Winston Zeddemore paced the small private room in constricted arcs, his
path taking him around the bed occupying the middle of the floor. Nearly
twenty-four hours of wakefulness on top of only a few hours rest the night
before had taken their toll on the robust Ghostbuster, reddening his eyes
and bowing his shoulders. A quick shower and change of clothes before
assuming his shift here had provided only temporary refreshment -- too
temporary to have lasted this long.
He interrupted his restive pacing to glance at his watch, brows furrowed. The hands stood at four a.m.; already the sounds of a hospital gearing up for the morning routines penetrated the low-lit refuge. Winston sighed, paced another two steps and again came to a halt. "Never did like waiting," he mumbled, running a hand through his short curls. "It's the waiting that's starting me gray."
Brown eyes narrowed as he examined the room as he had every few minutes since nightfall; it remained comfortingly undisturbed. Still, the black war vet took another turn in place, dark features creased with worry. "Don't know what it is," he continued aloud. "Maybe that last cup'a coffee is making me antsy?" He pursed his lips, his gaze lighting on the still form inhabiting the raised bed: Ray Stantz.
Zeddemore approached the bed, staring down at his friend. Ray lay on his side, right arm stretched out to accommodate the IV needle that was conveying some clear fluid into a puckered vein. Tangled auburn hair haloed a face that was pale but not bluish-gray as it had been the previous dawn. Transfusions, fluids and treatment had restored a blush to his cheeks and eased the labored breathing into easy respiration and undistressed rest.
"Not a good thing, little brother." He rested a hand on the auburn head, gently so as to not wake the sleeper. "If Peter really is coming back for you like you said, I...." He trailed off, focus shifting from Ray's face to the proton pack that waited at the foot of the bed, within Winston's reach at all times. The implication in the man's anguished expression was clear -- Peter would not finish the job he'd begun the night before. Whatever it took.
Zeddemore started, disturbed out of his grim musings when a stocky nurse knocked once on the door and peeked in. "Mr. Zeddemore? There's a telephone call for you. Lieutenant Frump."
Winston hesitated, darting a glance from the woman to Ray and back again. "How far is the phone" he asked her in a low voice. "I don't really want to leave right now."
She jerked a thumb to her left. "Nurses station. Right over there."
Winston bit his lip. "Guess I'd better take it, he might have some news on Peter. Could you stay here a minute, Miss?"
The nurse regretfully shook her head. "Sorry. I'm the only one manning the station right now. Can't leave."
She disappeared even as Zeddemore sighed and turned to the young man on the bed. "Hey," he called softly, shaking Ray's shoulder. "Wake up."
Stantz stirred, then rolled over onto his back to regard the black man blearily. "Wha--? Winston. Is Peter...?"
Winston patted him soothingly. "Nothing's wrong, homeboy. I have to leave the room for a minute to take a phone call from Lieutenant Frump. I want you awake until I get back."
Ray struggled up onto one elbow, apprehension dispelling the sleep in short order. "Lieutenant Frump? Is it about Peter? Did they find him?"
Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "That's what I'm going to find out. I hate leaving you alone...."
Stantz dismissed that with a wave. "Go ahead, Winston, Nothing's going to happen in just a few minutes. I'll be all right."
Zeddemore hesitated again, then nodded. "I'll be back in jig time and Egon's due in any minute now. If you see or hear anything weird, let out a yell, got it?"
Ray stretched, a grin curling his lips. "They'll be able to hear me all the way in New Jersey." The grin faded, replaced by worried disquiet. "But if Peter needs me...."
That brought a spark of anger to the older man. He took Ray's shoulders, leaning close until they were nose-to-nose. "I thought we settled this already. Peter needed you last night and you almost died. We're not taking any more chances until Egon's got things worked out. Understand?" Stantz stared back mutely, large eyes wide. Interpreting that as agreement, Winston released him. "Frump is on hold; I'll be right back."
He crossed to the door and disappeared through it leaving a visibly worried engineer behind. Had Winston known what had been impatiently awaiting his departure he might well have let the policeman hold forever.
Ray sat up straighter in bed, rubbing tired eyes, then allowed his fingers to trail down over the bandages swathing his shoulder and throat. "Peter." The name was spoken softly, sadly, even as the amber eyes lost their focus and began to glaze. "Peter," was repeated, this time blankly. Something tapped on the window drawing his attention; he looked, already not completely aware if not entranced, blinking his surprise to see the face of Peter Venkman peeping back at him. "Peter? Is that you?"
The tapping noise came again even as Peter gestured toward the closed pane. Ray slipped over the side of the bed, swaying dizzily as his bare feet touched the floor. He clung to the lowered safety rail for a moment and shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. The renewed tapping brought him around; he staggered to the window, snatching something from the nighttable en route.
