Chapter Fifteen

Death is a very dull, dreary affair,
and my advice to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it.
--W. Somerset Maugham

Peter attempted to keep Ray company in the lab as the other worked on the internet, continuing his research into legends concerning death and crows…and Crows. Peter paged through Mordecai Lester's journal, jotting down on a legal pad anything that seemed pertinent, but it was difficult to concentrate on the faded handwriting and he soon found his attention wandering. Restless, Peter shoved the old book aside and went to gaze out the window at the busy street below filled with New Yorkers going about their daily lives, most of them never suspecting how vulnerable they were to the touch of the supernatural. Despite the fact that he made his living working with the supernatural, not even Peter had ever expected anything like what had happened to him.

He shook his head to clear it, then glanced back at Ray, still bent over the keyboard. Quietly, so as not to disturb Ray, Peter drifted out of the room. In the hall, he hesitated. Going downstairs to watch television held little interest for him and he had already proven to himself that he couldn't concentrate well enough to read. He glanced toward the bunkroom and sighed. There was always laundry…

A few minutes later, Peter was in the basement listening to the churning of the washing machine as he finished feeding it the first load of dirty clothes. He grinned faintly to himself, mildly amused at the lengths to which boredom could drive a man. First an unwilling early bird, now voluntarily doing housework -- no doubt about it, death had changed him.

With the lid of the washer safely closed, Peter wandered over to sit on the metal stairs. His gaze was drawn immediately to the red-painted bulk of the containment unit across the way. Even from here, he was aware of the spirits inside it in a way he never had been before. He could feel them straining against the grid which held them captive, feel them reaching for the dark power within him, begging for it to release them.

He could feel that power laughing at them.

"Sorry, kiddies," he called softly, not sounding at all apologetic. "I don't think the Crow likes you very much. For that matter, neither do I."

A sense of the cold darkness coiling silkily around his heart in an affectionate caress, and a definite impression of approval rang in the back of his mind. Peter's eyes widened. That was new. Not daring to move, he waited, but nothing else happened. Finally, he allowed his body to relax, his mind racing. What did it mean? He had thought that the dark spirit wanted to take over, to use him for its own purposes --and if some of those purposes happened to overlap with Peter's then it was mere coincidence. But what if he was wrong?

He pressed his hand to his chest over his heart, his thoughts directed inward, and whispered pensively, "What are you, really? What am I?"

He waited in the gloom of the basement, the stillness broken only by the faint hum of the containment unit and the louder thrashings of the washing machine. He waited for a long time, but there was no answer.

Ray sat back from the computer and rubbed at brown eyes tired from hours of peering at a flickering CRT screen. His back creaked a bit as he stretched the kinks out, pushed his chair back, and headed for the kitchen. It had been long enough since breakfast that his stomach was grumbling at him, informing him it was time to go in search of food. He wondered where Peter had gotten to --and if he should try to herd him into the kitchen for a snack of his own. His first question was answered when he came down the spiral stairs and spotted the tall figure standing at the sink washing dishes. The sight was both so mundane and so unexpected that Ray simply gaped at it for a minute before finding his voice.

"Peter? What are you doing?"

Glancing back over his shoulder, Peter raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm skydiving, Ray. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I'm not sure," Ray responded, echoing the teasing note he had heard in Peter's sarcastic retort. "I don't think I've ever actually seen you doing chores before."

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Peter finished rinsing a plate and stuck it in the drainer. He shrugged lightly. "I was bored. So sue me. You hungry? I'll make you some soup or something."

"Thanks! Soup's great." While Peter gathered a saucepan and canned soup from the cabinets, Ray busied himself pulling sandwich fixings from the refrigerator. He held up the bread and tossed a questioning look at Peter. "Want one?"

"No, thanks." Peter stirred the soup now bubbling on the stove. The warm, homey smell of chicken noodle soup filled the tiny kitchen. "So…Find anything interesting on the 'net?"

Ray nodded enthusiastically. "As a matter of fact, I did!"

A tiny smile quirked at Peter's mouth. "That's great, kid. Wanna pull up a chair and tell Uncle Peter all about it?"

"Sure, Peter." Grinning himself, Ray took his sandwich out to the table. Peter joined him a moment later, carrying a steaming bowl of soup and a glass of milk, both of which he set on the table in front of Ray. Ray frowned up at him. "Aren't you going to at least try to eat something?"

"Not right now." The off-handed denial was firm enough that Ray decided not to push the issue. Peter lowered himself onto the chair beside Ray, propped his chin on his fist, and watched companionably as Ray dug into his meal. "Glad to see you haven't lost your appetite, Tex."

Ray just smiled and shook his head, revelling in Peter's teasing. Until it was gone, Ray had never realized just how much he relied on that outward expression of the deep affection that lay between them. He had always looked up to Peter, been flattered and a bit puzzled that someone like the ever-popular Peter Venkman would have anything to do with someone like him. And to have Peter for a friend… That was a gift Ray knew he would never take for granted, again. Now, he ate the soup his friend had prepared for him and felt it warm him in more ways than one.

