The rest of the day passed relatively quickly and pretty easily; thankfully, the makeup I had reapplied stayed in its place, and I wasn't questioned by anyone other than Delores about the bruises. Tucker and Sam might have, but I never gave them the chance, because I only saw them at lunch and I made a point to avoid them, sitting by myself in the hallway while I ate the free lunches I had also managed to secure somewhere between now and a year and a half ago and writing stories, something I'd started doing at consequently the same time. The mornings after my father beat me, especially on the days I had to go to school, were painful because I was still very sore; despite the fact that my school did not allow you to carry painkillers with you, I did anyway, because I wasn't going to go to the nurse everyday—my mother forbid it, but made sure I swallowed three or four of them before I left for school and stuffed extra in my pencil case, advising that I be careful and keep them hidden. Today was no different. I had felt better for maybe the first half of the day, but by my last class, I thought I would vomit because I was in so much pain.

On the way home, I did.

I had been maybe a fourth of the way there when the urge—one that was sadly very familiar—came, and because I was walking along a well-traveled strip of sidewalk where I would be visible to anyone who'd been outside that afternoon, I darted into the woods, fell onto my knees, and threw up the turkey sandwich and soup I'd choked down for lunch, the pain in my throat so terrible I'd hardly been able to swallow. The sound of my vomiting was so loud that it stirred the birds from where they rested in their perches in the trees, and I was sure anyone nearby could hear it, but I was reasoning that I'd rather that than have them see it as well.

Well, I had been spot on in assuming they'd heard. Apparently the sound was so loud and alarming that there had been a small commotion, people urging one another to go in and check to see if I was okay but all too afraid to. At least, that was how the commotion began, because soon the focus had shifted from the teenage boy vomiting in the nearby bushes to one of the various ghosts that had picked this oh-so-appropriate time to attack the streets of Amity Park. Clutching my midsection as I threw up repeatedly, I heard Spectra's soft but undeniably malicious voice ring out as she terrorized the people of my town with her disgusting pig of an assistant. Groaning, I had forced myself to stagger to my feet again, using every ounce of strength I could muster, attempting to contain more vomit but relatively unsuccessfully as I went ghost.

It took awhile, but I managed to amble out into the street again—unwisely, I might point out—as I quickly wiped the vomit from my lips on the back of my hand. I won't lie—I was absolutely terrified, because Spectra was already a pretty formidable opponent under the best of circumstances; I could have injected myself with steroids before our fight and she still would have landed a few punches on me, or kicks with those sharp high-heels of hers, so as you've probably come to realize, I didn't exactly stand much of a chance in my current state of not-so-well-being. Still, I'd reasoned that it was my duty to protect the town, and sick I may be, I was still better capable of doing so than anyone else who roamed the streets that day.

"Spectra," I managed to call, feeling winded and incredibly dizzy, sure I would faint right then and there, but for a while I managed to remain conscious.

She turned around and her eyes brightened significantly with the light of one who is met with the chance to slowly murder the person who has killed their mother or father, or something like that—the deranged excitement that makes your eyes dance wildly and your teeth clamp together in a hideous grin. I think from the moment I first noted the look in her eyes I knew I was a goner, because I'd seen that look before in my father's eyes when he came home from the bar, intoxicated beyond the point of comprehension, his fingers itching to find the smooth strip of leather he used to beat me. It seems as though when someone looks at you like this, you'd better beat it, because there really isn't any stopping them.

And there wasn't. As I had known from the start, I stood no chance against her power, and she had me on the ropes within maybe the first thirty seconds of our fight, if it could even be called that. I screamed as she kicked me into one of the buildings lining the main drag and I collided into the bricked structure with so much force that I thought I'd broken every bone in my body. As I tumbled to the ground, my lungs cried out for air, but none was coming, and it occurred to me that the blow had probably punctured one of them on top of every other injury that invoked me.

Oh shit, I thought, more alarmed at the reaction of my father to this injury and the idea of coming up with an excuse as to just what had happened rather than the actual injury itself. How am I going to explain THIS?

Spectra walked slowly toward me until her shadow loomed menacingly over my crumpled form on the pavement. I groaned as I opened my eyes to look up at her woozily, my head spinning and my eyes blurred. I could make out her ardent figure, that perfect hour-glass shape, her fists stiffly pushed into her hips, one of which was out in a defiant gesture that even in my hazy state of mind I found incredibly attractive. She was smirking down at me easily, her eyes seeming to have cooled slightly, maybe because she realized what little challenge I provided and had been hoping for something more.

"Poor boy," she purred, and unhurriedly descended into a kneel beside me, her delicate hands resting gently on her exposed knees, which were parted enough that her uncovered femininity was exposed, and if I wasn't about to be killed, I thought the temptation of masturbating would have been very great, despite the fact that I was already incredibly hard as it was...and I was harder still when she reached out one of those sexy hands and began to stroke my dirty hair.

"That's always been one of your greatest weaknesses, Danny. You can't easily conceal those emotions of yours, can you?" she said softly, her tongue clicking in false sympathy.

She leaned in so that the tip of her nose almost touched mine. Her breath was a mixture of tobacco and cinnamon, and as she regarded me, it stirred a spike of my white hair. Her eyes were glinting softly with what I recognized easily to be lust—indulgence of my amusing display of arousal, I guessed. Her mouth hung open slightly and she was blinking very slowly, sultrily, in a way that would have been enough to make me blow my load right there, and I might have, too, if I wasn't as scared as I was.

"Oh well," she said gently after a long, seemingly never-ending moment of looking me in the eyes without the slightest hint of weakness. "I'd tell you to work on that, but unfortunately you will not live long enough to try."

"I beg to differ," the voice suddenly came confidently, and a blue blast of Ectoplasmic energy collided into Spectra's side, sending her flying off of me and into the same wall I'd crashed with a shriek of pain.

With much trouble, I craned my neck to gaze upon the person who'd saved me, and there he stood, his arms crossed over his chest and his cape fluttering behind him.

Vlad Plasmius.