"Let me in!" Peter's voice was muffled by the glass but still clear. Ray cocked his head, dazedly following the other's pointing finger to the sash. Obediently, he turned the catch and lifted the window wide, allowing Peter Venkman access.
"Thought he'd never leave," Peter muttered, climbing into the room. "I've been hanging onto that drainpipe for almost an hour."
"Is it really you?" Ray stared wonderingly at the nearly unidentifiable psychologist, from filthy spiked brown hair to sewer-and-blood-damp uniform and slimy boots, his gaze trailing up again to the man's face. Peter was as pale as Ray himself, his green eyes glittering with ruby overtones and filled with so much anguish as to be unbearable to look upon. "You look awful."
A tiny smile appeared and vanished. "You don't look so hot yourself, pal," Peter gibed back, taking in the pale face, long hospital gown and wobbly stance in one sweep. He touched the white bandages on Ray's neck, pulling them off in a single agitated motion; the flesh beneath was fiery colored and swollen, black sutures standing out grotesquely. "Did a pretty good job on you, didn't I?" Stantz didn't answer but Peter cocked his head in a listening attitude, face crumpling with distress. "They want.... I ... almost killed you."
Sympathetic through the growing numbness blanking his own features, Ray reached out to him, wrapping both arms roughly around his neck. "Peter, don't worry. It'll be all right."
Looking surprised at the gesture, Peter nevertheless returned the embrace, locking around Ray's chest and waist as he'd done the previous dawn. "You made me come back here," he growled, eyes now more red than green at the proximity to his prey. "I wanted to take someone else ... didn't want to hurt you again." Ray stiffened at the gruff tone and tried to pull back but Peter's grip was steel, his enhanced muscles easily defeating the younger man's weakened and less-than-fully-aware retreat. "You shouldn't have made me come back to you."
"Peter...." Stantz stopped struggling, his breathing growing faster even as what little color had returned to his face at the other's appearance fled. His legs gave out suddenly, leaving him dangling in Peter's grip; the psychologist lowered them both until they were sitting on the floor.
"I can feel you again," Peter said wonderingly, lifting his head to meet Ray's wide eyes. "You're afraid." The younger man shook his head once but Peter held up a hand, cutting off the protest. "I'm an empath, Ray -- that's how I ... they feed. All we're reading from you right now is ..." He swallowed, the fire in his eyes banking into emerald regret. "... that you're afraid of us ... of me."
Ray stared at the protrusions that were once Peter's own teeth. He shivered and looked away at the same time clapping a hand to his neck. Peter licked his lips. "They ... the Q'utah ... they like it when you're afraid. It tastes ... good." This last was more hiss than vocalism and Ray, sinking deeper into induced stupor, shuddered.
"Not your fault, Peter." This was whispered and absent, yet must have come from the heart considering the young man's surface consciousness was rapidly decaying. "Not...." The normally oft voice was so low as to be barely audible, but it was enough to stop Peter cold.
"No!" Low, intense, the words were as quiet as Ray's yet conveying the anguish of a soul already lost. Peter threw back his head, plea directed ceilingward. "Please. Don't hurt him." And from his own mouth came the guttural answer, "The boy dies by his own blood oath."
"The boy better not be hurt," a new voice snarled from the doorway. Peter snapped his head toward that low baritone, baring his teeth at the sight of Winston Zeddemore's powerful frame blocking the entrance. They regarded each other across the space of a dozen feet, ruby eyes enraged, dark brown filled with pain. "Ray told us what happened," Winston went on in a quiet voice. "Pete, are you still in there?"
Venkman hesitated then nodded slowly. "I-I'm here, Winston," he managed, obviously having to fight to get the words out. Very gently he deposited Ray on the floor and gained his feet, hands spread in supplication. "Help ... him. Stop me."
Winston clenched his jaw. "I'll do my best, buddy." In a sudden motion he made a dive for the bed and the proton pack sitting there. Peter, however, was faster by far. In a single bound he'd crossed the intervening space and snatched up the pack, tearing it out of Zeddemore's grasp and heaving it against the far wall.
"You won't stop us," he spat, circling the bed to get at the defiant negro. "We will have him then we will be free."
"Not us," Winston said, backing away and raising both hands placatingly. "Peter. Peter Venkman. I know you're there. Fight them!"
But the psychologist only continued to advance. "He has fought us long enough!" he said in guttural tones, balling his fist. Winston, no tyro to battle strategy, got there first, his haymaker right cross snapping Peter's head back and nearly knocking him to the ground. Peter, however, was unstoppable. The psychologist recovered before the black could set up a second blow, his own backhand sending Zeddemore clear over the bed to crash into the concrete outer wall. Winston landed with a "Whuff!" of escaping air; he didn't get back up.
