Chapter Two: A Family Affair

Peter wasn't very fond of ghouls.

Such a statement seemed a bit ridiculous he thought as he slipped silently out of bed and reached into his nightstand for a charm sachet. No one was fond of ghouls, on a matter of principle. Peter didn't like to judge people, even people who were just slightly on the other side of the people/non-people divide, based on aspects of their nature they couldn't control.

Ghouls were what they were, after all, and who was Peter to judge?

This, though, was not normal ghoul behavior - coming into a home, especially a protected home, when there was plenty of readily available flesh waiting for them just six feet under. It made the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stand up, made his fingers clench around the sachet a little tighter, useless though it was in this case.

Whatever had brought the ghoul to the Pad, it wasn't good. Ghouls were of a demonic sort, caught between life and death in perpetuity. Peter didn't know how it happened, if they had been created by something, if they had been human once, if they were just pure shadow and rot, but whatever it was, it didn't make them ideal house guests. Despite this, Peter wasn't sure he could kill it. Death and violence didn't come naturally to Peter; they never had, and they never would.

His first priority, he decided, would be to draw the ghoul out of the Pad and away from his friends. He could figure out what to do with it afterwards.

Once, when he'd been very small, Peter had watched his Gran spin yarn with a drop spindle. It had been hypnotic to witness, the gentle sway of the spindle, the efficient way she wound the finished yarn, the way she'd tugged and thinned the wool as she worked. He'd especially liked watching her join the torn ends of two pieces of wool, the way the dream-soft fibers would catch together, twisted into something strong, something unbreakable. When it had come time for him to learn to borrow energy, Gran had started by teaching Peter to spin.

Creeping out into the living room, Peter tried to even out his breathing, his eyes slipping half-shut as he reached out, feeling the slow, earthy pulse of his trees, the pounding, unrelenting heartbeat of the ocean. He grasped at them, tugging and stretching and bundling the threads of nature's energy up, weaving them into his center, winding and rolling it all around like a ball of yarn, feeling the strands catch and hold. He spun it all tight, gathering it to his center, and breathed out.

I was always uncomfortable, taking in so much energy. It made him feel out-of-sorts with himself - he always had the weirdest urges, like the desire to sprout buds or erode the beach or whistle through canyons. It hummed inside him, just beneath his skin, making his limbs twitch and jerk. It was with great effort that he stilled them, pressed his charm sachet to his lips and uttering a silent plea to whatever Powers might Be.

Please, he begged, please let me be enough. Let me be enough to protect them. For once, let me be enough.

Taking a deep breath that sounded like wind in his leaves, Peter shoved the sachet into his pocket and left the Pad.

He rounded the house, coming to stand a few feet away from his trees, and looked up at the roof.

It wasn't terribly big for a ghoul, which tended to be unnaturally long and lithe, but it was a good deal bigger than Peter. It had taken a very common form for ghouls, resembling a hyena in the most basic of ways. Twisted, scar-like ridges patterned it's body, patches of skin clinging like wet tissue paper, tattered and torn away to reveal lean muscles underneath. It's tail was ragged, twitching back and forth agitatedly as its red-tinged eyes peered at Peter over a short, fang-filled muzzle. Save for the eyes, it was a greenish-gray shade, perfect for blending into muck and rotting foliage.

It shifted towards him, the hooves of its hind legs slipping on the shingles. Elongated fingers on elongated forelegs curled, yellowing claws digging in to prevent the thing from sliding off the roof.

It looked emaciated, Peter noted absently, but that wasn't unusual. Ghouls were always starving, eternally, and always for human flesh. It was in the eyes, as well, glinting reflectively like a cat's in the moonlight - gnawing, maddening hunger that would never be satiated.

That never stopped a ghoul from trying, though.

It hissed at him, lips curling back to reveal its teeth, teeth made for rending flesh from bone. Maggots wriggled between them, plopping onto the roof as the hiss turned to a savage snarl. Its tattered ears, smaller than a real hyena's would be, tilted forward, then flattened back, and it bent into a crouch.

