," he muttered, slashing downward again. Ray cried out softly but did not move, locked as he was now in some type of semi-aware state.
Tooth parted skin and rich dark fluid filled Peter's mouth; he tasted it, sputtered and spat it out. Ugh! Revulsion filled him and bafflement. The hunger was there, why couldn't he drink? Wasn't that what vampires were supposed to do? Even as he asked, the Q'utah drove him to sink his teeth into Ray's throat again, this time slashing deeper and allowing the blood to trail down the younger man's neck and chest. It was then that Peter understood -- the appetite was for more than the coppery-salt of blood; rather, it was for emotions and feelings, thoughts and memories -- the very essence of the man himself that Peter now fed upon. In his heightened empathic state, he experienced all that made up the being named Ray Stantz, felt it soak into his own substance to become a part of him, flowing with the steady rush of blood which was now staining the carpet. Emotions not his own filled him, carrying him along on a tidal wave of love and affection and the simple unwavering trust that was Ray Stantz.
Memories rose as the entwining continued. Peter found himself in two places at once -- both watching and experiencing. He was Peter Venkman and he was also incredibly small, waving tiny fists to the sky. He tasted warmed milk from a glass bottle and gazed adoringly up at a pretty, sharp- featured woman named "Mom." Long, curly red hair trailed over fragile white shoulders, and there were lines of anxiety etched around her mouth and bright green eyes.
The farm house was visible through the dirty barn window; it was whitewashed and barren, set against the gently rolling hills of New York State. He/they refocussed, using the glass as a reflecting mirror; a child peered back, about eight years old, small with huge eyes and an unkempt shock of red-brown hair. He had to be quiet; if he made a sound then Mr. Hanley would catch him here in the barn. He held up his newest acquisition -- a Captain Steel comic book -- examining the cover by the light of the dying sun. Young muscles ached, having been worked too hard, but there was also the singular happiness that came from these few minutes' escape from unkind reality into the fantasy world of blue-uniformed superheroes, who spoke to little boys with kindness, and lived nobly, a place where love was more than a hopeless hurt.
He/they looked up, startled by a shadow, quivering at the appearance of a whipcord lean man with a weathered face. Marble hard eyes regarded the youthful ones unsmilingly, even as the newcomer snapped a leather belt against his palm. "On a farm indolence is a sin," he grated, striding forward. "I know how to learn youngsters better." Something hurt and the pretty dream world crashed to halt.
He was thirteen -- his thirteenth birthday, in fact -- and possessed of a brand new winter coat, courtesy of Great Aunt Lois. None of Ernest's hand- me-down coats this winter! he cheered, running his fingers across the navy blue wool. It's so warm! And it fits! It fits me! Beaming with joy, he bent his back to his task, that of tossing hay into the stalls for the livestock. Though it had to be just past dawn, there was no weariness in this work; hard labor had produced strong arms and powerful shoulders, and the exertion was more pleasure than strain.
He breathed deep the clean rural air, enjoying the dual fragrances of vegetation and animal. Guess Old Man Hanley was right, Peter thought with no lessening of disgust for the man. Indolence on a farm doesn't pay. "Hello, Lorna."
The greeting was made tenderly in a high, childish voice, and answered by a quiet lowing from beyond the first stall. A russet head popped over the top, placid dark eyes regarding him with what passed as bovine adoration. The cow accepted the carrot gracefully, returning a sloppy kiss by way of thanks.
Another picture superimposed itself even as the barn faded: that of Peter himself as a much younger man, handsome and proud and brilliant in the eyes of the sixteen-year old boy who'd asked him directions on campus one day. Peter both saw and was himself, idealized and almost inhumanly perfect, much as that nearly-forgotten comic book hero had been so many years before. The effect was both embarrassing and flattering at once.
All this Peter lived in an instant, these images and a thousand others flowing around him and through him in a river. Yet, as vital as these were, it was the emotions which Peter savored most; morsel by delicious morsel they grew, filling him to overflowing with the loving friendship which had grown over the course of half a lifetime. Peter saw-felt-sensed and knew himself to be beloved, and the returning tenderness rose to mingle in his heart. There was something else now: a fear-flavor that had not been there before. It, too, was delicious, an exotic spice added to the meal. Dimly, from somewhere very far away, he heard a soft voice pleading with him for ... something ... over and over, but the entities within told him to ignore it, and the sensations were so delightful that he was only too happy to oblige. Soon the pleading faded away leaving only the spice. Intoxicated by these new sensations, Peter Venkman gave himself over, revelling in the sheer exhilaration of the feed.
A long time later, when his mind and heart could hold no more and the Q'utah had lapsed into sated silence, he raised his head with a sigh. "I feel good," he grunted, spitting his mouth clean. "Strong -- replenished. Good." He opened his eyes then and the words that he had intended to speak -- that he was grateful for the gift, that he loved Ray as much as he'd sensed the return -- choked him at the first sight of his friend. The only thing holding Ray Stantz upright were Peter's arms locked around his chest and waist, for by all appearances the young man was long unconscious ... or worse. The auburn head hung back limply, exposing the slashed throat, chalk white face and blue lips forming a stark contrast to the blood which soaked the fronts of both Ray's white pajamas and Peter's dirty brown uniform. Alarmed, Peter shook him roughly.
