Chapter Fourteen

I have felt the wind of the wing of madness pass over me.
--Charles Beaudelair

That unsettling smile still in place, the Crow tilted his head and mused, "Where to start? Where... to... start?" He glanced from Winston to Egon, gaze resting on the PKE meter still clutched tightly in Egon's hand. Raising both eyebrows, he said, "Bet you wish that was a thrower, huh, Spengs?"

Winston took a single step forward, just enough to put him between Egon and the transformed Peter. "Peter? Is that you?"

"Mostly." The Crow hopped up to perch next to the sink, crossing his legs tailor fashion on the counter beneath him. He studied them both, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his chin. "Partly."

His black-painted smile parted to reveal a slash of white teeth that snapped at the air. "Not at all."

"Can't make up your mind?" Winston challenged. He stared into those glittering green eyes, searching for some sign of his friend. "Or don't you know?"

The Crow shrugged negligently, as if the matter were of no interest. "I am who I am and that's all that I am."

"Okay. Got an estimate on your departure time, Popeye?" Winston tried to ease Egon back toward the doorway. He trusted Peter, but it wouldn't hurt to have some space between them and the Crow, just in case. For Peter's sake as much as theirs.

"Ouch." Accompanied by a sorrowful shake of the head, an exaggerated expression of disappointment affixed itself to the Crow's painted face. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Winston?"

"No, man. I just don't want you to do anything you'll regret later."

"Regret?" The Crow looked thoughtful. With a tilt of his head and a dramatic gesture, he declaimed, "'Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more.'"

Winston's brow furrowed. If this was Peter, he had clearly gone over the edge. There was a coiled energy about him as he perched on the counter as if poised for flight. Or attack. "What the devil's gotten into you, Pete?"

"Funny you should ask." Dark green eyes focused on Egon. "What has gotten into me, Egon? Do you know?"

Egon was silent, his knuckles white where he gripped the PKE meter, his lips compressed into a thin line.

"Do you?" Winston countered.

"Of course I do!" Another bird-like tilt of the head. "I've gotten into me...and, boy, am I in deep. Over my head-- or in it?" A languid wave of one grave-pale hand. "I always get those confused."

Hoping to inject some sanity back into the proceedings Winston said, "You're not making a whole lot of sense, buddy."

"You'll have to forgive me. I'm very much myself, today."

Not sure he wanted the answer, Winston asked, "And who's that, exactly?"

The Crow shook his head as if trying to clear it. His black lips turned down at the corners and a pained expression flickered across his ashen features. But when he spoke, his voice retained that deep, mocking lilt. "A child of Fate, from my Mother's womb untimely ripp'd."

"You mangling Shakespeare, now?" Winston shook his head. "I take it back. You're not making any sense."

"Sanity is overrated." A brilliant, quicksilver smile, there and gone. "I should know. I'm a doctor."

"What do you want?"

"My life back." As quickly as the Crow had sobered, his flippancy returned. "Or, barring that, a week in Tahiti."

"A week in--" Winston sputtered.

"Well, really," the Crow said reasonably. "Who wouldn't want a week in Tahiti?"

"Look..." Shooting a worried look at Egon, Winston tried another tack. "Why don't you just go back to Peter's subconscious or wherever you usually hang out, and let our friend come back now. Okay?"

"I am your friend, Winston." Shadowed green eyes suddenly earnest, the Crow leaned toward him. "You don't want to see what I'm like to my enemies."

A chill scurried down Winston's spine. "Let Peter come back. Please."

"He's here. With me. We--I--he--" Confusion twisted the face beneath the death mask. "It isn't supposed to be this way." The Crow keened to himself, grimacing in pain. "Make it stop! Make it right."

"Tell us how," Egon pleaded, animation returning to his frozen features. "Tell us how to help you."

The Crow clutched at his temples with black-nailed hands and an anguished cry issued from his throat. "It hurts!"

"Peter!"

With a sinking horror, Winston saw Ray standing in the kitchen doorway, brown eyes wide and fixed on the suffering Crow. "Stay where you are, Ray," he warned.

Too late. Ray was already halfway across the kitchen, reaching for the Crow. "Peter, what's happening to you? Are you all right? What can I do?"

The Crow's head came up as Ray touched him. Winston tensed, ready to make a dive for Ray if the Crow tried anything--and was shocked into immobility when the Crow gave a strangled sob and collapsed against Ray's shoulder. Ray's arms closed tightly around him.

"There, there, Peter," he murmured gently. "It's gonna be all right."