Peter watched him narrowly for a full minute before dismissing the incident and returning to the huddled engineer. Completely unaware now, Ray half- sat, half-lay against the wall beneath the window, his head thrown back and the swollen skin on his throat fully exposed. At the sight, the ruby obliterated emerald in his eyes, the fires of madness blazing anew. With exquisite care Peter gathered the young man up, cradling him in one arm, and using his free hand to stroked the unshaven cheek in a curiously gentle gesture that was entirely Peter Venkman. One emotion after another chased itself across his lean features, driven under an empathic impact a millennium old. Joy and affection trailed loneliness and grief, feelings and sensations from without fueling the life force that now animated his body.
"Ours," he chanted, parting his lips; the fangs gleamed whitely in the light. "Boy. Farm. Parents. Death. The prey is ours. Mine." Ray sighed brokenly and a single beam of sanity intruded long enough for Peter to say, "I'm sorry," then his mouth descended brutally on the unprotected throat, razor fangs ripping through stitches and damaged flesh. Blood spurted, flowing freely, and Peter closed his eyes as the Q'utah began to feed.
Lost in the psionic feed, Peter's lips curled in blissful ecstasy, strength almost visibly returning to his body. Ray whimpered once and then was silent, eyes fixed vacantly as his life's blood coursed away. Several minutes passed -- long enough for Peter's cheeks to grow rosy and Ray's ashen, while a scarlet puddle formed around them both.
It was sound that disturbed them, a harsh buzzing noise that violated the quiet tomb in which they were interred. Startled, Peter jerked upright, nearly spilling Ray onto the tiles then catching himself in time. He peered around perplexed, gaze finally lighting on Ray's loosely closed right hand. Peter opened the fingers and lifted the offending object into view.
"An alarm watch!" he exclaimed, astonished out of the blood frenzy. "Smart kid!" He shook his head, eyes clearing, next statement directed internally. "Sorry, slimeballs, you had your shot. Peter's back now!" Tightening his fist eliminated the rude noise -- and, incidentally, the watch. Peter let the fragments drop unheeded, then shifted his attention to the inert figure he clutched in his left arm, the fear this time, generated within. Tenderly he touched Ray's hair, grimacing at the blood still soaking the cotton hospital gown and Peter's own uniform. "Don't trust me now, do you?" he asked bitterly, having to blink away sudden tears. "With good reason."
Once again surprised out of inattention by a noise from the door, Peter glanced up, this time meeting anguished blue eyes behind red framed glass. Egon stepped all the way into the room, glancing nervously from the out-of- range proton pack to Winston's unmoving form, returning warily to the sight of Peter, seated on the hard tiles and holding an unconscious Ray in one arm. "Are they dead?"
"Egon." Venkman caught his breath, self-consciously swiping at his blood- smeared mouth with his sleeve, staring at the physicist with a mixture of misery and acute shame. "I-I didn't know you were.... Egon, I--"
Spengler's suspicion decreased at those stumbling words. Uttering a soft groan, he dropped to his knees and encircled the crouched psychologist with both arms, the hug brief and hard. "We're going to help you, Peter," he said bracingly but with a hint of tears in his voice. "Don't be afraid."
Peter's breath caught in a sob. "They won't let you help me. They're getting stronger. They'll make me kill you all." His voice changed, losing all humanity. "Kill you all!" he threatened before dissolving into another sob.
Egon recoiled from that hate filled croak then neared the man again, laying one long fingered hand against his neck and squeezing. "No, you won't," he returned softly, trailing his fingers over the rising bruise on Peter's jaw. He glanced down at the unconscious Stantz and the sluggishly seeping neck wound. "Let's take care of Ray then we'll handle the entity."
A low moan drew his attention from Stantz to the far corner of the room where Winston was painfully raising his head. Dully the black Ghostbuster propped himself on one elbow, rubbing the back of his head with the other hand. "Wha' hit me?" he wondered aloud, finally clarifying on the tableau by the window. "Oh, my...."
Peter sobbed again, then caught himself, visibly forcing himself away from impending hysteria to meet Winston's eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Winston. Didn't mean to hurt you." He glanced down. "I didn't take much this time," he quavered, lifting Ray a little higher in his arm. "I didn't kill him ... no thanks to me. ... He-he's afraid of me."
Egon listened to this disjointed explanation with a worried frown, touching Ray's cheek gently. "He hasn't lost too much blood yet; looks like you missed the jugular. Why is he unconscious already?"
"T-trance to keep ... him quiet." Peter swiped at his eyes again, then came to his feet sweeping Ray up with him. The motion was so effortless that Egon raised one brow. "My system is enhanced in some way," he explained, crossing to the bed and depositing Ray on top of the sheets. "Muscles, dental work...." He parted his lips, embarrassedly offering the physicist a view of the elongated canines. "... some ... some psionics." He laid one hand on Ray's hair, using the other to wipe his own face, a pained spasm crossing his drawn features. "They ... the Q'utah ... don't want me to tell you ... but ... I can hold on for awhile yet."