"Ray?" He called anxiously, his words still slurred by the long canines. The younger man did not so much as stir and Peter shook him again, harder. "Come on, kid, say something!" But there was no reply save the shallow, raspy breathing that converted the liquid fire in Peter's veins into barren ice.
Stricken, Peter pulled his friend closer, supporting him carefully in his arms, allowing the lolling head to roll forward against his chest. "I didn't mean it, Ray," he babbled, laying his cheek against disordered auburn hair. "I didn't know how to stop!" He stiffened, casting his eyes heavenward. "He trusted me."
"The boy always was a fool," an amused voice answered from within his own head. "You've said as much yourself."
"Only when it came to trusting me," Peter retorted, a tear slipping from his ruby eyes and trailing down his face. With an abrupt gesture, he swept Ray up as he would a child; to his revitalized muscles the man's weight was insignificant. "Egon!" he thundered, abandoning the slumbering Zeddemore for the spiral staircase. "Egon! Wake up!"
Neither he nor Winston so much as stirred at his beckon. "Tell me how to wake them up," Peter demanded harshly. "Or I'll take Ray to the emergency room myself."
"It is nearly dawn," a voiceless voice replied. "The sun rises. We can not permit ourselves to be trapped by the light."
"It can destroy you as well," another added harshly. "After the change you became as vulnerable as we."
"You think that's going to stop me?" Peter retorted, privately wondering if that were truth or lie and not particularly caring either way. Suicide by lethal suntan held a certain macabre attraction at this point. The Q'utah must have had long experience with this reaction, however, for suddenly he was shaking, filled with such a phobic loathing of even the thought of Earth's golden star that he nearly bolted then and there. He caught himself at the last moment, the feeling of Ray's body in his arms giving him the tenacity to tarry. "This is Ray's life I'm talking about."
The third entity laughed. "It is nothing to us if the boy dies, or to you any longer. There are others where he came from who walk the city streets. We will feed well."
That fueled Peter's temper like nothing else could have. "Someday you'll all fall," he grated. "When that happens, I intend to be there to watch."
"But your friend will not," the second voice taunted. "And his death bonds you to us forever."
That brought Peter's mind back to the limp form he was clasping so tightly to his chest. Ray's breathing was becoming even more labored, and the bluish tinge to his lips was even now extending itself to the rest of his face. "Hang on, kid," he whispered. "I'll get you help no matter what it costs."
The entities rebelled then, sending a single thread of vitriol through his nervous system. Peter gasped, his concentration splintered by the pain. The Q'utah used the opportunity to direct his steps back across the room toward the garage access. Still carrying Ray, Peter staggered several yards before he could reclaim himself; he dug in his heels, bringing them all to a halt. "Not ... until he's ... safe," he snarled, reversing his course.
The background muttering inside his skull grew but the pseudo-vampires were unable to prevent his climb to the third-floor bunkroom; accepting the futility in this particular attempt, the vitriol cooled leaving Venkman limp with relief. "Tell me how to wake them up," he commanded, making his way to the bunkroom. Bootheels clumped across the hardwood floor, stopping when he'd reached Egon's bedside. The physicist lay sprawled on his back, arms spread at his sides and an expression of utter serenity on his face. Across the room, floating lightly above the foot of Ray's bed, Slimer snored loudly, and Peter sighed, enjoying the familiar sights and sounds of his erstwhile residence. Beats the sewer, he thought dryly, catching a whiff of his own clothes. Aloud, "Tell me how to wake them!" But there was no reply from the entities, and the sleepers continued to sleep.
Peter clenched his teeth, sickened anew by the drop of blood which rolled off of Ray's soaked pajama's to stain Egon's sheets crimson. Infuriated, he kicked out, actually moving Egon's bed several feet though disturbing the physicist not at all. Across the room Slimer grunted something and flipped over in mid air, pulling his glow-in-the-dark blanket tighter around his neck. "There has to be a solution," Venkman stated firmly. "I'm not going to let Ray die." He stood for a moment, considering his options. "If I leave, the psionic control keeping Egon and Winston asleep with fade, but there's no guarantee that either of them will wake up naturally before morning. Even if they do, they may not think to check on Ray before ..." The words, "... it's too late," added themselves to his sentence of their own volition. He dismissed them instantly. "Never too late," he said with a fierce determination.
Coming to a decision he very gently lay Ray on the bed next to Spengler, positioning him in the crook of one sinewy arm. He smiled slightly as Egon, murmuring in the throe of some dream, turned towards the young engineer and draped his free arm across Ray's chest, holding him securely in place. "You're gonna make someone a great mother, Spengs." Satisfied, Peter straightened and lay his hand on Ray's forehead. "Hang on, kiddo. Just a little longer."
With that he loosened the desperate control he was maintaining and allowed the entities to bustle him down the stairs and out the door, delaying them only long enough to pick up the pay phone across the street. He dialed "0," waiting impatiently until the operator answered. "Yes, ma'am, I'd like to make a collect call. ... The number? 555-BUST. And let it ring, will you? They may still be ... asleep."
***
Yo, Q'utah! Got a question for ya! Peter hailed the nether-entities silently, his mind reaching out to initiate contact. He waited for an answer, not altering his pace. When none was forthcoming, he tried again, also without moving his lips. Hey! Anyone there?