Winston sucked in a breath to replace the one he'd been holding and glanced at the man beside him. "You still with us, Egon?"

"...I am an utter fool, Winston," Egon whispered, his deep voice filled with self-recrimination. "This is all my fault."

Winston looked thoughtful. "I dunno, man. I'd say that 'honor' belongs to whoever did this to Pete in the first place."

Shaking his head, Egon clasped the meter to his chest like a shield. "Ray? Is Peter all right?"

After that single sob, Peter had been silent in Ray's arms. Ray shook his head urgently. "I think he's passed out or something! Help me get him down from here, will ya?"

Winston sprang into action and between them, they got Peter off the counter and into the TV room, where they stretched him out on the sofa. His complexion had regained its normal coloring, but he was so still that it sent a fresh chill down Winston's spine. His gut twisted and he was seeing Peter sprawled horribly on the pavement outside the firehouse again, the cold hard ground awash in blood and…other things. Winston shuddered. They'd had to have a closed casket at the funeral. It was almost a mercy that Charlie was dead, too. At least it had spared him the sight of his son like that.

Ray's voice pulled him out of the bad memories. "…What happened in there, Egon?"

Egon gazed guiltily at the floor. "I'm afraid that was a serious miscalculation on my part, Raymond. Peter tried to warn me, but I convinced him that the readings were necessary. I still believe that such is the case, but I should have exercised greater caution in obtaining them."

"Take it easy, Egon," Winston said, giving the physicist's shoulder a rough pat. "I'm sure Peter will understand."

"He wouldn't have hurt you," Ray said with conviction. He was kneeling beside the sofa, one hand on Peter's arm, watching him closely for any sign that Peter was beginning to wake up. Looking up at them, he said, "I've been thinking. Maybe Peter's having these problems because he came back too quickly. Mordecai's journal says it's supposed to take a full year for a Crow to come into being. What if the Crow needs that year and cutting it short… messes up the connection or something?"

Slowly, Egon said, "The Crow did intimate something along those lines. Is it possible that he has been 'reborn' prematurely?"

"I'll do another web search and see if anything similar has ever been recorded." Ray seemed momentarily excited by the prospect of scientific discovery. The he remembered the object of their discussion and sobered quickly. He looked at Peter. "This is so unfair."

"Yes. You know how Peter is. Not being entirely in control of himself must be exceedingly difficult for him," Egon agreed. "Perhaps there is some way to complete the process and stabilize the Crow personality--"

"Gosh, yeah, Egon! We should see if we can--"

"Guys, I'm as worried about him as you are." Winston had every sympathy for Peter. But that scene in the kitchen was still preying on his mind. "But remember what else that journal said? Seventeen deaths? It doesn't sound like even full-term Crows are all that stable." He dropped his gaze to Peter's still form. "Man. I never want to see him like that again. He was out of his mind."

"He was in pain." Ray's brown eyes brimmed with worry and righteous anger as he regarded Peter. "When I find out who did this to him, I'll--" He choked, his fingers tightening protectively around Peter's arm, and scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes.

Egon crouched beside him, briefly resting his arm across Ray's shoulders. "I know, Raymond. We all feel the same."

"Why Peter? He doesn't deserve this! He's a good man. He--" Ray gave up trying to speak and simply buried his face against Peter's side. Egon clasped a hand onto Ray's shaking shoulder; on his other side, Winston did the same.

"No, he doesn't deserve this," Egon said quietly. "But, with you to help him, I am certain he will get through it."

Ray straightened. His face was streaked with tear tracks, but there was fresh determination shining in his eyes. "We'll all be here for him."

"I hope Sleeping Beauty here wakes up soon," Winston said to himself. "The way he looks now, it's like he's really…" He shuddered. "Well, you know."

"It is most disconcerting," Egon said. "He does not appear even to be breathing." His voice hitched a little despite his obvious effort to maintain his usual phlegmatic tone. "I cannot help but be unpleasantly reminded of--"

"Don't, Egon," Ray pleaded, closing his eyes tightly. "I don't want to remember."

"Forgive me, Raymond," Egon said quietly. "I wasn't thinking."

Without warning, Peter went from supine to sitting bolt upright in one abrupt motion, startling them all. He blinked at them, confused gaze searching one face after another. "What happened? How did we get in here?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Peter?" Ray asked, concern evident in his tone.

"The last thing --?" Peter blanched and looked guiltily at Egon. "Uh. Sorry, Spengs. I don't know what came over me."