"Peter--"

Their gazes met and held for a long moment. Then Peter smiled softly. "Yeah, Ray. I know. Me, too."

Satisfied, Ray finished the last of his food, then settled back in his chair. "Still want me to tell you what I found online?"

"Sure thing." If the enthusiasm in Peter's voice was a bit too obviously manufactured, neither man acknowledged it. "I'm all ears."

"Well, I went back to that website where I found the Crow legend," Ray said. "One of the links led me to a Washington State University online repository for Native American oral traditions. One of the tribes has a legend that sounds an awful lot like a Crow."

He paused to dig a piece of paper out of his pocket, then continued, glancing now and again at the paper to make sure he got the details right. "In 1892, a missionary and his daughter went to the Oregon Territory to convert the native tribes to Christianity. The daughter, Rebecca Morgan, fell in love with a man named Blackfeather. In spite of her father's objections, the two of them married according to tribal custom."

"Bet that went over real well with Preacher Morgan," Peter said dryly.

"About as well as you imagine," Ray said. "Morgan arranged to have Blackfeather murdered. But the thugs he hired had also kidnapped Rebecca. That night, the tribe's shaman performed a ritual to allow Blackfeather to return to avenge his murder and save his wife from the men who killed him."

"You mean he came back within twenty-four hours of his murder?"

"Yeah, so the legend goes. That's even faster than what happened to you." Ray watched Peter carefully, trying to gauge his reaction.

Peter's expression was thoughtful. "You think something like this ritual is what brought me back early?"

"It could be. The version of the legend I found didn't give any details about the ritual, but maybe somebody somewhere was able to recover the specifics. Or maybe they used a different ritual. All we can really be sure of is that something happened to bring you back now instead of a year from now."

"You're sure this Blackfeather guy was a Crow?" Peter asked, brow furrowed in thought. "The legend actually calls him that?"

"Well, no. Not in so many words." Ray toyed with the crumbs on his plate. "But I think he was a Crow, Peter. The legend even mentions the strange markings on his face and how he fought his enemies with supernatural strength. And it says his spirit guide was a raven."

"Does it say what happened to him? Afterward?"

"The story is a bit vague about that." Ray shifted uncomfortably. "Blackfeather seems to have just …disappeared, as mysteriously as he returned."

"Think that'll happen to me, too?"

The question was casually posed but Ray wasn't fooled. He reached over and gripped Peter's arm. Giving it a reassuring squeeze, Ray said, "We're not gonna let it."

With a visible effort, Peter met his eyes. He seemed to be searching for something in their brown depths and Ray held his breath, hoping against hope that, whatever it was Peter needed to see there, he would find it. Finally, Peter looked away, the barest hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth.

"Thanks, Ray." There was a wealth of emotions in those two simple words.

Ray let his breath out in a 'woosh' and smiled at his friend. "Anytime." He gathered up his dirty dishes and took them over to the sink, then returned to the table. "I'm still looking for any references to Crows, Peter. I'm sure I'll turn up something more useful."

"An instruction manual would be nice," Peter mumbled, gazing off into the middle-distance. He sat like that for a moment longer, then pushed himself to his feet. "I'd better go see if the clothes are ready to come outta the dryer."

"You did laundry, too?" Ray goggled at him. "Gee, you really were desperate for something to do, weren't you?"

"You don't know the half of it, kid." One hand on the railing of the staircase, Peter tossed him a wink. "Give me a few minutes to fluff and fold, and I'll come up and help you in the lab."

"I could help you with the laundry," Ray offered, but Peter brushed it aside with a negligent wave of the hand.

"Nah, I got it covered. You get back to the computer. I'll see you in a few."

"Okay. If you're sure--?"

"I'm sure."

Ray watched until Peter was out of sight, then headed back upstairs to the third-floor laboratory. He was more determined than ever to find something to help Peter cope with his situation. Whatever happened, he didn't want to lose his friend, again.

Peter was halfway down the stairs when his perception of his surroundings suddenly warped, the crow's vision overlaying his own. He saw the outside of the firehouse from an odd angle, as if the viewer were perched high on a window ledge. Then the view canted downward at a sharper angle and he saw the man hidden in the shadow of the doorway of the building across the street. A cigarette burned in one hand, the other raised to smooth back long, pale hair ruffled by the wind. The lurker's gaze was focused intently on the firehouse's front entrance. The wind tugged at his open jacket, just enough for Peter to spot the gun tucked into his waistband.

Well, so much for boredom. Better take a closer look, he decided, see what their new admirer was up to. Somehow, he didn't think the guy was a cop keeping an eye on the place. In fact, he doubted the crow would've bothered to show him anything at all if the lurker was there on any kind of legitimate business. Besides, there was something almost familiar about that ratlike face…

Peter started across the brick floor, then hesitated. Just one problem: the guy had the front door under surveillance. Peter could always go out the back way, but that would just increase his chances of being spotted by some random passerby on the street as he made his way around the building to the first convenient alley, then across the street to where their watcher lurked. He frowned, pondering the dilemma, and something brushed against his consciousness, offering an answer.

With a grim smile, Peter took it.