This time the lack of response brought a smile to his lips, little more than a grimace but as close to genuine as he was capable of coming. That proves it, he thought with enough relief to weaken his legs. They can project and influence but they can't read my mind. My thoughts are still private and I'm still ... Peter Venkman.
As he walked, he'd been experimenting, and the Q'utah, secure in their power, seemed quite content to allow it in the main. There'd been a ruckus a few times over his attempts to psionically evict them -- he'd come so close to succeeding! His training and knowledge in the areas made him a formidable opponent; unfortunately, his natural abilities were severely limited, his psi rating above normal but not excessively so. Feeling some semblance of threat, however, the Q'utah had stopped him quickly, using that intense pain they could generate to break his concentration. Given temporary control, they'd used his own body to inflict minor injuries and indignity, non-life threatening but effective. The episode had been brief, for the Q'utah were still strangers to his body and inexperienced. Peter had regained the upper hand in seconds, but their influence grew steadily as time progressed, and Peter feared their eventual victory. Since then, he'd moved, walked, forced his body to obey while fighting that eerie hunger that of itself was the most disturbing aspect of the nightmare.
He'd remained underground all day, his one attempt at reaching open air aborted by a phobia so intense the very thought of light had dropped him in a quivering huddle. He'd sensed the Q'utah's hand in the induced terror -- a defense mechanism, no doubt -- but had been unable to conquer it. Once night had fallen he'd exited the hated sewers, not knowing where to go or what to do, and too engaged in the struggle for control to care.
"Why are you smiling?" a hated voice asked in the back of his mind. "You have found something to amuse you?"
"Just wondering," Peter murmured under his breath, "whether or not I can turn into a bat. That might be fun."
"Your body is slightly enhanced," was the answer. "Our energy strengthens you. But you are not a shape-changer. Be content to be our servant."
Peter didn't reply to that beyond rolling his eyes. Instead, he turned his attention to a smoky window front directly to his left. With the overhead street lamps behind him and the illumination of the great neon sign above, the glass served as a respectable mirror, reflecting back his own image. He studied it closely, wincing at what he saw there. Ruby eyes stared back at him, desperation so clear in their depths as to be nearly painful to behold. The dark brown uniform Peter wore was stained and grimy and stank of the sewer, as did the brown hair that now stood up in unruly spikes all over his head. Peter grimaced, his expression even more sour when his stomach growled in response. "Not only am I starving," he grumbled, running a thumbnail over the nineteen-hour beard shadowing cheeks and jaw, "I look like a derelict. Wonder how many people I scared tonight."
"The night is ours," one of the parasitic aliens crowed gleefully, expanding Peter's lungs as evidence of the fact. "We have owned the night of this world for a millennium and one."
"Happy Birthday," Venkman returned dryly, hate welling up like bile in the back of his throat.
"Thanks. Got me a present, big boy?"
It took a moment for Peter to realize that the voice had originated outside his head and was of a decidedly feminine nature. He turned, directing his step toward an alley only feet away, (Serve the Q'utah right if I got mugged.) then stopping to view the female who waited there. She was petite, no more than five feet without the four-inch heels, and wore her frizzy light hair short. She was also, Peter noted with dismay, about fourteen years old.
"Shouldn't you still be in school?" he quipped, aborting the remark that a decollete neckline did her boyish figure very little justice.
The girl stepped closer, pressing her body full length against his, and anchoring them in place by wrapping her arms intimately around his hips. "I like school, mister. Think you could teach me anything?"
Peter turned so that the streetlamp fell across her face. Despite her years, her eyes were hollowed as though she hadn't slept in days, and there were fine lines crisscrossing her forehead and mouth. Had he wanted to look, Peter was sure he would find the tell-tale tracks of a mainliner -- one who injects drugs intravenously. Crank, he diagnosed, catching sight of her pupils by light of a passing truck. Or ice. He shook his head sadly. Such a waste. Aloud, "Sweetheart, I doubt there's much of anything I could teach you."
"We could teach her," a voice interrupted from a point directly behind his eyes. "Teach her how to die -- teach you to feed. We need!"
Fatigue. Lust. Disgust. Anger. All poured from the girl in waves, her emotions becoming Peter's own. The hunger slammed into him then, worse than before and having nothing to do with the empty state of his stomach. Peter recoiled as though scalded, coming up short against a urine-scented brick wall. "No."
"Yes!"
Unaware of the internal dialogue taking place, the young prostitute moved close again and ran her fingers up and down his arm, stopping at the Ghostbusters insignia sewn onto the sleeve. "Hey, I know who you are! You're one of them guys what catches ghosts, right?" She donned an impish grin, looking heartbreakingly younger. "Wow! I never did a celebrity before! I almost don't want to charge you ... much."
Exerting themselves, the Q'utah forced Peter's arms up until they wrapped around the girl, his fingers gouging the flesh of her shoulders. She winced but didn't pull away. "If you want it rough," she gasped, gulping, "I-it'll cost extra, okay?"
The Q'utah laughed and it was Peter's voice that emerged, a low grisly chuckle. Peter clamped down on it immediately, concentrating all his attention on his hands. Grimly he forced his fingers open one by one, releasing the girl and stepping back. "No," he gasped, staggering farther away. "I won't."