Egon pressed the call button for a nurse, then knelt by Winston and tilted his head up. "Are you all right?"
The black man shook his head groggily, while carefully probing a lump on the back of his head. "Dizzy," he muttered, allowing Spengler to help him to a chair in the corner. "Can't seem to concentrate."
Spengler patted one powerful shoulder. "Possible concussion. Remain here until a doctor looks you over." At Winston's half-nod, he crossed back to the bed, where Peter stood looking down at Ray's pale face. The youngest Ghostbuster was beginning to come around slowly, brown lashes fluttering.
Peter gulped when the dulled eyes sharpened, focussing on him as a matter of course. "How ... are you feeling, kid?" he asked trepidatiously.
Ray blinked once, his eyes going wide with fear. Clapping a hand to his neck, he struggled to the opposite side of the bed, a cry of alarm escaping his lips. "No!"
Peter recoiled as if he'd been slapped even as Egon reached the young man. "It's all right, Raymond," the blond reassured forcibly laying Stantz back down. "You're safe."
Ray fought him, batting away the restraining hands with desperation. "Peter--!"
"Peter won't hurt you." That calm, deep bass had the desired effect. Ray relaxed, large eyes darting fearfully from the blond to Venkman, who had retreated to the far corner.
The door opened then and a nurse entered, gaping upon catching sight of the reopened wound on Ray, and Winston's gray face. "What happened here?" she gasped, gaining the bed and taking in Stantz' condition in one experienced sweep.
"He's not bleeding too badly," Spengler replied, ignoring the question. "But you'd better get a doctor. And one for Winston -- we think he might have a concussion."
She glanced in Zeddemore's direction then Peter's, her nostrils flaring at the pungent sewer smells that permeated the room. Asking no further questions, however, she headed back for the hallway, and the public address system.
Egon waited until she'd gone, then patted Ray soothingly. "Don't be afraid, Raymond. You're going to be fine." Stantz said nothing, nor did he remove his gaze from Peter's turned back. Egon sighed and patted him again, then left the bed to join the psychologist in his corner. "He'll be fine, Peter," he repeated the encouragement, resting both hands on Peter's slumped shoulders. "You didn't do much damage." He turned Peter firmly, replacing his hands to hold the psychologist in place. "Don't reproach yourself."
"Don't reproach myself?" Peter repeated incredulously. "I nearly kill Ray and Winston and you tell me not to reproach myself?" Ruby again gleamed in the green eyes as his gaze fell upon Egon's adam's apple, visible over the top of the blue uniform. "It could have been you. It will be you next."
But this time Egon did not withdraw from the threat. Rather, he trustingly pulled Peter close, wrapping him in both arms. "It's not your fault, my friend."
Peter resisted for a single moment then collapsed against the taller physicist, hanging on for all he was worth. "I can't help it!" he blurted, tears again beginning to fall. "I can't help what they're making me do!"
Egon ran a hand down Peter's back, grimacing slightly as Peter's amplified musculature took away his breath. "It's the Q'utah that are forcing your body to attack us," he said, not pulling away. "No one blames you."
Peter rested his head on Spengler's shoulder as though it were too heavy for him to hold it up. "Ray does." Moving only his eyes he glanced over at the huddled engineer, who had not ceased watching him alarmedly. "Look at him."
Two doctors burst through the door, ignored Peter and Egon and traversing the room to Ray and Winston. Egon moved the two out of their way without loosening his hold on Peter one iota. "Ray's not thinking clearly yet," he said when they'd reached a new position by the window. "When he's able, he'll understand it was the Q'utah's doing. They're the enemy, not you."
"They're the enemy," Peter parroted hopefully, adding almost inconsequentially, "It's nearly dawn." He buried his head in Egon's shoulder. "Get Ray out of here -- out of town! So long as he's alive I can't take anyone else -- I have to come back to him until he's dead." He snagged two fistfuls of blue coverall, twisting them desperately. "Don't let him get hurt again, Egon. Kill me if you have to."
Egon gave him another squeeze then stepped back, facing the pleadingg eyes directly. "You know I won't let anything happen to Ray."
Peter sighed and bowed his head, immensely relieved. "If he's all right I ... don't feel too bad. Besides, if I can't take anyone else I think ... maybe I'll ... die soon."
Egon swallowed loudly, giving the psychologist a little shake. "That's not going to happen either, Peter. And Ray is not going to leave town. We're going to go back to the firehouse as soon as he is released this afternoon."
That won a startled gape. "You don't understand! I have to come back for him until he's dead! There's no choice."
Egon essayed a small smile. "Trust me, Peter."
Peter stared back, then slowly nodded. "I ... do trust you." He swallowed and returned to the window. "I have to go." He took one look at the five story drop and rickety drainpipe he'd been clinging to and shook his head. "Elevator," he decided, heading back to the door. "Can't turn into a bat. Bummer." He took a last look at Ray then Winston, both of whom were now surrounded by a small medical team. "Tell them I'm sorry."