"Then… You do remember everything the Crow said?"

"Everything I said, you mean. Yeah." Peter's gaze fell and he ducked his head. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to invite him over. At least I didn't…I didn't hurt anyone, right?"

"No, Pete. Your sense of humor was even stranger than usual," Winston said. "But no harm, no foul."

"I'm sorry, guys." Peter focused guilty green eyes on his hands, clenched in his lap. "I didn't want any of you to see me like that."

"Yeah, I can see why," Winston said quietly. He looked from Peter's guarded gaze to Egon's guilty one, and sighed. "So what really happened in there? You want to summarize for those of us just tuning in?"

"Peter is possessed."

"Again?" Winston groaned. "We have got to get this boy a 'no vacancy' sign, pronto." Winston shot a quick look at Peter, whose face was unreadable. "So can we pull it outta him like we did with Watt?"

Egon shook his head. "When Peter was possessed by Watt, there was a discernable distinction between Peter's biorhythms and the PKE signature of the demon, thus enabling us to separate the two of them by using specially-tuned throwers. Such is not the case now. While traces of Peter's original energy signature remain, they are interwoven with, and almost totally eclipsed by, the spectral energy of the possessing entity."

"I'll take that as a 'no', man."

"He means that Peter's signature and the Crow's aren't two individual traces like they were with Watt," Ray translated. "Gosh, Egon, does that mean that Peter and the Crow spirit, or whatever it is, have somehow merged?"

"It looks that way," Egon said. "With further analysis, it may be possible to obtain a fine enough distinction to attempt separation, but for now... I'm afraid there's nothing we can do."

"Probably just as well," Peter said laconically and was instantly the focus of three surprised stares. He held up a forestalling hand. "Think about it, guys. The Crow is what brought me back to life. Take it away and what do you think you'll have left?"

It took a few seconds for his meaning to sink in, but when it did, they all grimaced at the realization that he was right. Peter nodded grimly. "Yeah. A corpse doesn't make for a very good roommate. Much as I hate to admit it, I think I'm probably better off as I am."

"I'm sorry, Peter."

Peter shrugged and reached up blindly to pat Ray's shoulder. "It was a good thought, Ray."

"Peter," Ray said, tugging lightly at his sleeve until Peter turned his head to meet Ray's gaze. "Does it still hurt?"

"What?" It took a moment for Peter to realize what he was being asked. "Oh. No. I'm all right, now."

"You sure, Pete? Had to be pretty bad to knock you out like that," Winston said.

"It was," Peter admitted slowly. Absently, he brushed his unruly hair back from his forehead. "Kinda like the mother of all migraines. But it's gone, now." He glanced again at Egon. "You get your readings, Spengs?"

It was Egon's turn to look guilty. "I, uh, believe so."

"Good. 'Cause we're not doin' that again." Peter sank back against the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes. "What I wouldn't give for a nap right about now."

"That's a good idea, Peter," Ray said. "You should try to rest."

Green eyes popped open and Peter sat up, shaking his head ruefully. "You're forgetting something -- I don't sleep."

"Peter, you were unconscious for almost ten minutes," Egon informed him. "Perhaps, if you tried now, you might find that you are able to sleep for a bit."

"Well…" Peter met Ray's hopeful gaze and gave in to the inevitable. He sighed. "Okay. I'll give it a shot for Tex, here."

Ray smiled. "That's the spirit." He saw the surprised look on Peter's face and flushed sheepishly at the inadvertent pun. "Oops."

"No worries, Ray." Smirking faintly, Peter slumped back again and slung an arm across his eyes. "I can't believe you guys are actually telling me to take a nap."

Winston gave him half a smile. "Better enjoy it while it you can, m'man."

"Right." Ray nodded decisively. "You hit the sheets, Peter. We'll wake you in a couple of hours."

After half an hour of restless shifting on his bed, Peter was seriously annoyed. How was it possible that he could lose consciousness without even trying, but be unable to catch even a catnap when he wanted to? He flopped over onto his back, rolling his head on the pillow as he tried to get comfortable, but he knew it was useless. Life-- or death-- was supremely unfair. He could lie here till doomsday, but Death's fickle brother wasn't coming to call. He decided he would give it another five minutes, then all bets were off. No one could say he hadn't tried.