That won him a pout. "I'm real good, Mister Ghostbuster. No AIDS or anything." She extended her hand toward his groin and Peter again moved backward, this time reaching the safety of the street.
"I won't let you," he snarled so fiercely that the girl, thinking he was addressing her, also recoiled.
"M-maybe some other time then," and she was gone, melded with the shadows.
Peter wiped his forehead, resisting an urge that was not his to follow her, and ignoring the screaming rebuke that only he could hear. "We will have what we need!" came through loud and clear, as did the low ache of his still-developing canines. "Our control will grow and you will obey us ... forever."
Peter believed them. The struggle to release the girl had taken nearly every erg of mental energy he possessed. There was no choice, he needed help and he needed it now. Resolutely he turned his steps downtown toward the firehouse.
"We know what you are about," the Q'utah whispered as though it would be hard to guess. "Your friends cannot help you." Peter didn't answer, just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. "We control you much now," the voices went on balefully, a tripled symphony of malice.
"They will not know anything is wrong."
"We will force you to kill them."
Could they? Peter didn't know. He'd nearly killed the girl. He'd wanted to kill the girl. But if he waited much longer his control would be completely gone and he'd be a helpless slave. This could be his last chance.
His stride had by now taken him several blocks. He stopped again and stared into the next window he came to, forcing himself to meet his own eyes there. "I don't want them to see me like this, he whispered with a sense of shame. They'll never act if they see me like this first -- they'll need time to absorb the situation and ... I don't want them to see me like this. He imagined the horrified sympathy that would be on Ray's and Egon's faces, and shuddered. They'll never defend themselves if they don't have time to prepare. But how much time do I have before I can't control ... them? There was no choice. He would have to take the chance that his friends were sharp enough to act decisively no matter what their feelings.
He gulped and moved on toward Mott Street. "I'm going to tell them what's wrong," he decided, paying no heed to the continued threats from within. "You can't stop me from doing this."
"We will stop you! We will make you rip out their throats! We will make you feed"
Peter ignored them for the firehouse was now in sight. Fatigued muscles trembled as he fumbled for his key and inserted it in the lock, trepidatious longing tight in his chest. As expected, the garage was deserted; Janine would have long ago gone home. She had a hot bath and dinner, Peter thought enviously, and is sleeping between clean sheets. By now even the worried Ghostbusters would have turned in. He made his way upstairs without incident, able to see perfectly even in the near total darkness. Rather than actually changing his body, the Q'utah seemed to have simply reinforced what he already had. Sight, hearing, smell and physical strength were all augmented somehow, and weakened though he felt, Peter could sense some form of energy coursing through his veins, driving him on.
The second floor was dim but not completely dark, lit from without by both streetlamps and business signs. He felt it then, a strange force flaring in his brain like a miniature nova. It grew then exited invisibly and he could sense it spreading outward, engulfing his friends. "What just happened?" he asked aloud, puzzled.
This time the Q'utah were silent.
The room, however, was not. Peter followed a snorting sound to the couch and hiked one eye over the backrest. Winston Zeddemore lay full length there, still fully dressed and obviously enjoying the reward of the righteous. Relief washing over him at the sight, Peter reached down and shook one powerful shoulder, receiving for his trouble an impression of dependable foundation and friendship. "Winston?" A light sleeper, the man should have shot up like a rocket; instead, he snorted again and burrowed deeper against the arm of the couch. Frowning, Peter tried again. "Yo! Zed! You in there, booby?" This time there was a response, not from the negro but from within.
"Do you think us fools?" a voice sneered in his ear. "We grant the sleep that cannot be broken. We will not let you tell anyone about us. If you try again, we will kill them." There was a pause as of deliberation. "This one could not resist if we were to feed," came seductively.
"Slimeballs," Peter groaned, tears forming in his eyes. A new thought presented itself. He would have help, if not tonight than come morning! His stomach rumbled, hunger mixing and roiling with need. Without protest from the Q'utah, he made a first stop in the kitchen, ducking into the refrigerator and emerging with an apple. "Vampires are supposed to drink blood," he said aloud. "But I probably need a little more fiber in my diet than that." He ripped off a piece with his canines, chewed and swallowed. To his stomach's delight, it stayed down. "Terr'f'c," he mumbled around another mouthful.
"Your body must eat even as we must feed," the Q'utah informed him, breaking a minutes' long silence during which Peter finished off not only the apple, but a glass of milk and a bologna sandwich. "First you feed, then us."
"Fat chance," Peter growled, dumping his empty glass into the sink. Thinking ahead, he stuffed another apple into his coverall pocket, then directed his step into the living room and to the little desk beside the entertainment center. Without turning on the light, he rummaged in the top drawer and found a pad and pen.
The note was harder to write than Peter had ever imagined it could be. How do you tell your best friends that you are no longer human ... maybe even no longer alive? Or worse, that those same friends might have to ensure he stayed no longer alive ... or functional ... whatever. Engrossed in the dual battle of finding his words and fighting the Q'utah's attempts at usurption, he'd started it twice, before a shuffling sound alerted him that he was no longer alone. Reacting instinctively, he melted back behind the circular staircase where the shadows were thickest. The sleepers could not have awakened; intuitively he knew that the Q'utahs' hypnotic command ensured that. A prowler, then, who could be dangerous to his enthralled friends! Tensing, he tracked the unseen figure by sound alone, waiting until it had taken a single step past his position before leaping into action. One well-muscled arm he slipped around the man's neck; the other hand he brought up to cover his mouth, preventing the man from crying out -- not that it would have done him any good with the rest of the house comatose.