"Tell them yourself," Egon shot back with a stout nod, "tomorrow night."
***
He interrupted his restive pacing to glance at his watch, brows furrowed. The hands stood at four a.m.; already the sounds of a hospital gearing up for the morning routines penetrated the low-lit refuge. Winston sighed, paced another two steps and again came to a halt. "Never did like waiting," he mumbled, running a hand through his short curls. "It's the waiting that's starting me gray."
Brown eyes narrowed as he examined the room as he had every few minutes since nightfall; it remained comfortingly undisturbed. Still, the black war vet took another turn in place, dark features creased with worry. "Don't know what it is," he continued aloud. "Maybe that last cup'a coffee is making me antsy?" He pursed his lips, his gaze lighting on the still form inhabiting the raised bed: Ray Stantz.
Zeddemore approached the bed, staring down at his friend. Ray lay on his side, right arm stretched out to accommodate the IV needle that was conveying some clear fluid into a puckered vein. Tangled auburn hair haloed a face that was pale but not bluish-gray as it had been the previous dawn. Transfusions, fluids and treatment had restored a blush to his cheeks and eased the labored breathing into easy respiration and undistressed rest.
"Not a good thing, little brother." He rested a hand on the auburn head, gently so as to not wake the sleeper. "If Peter really is coming back for you like you said, I...." He trailed off, focus shifting from Ray's face to the proton pack that waited at the foot of the bed, within Winston's reach at all times. The implication in the man's anguished expression was clear -- Peter would not finish the job he'd begun the night before. Whatever it took.
Zeddemore started, disturbed out of his grim musings when a stocky nurse knocked once on the door and peeked in. "Mr. Zeddemore? There's a telephone call for you. Lieutenant Frump."
Winston hesitated, darting a glance from the woman to Ray and back again. "How far is the phone" he asked her in a low voice. "I don't really want to leave right now."
She jerked a thumb to her left. "Nurses station. Right over there."
Winston bit his lip. "Guess I'd better take it, he might have some news on Peter. Could you stay here a minute, Miss?"
The nurse regretfully shook her head. "Sorry. I'm the only one manning the station right now. Can't leave."
She disappeared even as Zeddemore sighed and turned to the young man on the bed. "Hey," he called softly, shaking Ray's shoulder. "Wake up."
Stantz stirred, then rolled over onto his back to regard the black man blearily. "Wha--? Winston. Is Peter...?"
Winston patted him soothingly. "Nothing's wrong, homeboy. I have to leave the room for a minute to take a phone call from Lieutenant Frump. I want you awake until I get back."
Ray struggled up onto one elbow, apprehension dispelling the sleep in short order. "Lieutenant Frump? Is it about Peter? Did they find him?"
Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "That's what I'm going to find out. I hate leaving you alone...."
Stantz dismissed that with a wave. "Go ahead, Winston, Nothing's going to happen in just a few minutes. I'll be all right."
Zeddemore hesitated again, then nodded. "I'll be back in jig time and Egon's due in any minute now. If you see or hear anything weird, let out a yell, got it?"
Ray stretched, a grin curling his lips. "They'll be able to hear me all the way in New Jersey." The grin faded, replaced by worried disquiet. "But if Peter needs me...."
That brought a spark of anger to the older man. He took Ray's shoulders, leaning close until they were nose-to-nose. "I thought we settled this already. Peter needed you last night and you almost died. We're not taking any more chances until Egon's got things worked out. Understand?" Stantz stared back mutely, large eyes wide. Interpreting that as agreement, Winston released him. "Frump is on hold; I'll be right back."
He crossed to the door and disappeared through it leaving a visibly worried engineer behind. Had Winston known what had been impatiently awaiting his departure he might well have let the policeman hold forever.
Ray sat up straighter in bed, rubbing tired eyes, then allowed his fingers to trail down over the bandages swathing his shoulder and throat. "Peter." The name was spoken softly, sadly, even as the amber eyes lost their focus and began to glaze. "Peter," was repeated, this time blankly. Something tapped on the window drawing his attention; he looked, already not completely aware if not entranced, blinking his surprise to see the face of Peter Venkman peeping back at him. "Peter? Is that you?"
The tapping noise came again even as Peter gestured toward the closed pane. Ray slipped over the side of the bed, swaying dizzily as his bare feet touched the floor. He clung to the lowered safety rail for a moment and shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. The renewed tapping brought him around; he staggered to the window, snatching something from the nighttable en route.
"Let me in!" Peter's voice was muffled by the glass but still clear. Ray cocked his head, dazedly following the other's pointing finger to the sash. Obediently, he turned the catch and lifted the window wide, allowing Peter Venkman access.
"Thought he'd never leave," Peter muttered, climbing into the room. "I've been hanging onto that drainpipe for almost an hour."