Peter closed his eyes again and concentrated on breathing in and out. What had always been reflex now took conscious thought and he focused on it to the exclusion of all else, letting his restless mind dwell on the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Soon enough, his awareness drifted back, to a certain night three short months ago…

It had been a hectic day. They had busted three slimy class fives, one right after the other, and a veritable swarm of mischievous class twos in Central Park. Now Egon was upstairs in the lab attempting to figure out what had attracted the twos to the park, Ray and Winston had gone on a last-minute emergency call in the Bronx, and Peter was disposing of the day's catch in the basement containment unit.

He set the last of the traps into the lock on the front of the unit and pulled the lever to send the ghost into containment. When the trap was clean, he removed it and tossed it into a bin in the corner. As he headed for the stairs, he yawned. More than anything, he wanted to get out of his slime-coated jumpsuit and into a hot shower. Then he'd stretch out on the couch in the TV room and doze until Ray and Winston returned with the take-out they had promised to pick up on the way home. Not exciting plans, maybe, but his plans and he was happy with them.

As he came up the stairs from the basement, he heard voices in the garage. Janine and… Was that his dad? He hadn't seen Charlie Venkman in over six months (not that there was anything unusual about that) and had to wonder what the old con-man was up to this time. His dad never turned up unless he wanted something. Despite years of experience to the contrary, Peter found himself still hoping that one of these days what Charlie wanted would be to simply spend some time with his son.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Peter smiled faintly. It would never happen, of course. Better to stop wishing and just accept his father on his own terms. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done.

A strange sound from the garage snapped him out of his maudlin mood. The next sound froze his blood: the echoing report of gunfire, followed by a woman's screams. Even as he broke into a run, Peter's mind was supplying him with terrifying images of what he might find. Janine. Dad. Hang on, I'm coming!

He raced up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, burst into the reception area… And slammed to a halt.

The sight that met his eyes was worse than he could have imagined. Janine's desk looked like someone had thrown a bucket of something thick and red over it -- blood or slime, it was impossible to tell. Only half-conscious, Janine herself slumped across the desk, one hand straining to reach something, the other clutching at her throat. On the floor in front of the desk, Peter's father lay sprawled in an expanding puddle of his own blood. Peter felt his heart lurch. Ice spread from it to the rest of his body, freezing his limbs and numbing thought. He took a hesitant step toward his father…

The deafening clang of the alarm shattered the unnatural calm that had gripped him. Peter dragged his riveted gaze away from his father just in time to see the tail end of something bright red and dripping with ectoplasm disappear through the ceiling.

Heading upstairs. Heading toward Egon.

Peter cursed.

Shouting Egon's name, he ran for the stairs.

Peter's eyes shot open. Every instinct told him his heart should be racing and his breath coming in shallow gasps. Instead, all he felt was the cold surge of the Crow stirring inside him. He rolled onto his stomach, hands fisting in the sheet beneath him, and forced it back. Emotions roiled within him: grief and anger and painragesorrow. Not for himself, but for Janine and his father. A single tear ran down his cheek and left an ebony stain on the pillow, but he was too angry to weep.

He sat up slowly, feeling hollow. He couldn't sleep, but he could still have nightmares? Where was the fairness in that? Peter untangled himself from the covers, then sat up and glared at the bed as if it had personally offended him. "No rest for the wicked, I guess."

He sighed angrily and stared at the black spot on the pillowcase where the tear had fallen. Swiping a hand over his face, he found more of the black on his fingertips. As he watched, it turned to ash.

Can't even cry like a normal person, he thought, then gave himself a mental smack. Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself! At least you're here. Maybe not in the way you'd want to be, but you're here. Which is more than you can say for Dad or Janine…Or thirteen year old Becky Townsend and her twin sister, Amy. Or the Gilbert family. Or newlyweds Robert and Teresa Grier. His near-photographic memory taunted him with the names from Frump's list, all murdered to make a Crow. There's nothing you can do about you. But maybe there's something you can do for them.

He thought about the drawer in his office where he had hidden his purchases: dark clothing and sturdy boots, a few other things he thought might come in handy on a nighttime excursion. When darkness fell, he would be ready. For what he planned to do, he was even willing to take the risk of releasing the Crow from its cage. Every time he let his alter ego out, it became more dominant; it was harder to come back fully to himself, to submerge that part of him again. He wondered if it would eventually take over completely, and shuddered to think what he would be like with the Crow permanently in the driver's seat.

"The captain has turned on the 'fasten your seat belts' sign," Peter said as he shoved himself to his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's gonna be one helluva flight."