The intruder struggled mere seconds before going still; rather than striking out, he raised one hand to tap his captor on the arm. Cautiously, Venkman eased his hold enough to hear the whispered, "Peter?"
"Ray?" He spun the other around to find himself peering into a pair of delighted brown eyes above a wide grin. "Ray, what are you doing awake?"
"I couldn't fall asleep tonight. I was worried about you." Ray's gladness spilled over into his voice, his whole face alight. "Where have you been? We've searched everywhere." He grasped Peter's forearms and it was only then that Peter realized how painful his own grip must be -- his fingers were sunk into Ray's flesh. He closed his eyes briefly, his new psionic powers transmitting a steady wave of gentle affection and concern from the younger man. Peter basked in it, having needed this kind of comfort for far too long. Ray was so open. ... So much warmth.... And to feed on it directly like this....
With a start he pried open his fingers and stepped away; touching Ray felt too good right now. It was so easy to ... let go. "Ran into a little ... trouble," he began, clearing his throat. "Back in the sewer."
"Yes?" Stantz prodded, reaching for a lampswitch. Peter grabbed his wrist, stopping the action then releasing him immediately.
"Don't. No lights. I can see you well enough."
Ray hesitated, then nodded. "All right." Another pause. "Tell me what's wrong?"
"Wrong?" A bitter smile twisted Peter's lips. "Hope you've got some time -- it's quite a list." He deliberately turned away, making sure his features were concealed in the shadows, though it was unlikely anyone without enhanced vision like his own would be able to see more than generalities. The hunger was almost all-consuming now, and growing by the minute. But he had to hold on if he was going to receive the help he needed. A glance into gentle brown eyes brought the realization of just how concerned Ray had been for him -- actually frightened in fact, if the continuing empathics were to be believed. Perhaps the Q'utah could make good on their threat to force his body to kill his friends. Perhaps not. But he had to hold on -- he needed Ray's expertise if there was to be any end to this nightmare. Besides, he admitted honestly, even aside from technical assistance, Ray's sympathy and support were exactly what he needed right now.
"What's wrong?" he repeated, wetting dry lips. "To begin with, I killed a man last night." Ray drew in his breath in a sharp hiss and reached for Peter's shoulder, but the psychologist moved away and Ray let his hand fall to his side. "It was an old man, Ray, must'a been a hundred if he was a day. Couldn't even walk much any more. He ... stumbled at me out of the shadows and I ... shot him."
Silence draped them, so heavy as to muffle even the living city without. Within its cocoon Peter could hear his own heart, beating loud as thunder. "Is ... that why you left?" Ray asked carefully, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed.
Venkman shook his head. "If it was only that...." A short bark of laughter escaped him, hysteria as close as was the craving. He reined himself in, wrapping his emotions in a jumbled knot; it wouldn't do to lose it here -- not so closed to what he needed so badly. "Killing a man was bad enough," he went on, forcing a note of calm. "But it wasn't just a man that I shot. This man was ... possessed."
"A ghost?" Ray stepped closer, brightening. This was something he could understand. "A human controller or nether-entity?"
"Vampire."
The word filled the room, bringing with it an indefinable chill that stirred the edges of the consciousness. Peter repeated the word, tasting it as though for the first time. "Or should I say, vampires. There are three of them -- old, evil. Hungry."
Cat-sharp vision pierced the gloom easily, though Peter needed no special talent to imagine Ray's frown. "Vampires," the engineer echoed blankly. "But vampires aren't N.E.'s -- they're corporeal beings -- humans transformed into the undead. Well, according to legend, anyway. The only ones we ever met were shape-shifters, like Egon said."
"The Q'utah were never human." Peter traced patterns idly over the back of the sofa; the nappy material rasped ever so lightly under his fingertips. Oblivious, Winston slept on undisturbed. "A long time ago they came to our world from ... somewhere else. They were the origin of the vampire legends; they bragged that they were the worst of their race to have ever existed until they were driven out by their own ... people, for want of a better word."
"We killed many," the Q'utah gloated, but only Peter could hear.
"The bodies were destroyed?" Ray guessed, peeking over the top of the sofa at the slumbering Zeddemore. "Is he all right?".
Venkman nodded, not smiling when Winston emitted a loud snort and turned over. "He won't wake up until I'm gone. They have powerful psionic capabilities." Ray was so close Peter could feel him body and mind; unsettled, he left the couch to take up a stance by the writing desk. "It wasn't their bodies that were destroyed," he picked up after a minute. "In their own dimension they don't really have bodies -- they inhabit other living beings like parasites. The Q'utah are different from the type of vampires we've met; they're not Bela Lugosi undead. When the host body eventually dies, they move on to another, one after another until...." He stopped, a pain far deeper than physical making his voice shake. It was Ray who finished the sentence.