"Is it really you?" Ray stared wonderingly at the nearly unidentifiable psychologist, from filthy spiked brown hair to sewer-and-blood-damp uniform and slimy boots, his gaze trailing up again to the man's face. Peter was as pale as Ray himself, his green eyes glittering with ruby overtones and filled with so much anguish as to be unbearable to look upon. "You look awful."
A tiny smile appeared and vanished. "You don't look so hot yourself, pal," Peter gibed back, taking in the pale face, long hospital gown and wobbly stance in one sweep. He touched the white bandages on Ray's neck, pulling them off in a single agitated motion; the flesh beneath was fiery colored and swollen, black sutures standing out grotesquely. "Did a pretty good job on you, didn't I?" Stantz didn't answer but Peter cocked his head in a listening attitude, face crumpling with distress. "They want.... I ... almost killed you."
Sympathetic through the growing numbness blanking his own features, Ray reached out to him, wrapping both arms roughly around his neck. "Peter, don't worry. It'll be all right."
Looking surprised at the gesture, Peter nevertheless returned the embrace, locking around Ray's chest and waist as he'd done the previous dawn. "You made me come back here," he growled, eyes now more red than green at the proximity to his prey. "I wanted to take someone else ... didn't want to hurt you again." Ray stiffened at the gruff tone and tried to pull back but Peter's grip was steel, his enhanced muscles easily defeating the younger man's weakened and less-than-fully-aware retreat. "You shouldn't have made me come back to you."
"Peter...." Stantz stopped struggling, his breathing growing faster even as what little color had returned to his face at the other's appearance fled. His legs gave out suddenly, leaving him dangling in Peter's grip; the psychologist lowered them both until they were sitting on the floor.
"I can feel you again," Peter said wonderingly, lifting his head to meet Ray's wide eyes. "You're afraid." The younger man shook his head once but Peter held up a hand, cutting off the protest. "I'm an empath, Ray -- that's how I ... they feed. All we're reading from you right now is ..." He swallowed, the fire in his eyes banking into emerald regret. "... that you're afraid of us ... of me."
Ray stared at the protrusions that were once Peter's own teeth. He shivered and looked away at the same time clapping a hand to his neck. Peter licked his lips. "They ... the Q'utah ... they like it when you're afraid. It tastes ... good." This last was more hiss than vocalism and Ray, sinking deeper into induced stupor, shuddered.
"Not your fault, Peter." This was whispered and absent, yet must have come from the heart considering the young man's surface consciousness was rapidly decaying. "Not...." The normally oft voice was so low as to be barely audible, but it was enough to stop Peter cold.
"No!" Low, intense, the words were as quiet as Ray's yet conveying the anguish of a soul already lost. Peter threw back his head, plea directed ceilingward. "Please. Don't hurt him." And from his own mouth came the guttural answer, "The boy dies by his own blood oath."
"The boy better not be hurt," a new voice snarled from the doorway. Peter snapped his head toward that low baritone, baring his teeth at the sight of Winston Zeddemore's powerful frame blocking the entrance. They regarded each other across the space of a dozen feet, ruby eyes enraged, dark brown filled with pain. "Ray told us what happened," Winston went on in a quiet voice. "Pete, are you still in there?"
Venkman hesitated then nodded slowly. "I-I'm here, Winston," he managed, obviously having to fight to get the words out. Very gently he deposited Ray on the floor and gained his feet, hands spread in supplication. "Help ... him. Stop me."
Winston clenched his jaw. "I'll do my best, buddy." In a sudden motion he made a dive for the bed and the proton pack sitting there. Peter, however, was faster by far. In a single bound he'd crossed the intervening space and snatched up the pack, tearing it out of Zeddemore's grasp and heaving it against the far wall.
"You won't stop us," he spat, circling the bed to get at the defiant negro. "We will have him then we will be free."
"Not us," Winston said, backing away and raising both hands placatingly. "Peter. Peter Venkman. I know you're there. Fight them!"
But the psychologist only continued to advance. "He has fought us long enough!" he said in guttural tones, balling his fist. Winston, no tyro to battle strategy, got there first, his haymaker right cross snapping Peter's head back and nearly knocking him to the ground. Peter, however, was unstoppable. The psychologist recovered before the black could set up a second blow, his own backhand sending Zeddemore clear over the bed to crash into the concrete outer wall. Winston landed with a "Whuff!" of escaping air; he didn't get back up.
Peter watched him narrowly for a full minute before dismissing the incident and returning to the huddled engineer. Completely unaware now, Ray half- sat, half-lay against the wall beneath the window, his head thrown back and the swollen skin on his throat fully exposed. At the sight, the ruby obliterated emerald in his eyes, the fires of madness blazing anew. With exquisite care Peter gathered the young man up, cradling him in one arm, and using his free hand to stroked the unshaven cheek in a curiously gentle gesture that was entirely Peter Venkman. One emotion after another chased itself across his lean features, driven under an empathic impact a millennium old. Joy and affection trailed loneliness and grief, feelings and sensations from without fueling the life force that now animated his body.