Following the sound of voices, Peter wandered into the kitchen without really thinking about where he was going. Finger-combing his thick brown hair back into place, he dropped onto one of the chairs at the table… and froze, remembering what had transpired here a little over an hour ago. He groaned and dropped his forehead to the table with an audible thunk. It didn't really hurt, but he muttered a reflexive "ow," anyway.

"Tryin' to knock some sense into that hard head, Pete?"

"Without much success, I presume." Egon's dry tone preceded him into the room. He had his nose buried in a meter, but he lowered it to subject Peter to a close scrutiny. "You didn't sleep."

It wasn't a question and Peter didn't even try to deny it. Egon had always been able to see right through even his best excuses, anyway.

"No. I tried, Egon, but... I think I could jog a few hundred laps around Manhattan without breaking a sweat, much less getting tired enough to doze off." He shrugged, deciding not to mention the intense reverie he had fallen into in lieu of actual sleep, and added lightly, "Hard to believe, I know, but Peter Venkman is now officially a nap-free zone."

"I haven't seen you eat or drink anything, either," Egon said thoughtfully, glancing at Winston for confirmation.

"I'm not hungry."

"Hmm."

Peter sat bolt upright. "No more tests, Egon! Especially if it involves you-know-who."

"No," Egon said, looking away for just a second. "No more tests. I just-- It would be helpful to ascertain the full parameters of your physical transformation."

Peter frowned. "If you don't mind, Dr. Spengler, I'd prefer to leave my parameters safely unascertained for the moment."

"How are you feeling, Pete?" Winston asked.

"Almost human." Peter stretched muscles that, after all he had put them through in the last twenty-four hours, should have been stiff and aching. Instead, he felt only preternatural strength and a fluid grace that would make a cat jealous. "Where's Ray?"

"On the internet. He is pursuing a line of inquiry that we formulated while you were… resting," Egon said.

"What about you, Egon? Ascertain any parameters from those readings you took?"

"A few." Egon glanced at the meter he was holding. "Further analysis will have to wait until later, however."

Peter raised both eyebrows. "Got a hot date, Dr. Spengler?"

"It's Wednesday." Egon's voice lowered. "We always visit Janine on Wednesday."

"Janine?" Peter's head snapped up in shock. "What--?"

"Her condition has not altered but, despite her doctor's prognosis, I refuse to believe that she will not regain…" Egon faltered as the look on Peter's face finally registered. "Peter? What is it?"

"Janine's alive?" Peter asked weakly.

"Oh, man," Winston said, dropping onto the chair next to Peter's. "You didn't know?"

"I thought she was--" Peter shook his head. "Last time I saw her, Big J wasn't lookin' too hale and hearty, if you know what I mean. I thought--" Another shake of the head, this time accompanied by the faintest of smiles. He should have realized, when her name hadn't been on Frump's list, but somehow he had failed to make the connection. "She's really alive?"

"Yes, Peter."

Peter looked up into Egon's face and didn't like what he found there. "Okay. So what's the bad news?"

Winston picked up the explanation. "Janine's in a coma. She hasn't regained consciousness since the night of the attack."

"She is on life support," Egon said, his usually phlegmatic tone softened by worry. "There are… Her brain waves do not…" He had to swallow before continuing. "At first, I surmised that her condition might have a supernatural component, but PKE readings detected only fading residuals, probably from the initial attack here at the firehouse. The doctors… They speculate that there is some manner of brain damage, but…"

"But we're not giving up hope," Winston finished for him. "Miracles happen."

As someone who had just come back from the dead, Peter didn't feel equipped to argue with him. Besides, he hoped Winston was right. "Wish I could go with you guys," Peter said softly. "But a crowded hospital probably isn't the best place for me to be, right now."

"Janine will understand," Egon said. He looked at Winston. "If you are ready, Winston? Ray has volunteered to stay here with Peter until our return."

"Hey! I don't need a babysitter, you know."

Egon raised an eloquent eyebrow, and Winston snorted. "Since when?"

"Get outta here, the both of you." Peter made shooing motions with both hands. "Go on! Janine needs you. Ray and I will hold down the fort."

One foot on the stairs, Egon hesitated. He looked back at Peter, sitting rather forlornly at the table. "You will be all right, Peter?"

"I'm aces, Egon." Peter dredged up a smile from somewhere and pasted it on. "Tell Janine Dr. Venkman says 'hi' -- and that she'd better stop malingering and get back to work before I hire a replacement."

Responding to the sentiment rather than the words, Egon nodded. "We won't be long."

"Take your time," Peter said. "I'm not going anywhere."