"Until they got to you." He came nearer, again reaching for Peter's shoulder and this time the psychologist did not retreat from his touch. Ray's hand was warm against his skin, the heat radiating even through the filthy uniform. There were other sensations, too, love and concern -- old bonds washing through the psychologist in waves. Mixed in was one the psychologist recognized as one of his own -- the desire to feed. The results were ... intoxicating ... and then Peter had again jerked away.
"Hunger!"
"For the love of ... stay away from me!" The command had to be forced for the last thing in this world or the next Peter Venkman wanted was for Ray to move away. But he made the effort and the words came. "They're here now, Ray," he gritted, clenching his fists. "They want blood -- need blood to survive and ... God forgive me, I think I do, too." He stepped into the weak light from the window and the younger man retreated a single step from the ruby glow which lit Peter's eyes. The gleaming canines were even now over an inch long. "The hunger ... hurts. I don't know how long I ... can hold ... them back."
He turned to flee then, feeling his control nearly gone. Ray moved to intercept him, his white pajamas giving him an unearthly aspect, like a specter himself. "No, Peter, don't go. Not yet."
Unafraid of his friend's transformation, Ray laid his hand on Peter's back, and Peter again tasted the essence within -- the pure pulsating life force only millimeters beneath skin. With a start, Peter again jerked free. "You don't understand," he managed, his voice shaking harder. "It's you I ... they ... want. Your blood."
Ray's hesitation lasted a fleeting moment, and then he was turning Peter towards him, his eyes as warm as his skin. "If you leave here, you're going to kill someone. Legend says that if you do, you really will be damned ... whatever that means."
"No alternative," Peter returned. It was getting difficult to talk over the swelling in his own throat, and his proximity to food ... Ray ... reduced his concentration to shards. Whether he stayed or not, THEY would soon control completely. "I'm going to be a murderer, Ray ... unless you can ... end it now?" He examined his friend with a spark of hope dimming the hunger-lust. To be dead was certainly better than being a murderer and a slave. The spark flared and then faded when Ray bit his lip.
"Not right now," he said, spreading both hands apologetically. "I have an idea on how to drive them out, but...."
"I said end it." Peter grabbed the younger man's shoulders, his expression conveying his meaning more clearly than any words. "Forever."
Dark eyes widened fearfully. "I couldn't do that!"
Peter's hope died. In an abrupt move he released Ray, shoving him aside. "Then I have to go. If I stay...."
Ray snagged his arm again, hanging on for all he was worth. "You've got to stay, Peter. If you leave, you'll kill someone and there won't be anything any of us can do."
"We need the blood," the psychologist intoned defeatedly. "There's no other choice."
Ray smiled gently. "Maybe one other."
Peter attempted to free himself but the younger man's hold was tenacious. "What do you mean?"
"Me."
Peter stared, that single soft-spoken word fanning the hunger to new heights. He lifted his free hand and placed in on Ray's chest, feeling the thump-thump of a healthy heart against his palm. Ray was young and strong, his emotions were close to the surface making them eminently assessable. The meal would be enjoyable.
The words were not his own ... and yet they were for Peter, who had been raised by a man who made a living out of deceit and a woman who had learned the hard way not to trust, this lowering of the barriers was an experience never before dreamed. "I can feel you," he said, awed. "Every emotion ... thought ... memory...."
"He will be good," the ancient evil rejoiced, forcing Peter to close the distance to their prey. "Taste him."
Enchanted by this one-way mental intimacy Peter obeyed they prodding, running light fingers across Ray's cheek. "I love you too, Ray," he whispered, responding to the unspoken sentiment, awash in perfectly unshielded affection. "You are my little brother in every way that counts." He blinked, the realization of what he was doing slamming into his soul like a speeding locomotive. "Which is why I'm not going to kill you. I'm a vampire, kid; if I stick around I'll do something I can't help ... and neither of us will like it."
Refusing to be persuaded, Ray insistently shook Peter's arm. "You said it yourself -- you're not a vampire. You're still human inside -- still a man. I've trusted that man with my life before; I'm willing to do it again now."
Peter stared, uncomprehending and frightened. "What are you suggesting?"
"You need blood -- take mine." Ray smiled shyly at Peter's incredulous look. "I doubt you're going to need more than I can handle, and if you can just make it through tonight...." He left the words dangle, allowing Peter to finish the thought for himself. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow Egon and Winston will be involved. Tomorrow brings hope.
"One boy can do nothing," the entities boasted. "Three even les. Our power has conquered centuries."
Peter raised his right hand and very gently cupped Ray's jaw and cheek. "Do you know what you're offering?" he rasped. "Or what you're risking? If I can't stop...."
Ray swallowed hard but nodded without reservation. "It's your only chance. You take just enough to survive. That'll buy us the time we need to help you."
There was no answer to that, and no time to seek another. "Ours!" the Q'utah crowed, exerting themselves more strongly than ever before. Peter hesitated one split second, long enough to peer deeply into those trusting amber eyes. "R--" And the Q'utah took him. Control vanished entirely leaving nothing but the fire which seared every nerve and embraced this willing sacrifice to the flames.
He pulled Ray closer, again feeling that outrush of mental energies like a hot wind. Ray came to him unresistingly, lifting his chin to allow Peter access to his throat. Peter bit down immediately and Ray jerked aside, Peter's new fangs digging into shoulder muscles and skin. Ray gasped at the sudden pain but did not pull away. His eyes were dulling under the Q'utah's psionic assault, and he spoke dreamily, as if distracted. "Promise me, Peter," he mumbled. "Promise that you'll always come back to me for blood rather than touch anyone else."