"Ours," he chanted, parting his lips; the fangs gleamed whitely in the light. "Boy. Farm. Parents. Death. The prey is ours. Mine." Ray sighed brokenly and a single beam of sanity intruded long enough for Peter to say, "I'm sorry," then his mouth descended brutally on the unprotected throat, razor fangs ripping through stitches and damaged flesh. Blood spurted, flowing freely, and Peter closed his eyes as the Q'utah began to feed.
Lost in the psionic feed, Peter's lips curled in blissful ecstasy, strength almost visibly returning to his body. Ray whimpered once and then was silent, eyes fixed vacantly as his life's blood coursed away. Several minutes passed -- long enough for Peter's cheeks to grow rosy and Ray's ashen, while a scarlet puddle formed around them both.
It was sound that disturbed them, a harsh buzzing noise that violated the quiet tomb in which they were interred. Startled, Peter jerked upright, nearly spilling Ray onto the tiles then catching himself in time. He peered around perplexed, gaze finally lighting on Ray's loosely closed right hand. Peter opened the fingers and lifted the offending object into view.
"An alarm watch!" he exclaimed, astonished out of the blood frenzy. "Smart kid!" He shook his head, eyes clearing, next statement directed internally. "Sorry, slimeballs, you had your shot. Peter's back now!" Tightening his fist eliminated the rude noise -- and, incidentally, the watch. Peter let the fragments drop unheeded, then shifted his attention to the inert figure he clutched in his left arm, the fear this time, generated within. Tenderly he touched Ray's hair, grimacing at the blood still soaking the cotton hospital gown and Peter's own uniform. "Don't trust me now, do you?" he asked bitterly, having to blink away sudden tears. "With good reason."
Once again surprised out of inattention by a noise from the door, Peter glanced up, this time meeting anguished blue eyes behind red framed glass. Egon stepped all the way into the room, glancing nervously from the out-of- range proton pack to Winston's unmoving form, returning warily to the sight of Peter, seated on the hard tiles and holding an unconscious Ray in one arm. "Are they dead?"
"Egon." Venkman caught his breath, self-consciously swiping at his blood- smeared mouth with his sleeve, staring at the physicist with a mixture of misery and acute shame. "I-I didn't know you were.... Egon, I--"
Spengler's suspicion decreased at those stumbling words. Uttering a soft groan, he dropped to his knees and encircled the crouched psychologist with both arms, the hug brief and hard. "We're going to help you, Peter," he said bracingly but with a hint of tears in his voice. "Don't be afraid."
Peter's breath caught in a sob. "They won't let you help me. They're getting stronger. They'll make me kill you all." His voice changed, losing all humanity. "Kill you all!" he threatened before dissolving into another sob.
Egon recoiled from that hate filled croak then neared the man again, laying one long fingered hand against his neck and squeezing. "No, you won't," he returned softly, trailing his fingers over the rising bruise on Peter's jaw. He glanced down at the unconscious Stantz and the sluggishly seeping neck wound. "Let's take care of Ray then we'll handle the entity."
A low moan drew his attention from Stantz to the far corner of the room where Winston was painfully raising his head. Dully the black Ghostbuster propped himself on one elbow, rubbing the back of his head with the other hand. "Wha' hit me?" he wondered aloud, finally clarifying on the tableau by the window. "Oh, my...."
Peter sobbed again, then caught himself, visibly forcing himself away from impending hysteria to meet Winston's eyes. "I-I'm sorry, Winston. Didn't mean to hurt you." He glanced down. "I didn't take much this time," he quavered, lifting Ray a little higher in his arm. "I didn't kill him ... no thanks to me. ... He-he's afraid of me."
Egon listened to this disjointed explanation with a worried frown, touching Ray's cheek gently. "He hasn't lost too much blood yet; looks like you missed the jugular. Why is he unconscious already?"
"T-trance to keep ... him quiet." Peter swiped at his eyes again, then came to his feet sweeping Ray up with him. The motion was so effortless that Egon raised one brow. "My system is enhanced in some way," he explained, crossing to the bed and depositing Ray on top of the sheets. "Muscles, dental work...." He parted his lips, embarrassedly offering the physicist a view of the elongated canines. "... some ... some psionics." He laid one hand on Ray's hair, using the other to wipe his own face, a pained spasm crossing his drawn features. "They ... the Q'utah ... don't want me to tell you ... but ... I can hold on for awhile yet."
Egon pressed the call button for a nurse, then knelt by Winston and tilted his head up. "Are you all right?"
The black man shook his head groggily, while carefully probing a lump on the back of his head. "Dizzy," he muttered, allowing Spengler to help him to a chair in the corner. "Can't seem to concentrate."
Spengler patted one powerful shoulder. "Possible concussion. Remain here until a doctor looks you over." At Winston's half-nod, he crossed back to the bed, where Peter stood looking down at Ray's pale face. The youngest Ghostbuster was beginning to come around slowly, brown lashes fluttering.
Peter gulped when the dulled eyes sharpened, focussing on him as a matter of course. "How ... are you feeling, kid?" he asked trepidatiously.
Ray blinked once, his eyes going wide with fear. Clapping a hand to his neck, he struggled to the opposite side of the bed, a cry of alarm escaping his lips. "No!"
Peter recoiled as if he'd been slapped even as Egon reached the young man. "It's all right, Raymond," the blond reassured forcibly laying Stantz back down. "You're safe."
Ray fought him, batting away the restraining hands with desperation. "Peter--!"
"Peter won't hurt you." That calm, deep bass had the desired effect. Ray relaxed, large eyes darting fearfully from the blond to Venkman, who had retreated to the far corner.
The door opened then and a nurse entered, gaping upon catching sight of the reopened wound on Ray, and Winston's gray face. "What happened here?" she gasped, gaining the bed and taking in Stantz' condition in one experienced sweep.
"He's not bleeding too badly," Spengler replied, ignoring the question. "But you'd better get a doctor. And one for Winston -- we think he might have a concussion."
She glanced in Zeddemore's direction then Peter's, her nostrils flaring at the pungent sewer smells that permeated the room. Asking no further questions, however, she headed back for the hallway, and the public address system.
Egon waited until she'd gone, then patted Ray soothingly. "Don't be afraid, Raymond. You're going to be fine." Stantz said nothing, nor did he remove his gaze from Peter's turned back. Egon sighed and patted him again, then left the bed to join the psychologist in his corner. "He'll be fine, Peter," he repeated the encouragement, resting both hands on Peter's slumped shoulders. "You didn't do much damage." He turned Peter firmly, replacing his hands to hold the psychologist in place. "Don't reproach yourself."
"Don't reproach myself?" Peter repeated incredulously. "I nearly kill Ray and Winston and you tell me not to reproach myself?" Ruby again gleamed in the green eyes as his gaze fell upon Egon's adam's apple, visible over the top of the blue uniform. "It could have been you. It will be you next."
But this time Egon did not withdraw from the threat. Rather, he trustingly pulled Peter close, wrapping him in both arms. "It's not your fault, my friend."
Peter resisted for a single moment then collapsed against the taller physicist, hanging on for all he was worth. "I can't help it!" he blurted, tears again beginning to fall. "I can't help what they're making me do!"
Egon ran a hand down Peter's back, grimacing slightly as Peter's amplified musculature took away his breath. "It's the Q'utah that are forcing your body to attack us," he said, not pulling away. "No one blames you."
Peter rested his head on Spengler's shoulder as though it were too heavy for him to hold it up. "Ray does." Moving only his eyes he glanced over at the huddled engineer, who had not ceased watching him alarmedly. "Look at him."
Two doctors burst through the door, ignored Peter and Egon and traversing the room to Ray and Winston. Egon moved the two out of their way without loosening his hold on Peter one iota. "Ray's not thinking clearly yet," he said when they'd reached a new position by the window. "When he's able, he'll understand it was the Q'utah's doing. They're the enemy, not you."
"They're the enemy," Peter parroted hopefully, adding almost inconsequentially, "It's nearly dawn." He buried his head in Egon's shoulder. "Get Ray out of here -- out of town! So long as he's alive I can't take anyone else -- I have to come back to him until he's dead." He snagged two fistfuls of blue coverall, twisting them desperately. "Don't let him get hurt again, Egon. Kill me if you have to."
Egon gave him another squeeze then stepped back, facing the pleadingg eyes directly. "You know I won't let anything happen to Ray."
Peter sighed and bowed his head, immensely relieved. "If he's all right I ... don't feel too bad. Besides, if I can't take anyone else I think ... maybe I'll ... die soon."
Egon swallowed loudly, giving the psychologist a little shake. "That's not going to happen either, Peter. And Ray is not going to leave town. We're going to go back to the firehouse as soon as he is released this afternoon."
That won a startled gape. "You don't understand! I have to come back for him until he's dead! There's no choice."
Egon essayed a small smile. "Trust me, Peter."
Peter stared back, then slowly nodded. "I ... do trust you." He swallowed and returned to the window. "I have to go." He took one look at the five story drop and rickety drainpipe he'd been clinging to and shook his head. "Elevator," he decided, heading back to the door. "Can't turn into a bat. Bummer." He took a last look at Ray then Winston, both of whom were now surrounded by a small medical team. "Tell them I'm sorry."
"Tell them yourself," Egon shot back with a stout nod, "tomorrow night."
***