Peter licked his lips lightly, maddened beyond bearing. "Sure," he muttered, slashing downward again. Ray cried out softly but did not move, locked as he was now in some type of semi-aware state.
Tooth parted skin and rich dark fluid filled Peter's mouth; he tasted it, sputtered and spat it out. Ugh! Revulsion filled him and bafflement. The hunger was there, why couldn't he drink? Wasn't that what vampires were supposed to do? Even as he asked, the Q'utah drove him to sink his teeth into Ray's throat again, this time slashing deeper and allowing the blood to trail down the younger man's neck and chest. It was then that Peter understood -- the appetite was for more than the coppery-salt of blood; rather, it was for emotions and feelings, thoughts and memories -- the very essence of the man himself that Peter now fed upon. In his heightened empathic state, he experienced all that made up the being named Ray Stantz, felt it soak into his own substance to become a part of him, flowing with the steady rush of blood which was now staining the carpet. Emotions not his own filled him, carrying him along on a tidal wave of love and affection and the simple unwavering trust that was Ray Stantz.
Memories rose as the entwining continued. Peter found himself in two places at once -- both watching and experiencing. He was Peter Venkman and he was also incredibly small, waving tiny fists to the sky. He tasted warmed milk from a glass bottle and gazed adoringly up at a pretty, sharp- featured woman named "Mom." Long, curly red hair trailed over fragile white shoulders, and there were lines of anxiety etched around her mouth and bright green eyes.
The farm house was visible through the dirty barn window; it was whitewashed and barren, set against the gently rolling hills of New York State. He/they refocussed, using the glass as a reflecting mirror; a child peered back, about eight years old, small with huge eyes and an unkempt shock of red-brown hair. He had to be quiet; if he made a sound then Mr. Hanley would catch him here in the barn. He held up his newest acquisition -- a Captain Steel comic book -- examining the cover by the light of the dying sun. Young muscles ached, having been worked too hard, but there was also the singular happiness that came from these few minutes' escape from unkind reality into the fantasy world of blue-uniformed superheroes, who spoke to little boys with kindness, and lived nobly, a place where love was more than a hopeless hurt.
He/they looked up, startled by a shadow, quivering at the appearance of a whipcord lean man with a weathered face. Marble hard eyes regarded the youthful ones unsmilingly, even as the newcomer snapped a leather belt against his palm. "On a farm indolence is a sin," he grated, striding forward. "I know how to learn youngsters better." Something hurt and the pretty dream world crashed to halt.
He was thirteen -- his thirteenth birthday, in fact -- and possessed of a brand new winter coat, courtesy of Great Aunt Lois. None of Ernest's hand- me-down coats this winter! he cheered, running his fingers across the navy blue wool. It's so warm! And it fits! It fits me! Beaming with joy, he bent his back to his task, that of tossing hay into the stalls for the livestock. Though it had to be just past dawn, there was no weariness in this work; hard labor had produced strong arms and powerful shoulders, and the exertion was more pleasure than strain.
He breathed deep the clean rural air, enjoying the dual fragrances of vegetation and animal. Guess Old Man Hanley was right, Peter thought with no lessening of disgust for the man. Indolence on a farm doesn't pay. "Hello, Lorna."
The greeting was made tenderly in a high, childish voice, and answered by a quiet lowing from beyond the first stall. A russet head popped over the top, placid dark eyes regarding him with what passed as bovine adoration. The cow accepted the carrot gracefully, returning a sloppy kiss by way of thanks.
Another picture superimposed itself even as the barn faded: that of Peter himself as a much younger man, handsome and proud and brilliant in the eyes of the sixteen-year old boy who'd asked him directions on campus one day. Peter both saw and was himself, idealized and almost inhumanly perfect, much as that nearly-forgotten comic book hero had been so many years before. The effect was both embarrassing and flattering at once.
All this Peter lived in an instant, these images and a thousand others flowing around him and through him in a river. Yet, as vital as these were, it was the emotions which Peter savored most; morsel by delicious morsel they grew, filling him to overflowing with the loving friendship which had grown over the course of half a lifetime. Peter saw-felt-sensed and knew himself to be beloved, and the returning tenderness rose to mingle in his heart. There was something else now: a fear-flavor that had not been there before. It, too, was delicious, an exotic spice added to the meal. Dimly, from somewhere very far away, he heard a soft voice pleading with him for ... something ... over and over, but the entities within told him to ignore it, and the sensations were so delightful that he was only too happy to oblige. Soon the pleading faded away leaving only the spice. Intoxicated by these new sensations, Peter Venkman gave himself over, revelling in the sheer exhilaration of the feed.
A long time later, when his mind and heart could hold no more and the Q'utah had lapsed into sated silence, he raised his head with a sigh. "I feel good," he grunted, spitting his mouth clean. "Strong -- replenished. Good." He opened his eyes then and the words that he had intended to speak -- that he was grateful for the gift, that he loved Ray as much as he'd sensed the return -- choked him at the first sight of his friend. The only thing holding Ray Stantz upright were Peter's arms locked around his chest and waist, for by all appearances the young man was long unconscious ... or worse. The auburn head hung back limply, exposing the slashed throat, chalk white face and blue lips forming a stark contrast to the blood which soaked the fronts of both Ray's white pajamas and Peter's dirty brown uniform. Alarmed, Peter shook him roughly.
"Ray?" He called anxiously, his words still slurred by the long canines. The younger man did not so much as stir and Peter shook him again, harder. "Come on, kid, say something!" But there was no reply save the shallow, raspy breathing that converted the liquid fire in Peter's veins into barren ice.
Stricken, Peter pulled his friend closer, supporting him carefully in his arms, allowing the lolling head to roll forward against his chest. "I didn't mean it, Ray," he babbled, laying his cheek against disordered auburn hair. "I didn't know how to stop!" He stiffened, casting his eyes heavenward. "He trusted me."
"The boy always was a fool," an amused voice answered from within his own head. "You've said as much yourself."
"Only when it came to trusting me," Peter retorted, a tear slipping from his ruby eyes and trailing down his face. With an abrupt gesture, he swept Ray up as he would a child; to his revitalized muscles the man's weight was insignificant. "Egon!" he thundered, abandoning the slumbering Zeddemore for the spiral staircase. "Egon! Wake up!"
Neither he nor Winston so much as stirred at his beckon. "Tell me how to wake them up," Peter demanded harshly. "Or I'll take Ray to the emergency room myself."
"It is nearly dawn," a voiceless voice replied. "The sun rises. We can not permit ourselves to be trapped by the light."
"It can destroy you as well," another added harshly. "After the change you became as vulnerable as we."
"You think that's going to stop me?" Peter retorted, privately wondering if that were truth or lie and not particularly caring either way. Suicide by lethal suntan held a certain macabre attraction at this point. The Q'utah must have had long experience with this reaction, however, for suddenly he was shaking, filled with such a phobic loathing of even the thought of Earth's golden star that he nearly bolted then and there. He caught himself at the last moment, the feeling of Ray's body in his arms giving him the tenacity to tarry. "This is Ray's life I'm talking about."
The third entity laughed. "It is nothing to us if the boy dies, or to you any longer. There are others where he came from who walk the city streets. We will feed well."
That fueled Peter's temper like nothing else could have. "Someday you'll all fall," he grated. "When that happens, I intend to be there to watch."
"But your friend will not," the second voice taunted. "And his death bonds you to us forever."
That brought Peter's mind back to the limp form he was clasping so tightly to his chest. Ray's breathing was becoming even more labored, and the bluish tinge to his lips was even now extending itself to the rest of his face. "Hang on, kid," he whispered. "I'll get you help no matter what it costs."
The entities rebelled then, sending a single thread of vitriol through his nervous system. Peter gasped, his concentration splintered by the pain. The Q'utah used the opportunity to direct his steps back across the room toward the garage access. Still carrying Ray, Peter staggered several yards before he could reclaim himself; he dug in his heels, bringing them all to a halt. "Not ... until he's ... safe," he snarled, reversing his course.
The background muttering inside his skull grew but the pseudo-vampires were unable to prevent his climb to the third-floor bunkroom; accepting the futility in this particular attempt, the vitriol cooled leaving Venkman limp with relief. "Tell me how to wake them up," he commanded, making his way to the bunkroom. Bootheels clumped across the hardwood floor, stopping when he'd reached Egon's bedside. The physicist lay sprawled on his back, arms spread at his sides and an expression of utter serenity on his face. Across the room, floating lightly above the foot of Ray's bed, Slimer snored loudly, and Peter sighed, enjoying the familiar sights and sounds of his erstwhile residence. Beats the sewer, he thought dryly, catching a whiff of his own clothes. Aloud, "Tell me how to wake them!" But there was no reply from the entities, and the sleepers continued to sleep.
Peter clenched his teeth, sickened anew by the drop of blood which rolled off of Ray's soaked pajama's to stain Egon's sheets crimson. Infuriated, he kicked out, actually moving Egon's bed several feet though disturbing the physicist not at all. Across the room Slimer grunted something and flipped over in mid air, pulling his glow-in-the-dark blanket tighter around his neck. "There has to be a solution," Venkman stated firmly. "I'm not going to let Ray die." He stood for a moment, considering his options. "If I leave, the psionic control keeping Egon and Winston asleep with fade, but there's no guarantee that either of them will wake up naturally before morning. Even if they do, they may not think to check on Ray before ..." The words, "... it's too late," added themselves to his sentence of their own volition. He dismissed them instantly. "Never too late," he said with a fierce determination.
Coming to a decision he very gently lay Ray on the bed next to Spengler, positioning him in the crook of one sinewy arm. He smiled slightly as Egon, murmuring in the throe of some dream, turned towards the young engineer and draped his free arm across Ray's chest, holding him securely in place. "You're gonna make someone a great mother, Spengs." Satisfied, Peter straightened and lay his hand on Ray's forehead. "Hang on, kiddo. Just a little longer."
With that he loosened the desperate control he was maintaining and allowed the entities to bustle him down the stairs and out the door, delaying them only long enough to pick up the pay phone across the street. He dialed "0," waiting impatiently until the operator answered. "Yes, ma'am, I'd like to make a collect call. ... The number? 555-BUST. And let it ring, will you? They may still be ... asleep."
***