Peter turned and ran.

It was, perhaps, a stupid thing to do. He could never outrun the ghoul - it was taller than he was, and has twice the legs, and Peter wasn't exactly the most graceful of people. Still, he had some experience running down the beach for his life, and he only hoped that he could get the ghoul far, far from his home before it devoured him.

Let me be strong enough, he prayed. Let me be fast enough. Let it be enough to save them.

And that was about when he tripped.

Quivering with fear for his friends, with anger at himself, and with borrowed power, Peter rolled onto his back, grasping at the sand with fingertips that sparked green. The beast bounded to him, looming over his prone body, the stench of rotted flesh overwhelming the shaman. A mouthful of teeth, writhing with pale white larvae, stretched into a grin.

"Stupid boy," the ghoul rumbled. "Stupid, weak little flower-picker. No running now."

He had to kill it, Peter told himself. He had to kill it - his life was at stake.

The power rolled through him, thrashing, fighting to be let loose.

He had to kill it, or he'd be devoured.

Instead, Peter closed his eyes and braced himself.

There was the low whistle of something being swung through the air, a sickening, crunching thud, and suddenly the ghoul was no longer pinning him.

Peter peeked through his bangs, breath coming in hard, harsh gasps, at Mike's angry, worried face. The Texan, hefting the iron fireplace poker they usually used to toast things when they had a rare beach bonfire, was glowering down at his blonde friend. The lines of his body were tense, his empty fist clenched into a fist.

"Just what in the hell were you thinking, Peter?!" Mike gestured at him with the poker, and Peter could see Micky and Davy behind the guitarist, both of them looking just as terrified and angry as Mike did.

The shaman opened his mouth to reply, but the dark, furious form of the ghoul launched itself through the air, bringing Mike crashing to the ground, and sank its teeth into his shoulder.

Mike's scream was not one Peter would ever forget.

He readied himself, but what could he do without catching Mike in the crossfire? They were locked together, Mike grasping at its ear and trying in vain to pull the ghoul off. The beast only dug in further, worrying Mike like a rag doll. Peter watched, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life, trying desperately to cling to his restraint lest he hurt Mike in the attempt to save him. As he frantically ran through his options, he noticed that part of the ghoul's skull had been caved in and oozing pus where it had been his with the poker.

The poker, Peter thought. It was iron. It could hurt the thing. As he thought this, though, he realized that someone else had thought of it first.

Lunging forward suddenly, Micky snatched up the poker and, looking about as terrified as he'd ever been in his life, rammed it as hard as he could through the ghoul's side.

The effect was instantaneous, but probably not what Micky had hoped for - the ghoul released Mike, yes, letting out a sky-rending screech as the wound sizzled and smoked, but it then turned its ravenous, reddened gaze on the drummer.

Micky stumbled backwards, falling onto his rear in the sand, and did his best to keep putting distance between himself and the bloody muzzle pointing his way. He had gone pale, eyes wide and panicked, and for a moment, time seemed to slow to a halt.

Several things happened in the space of a breath then. The ghoul, springing off of Mike, landed scant inches from Micky. Micky let out a tiny whimper, lifting his arms to shield his face and throat. And Peter, reassured that Mike was now out of the line of fire, dropped to his knees, slammed his palms down against the sand and pushed.

It was a hawthorn this time, and Peter had never imagined he'd be so relieved to see one. It exploded from the sand beneath the ghoul, growing up around it, tangling it in its branches. Peter could hear the creaking of the trunk, punctuated by the crunch of ribs and spine and skull and the startled yelp that cut off suddenly, and he pushed harder, guilt and disgust powering through his trembling body.

When all had gone still and silent save the soft rustling of leaves, Peter crumpled, hot tears tracking down his cheeks.

He'd killed something. Horribly, viciously killed something that was only doing what it existed to do. His fingernails bit deeply into his biceps as he hugged himself, harsh sobs shuddering in his chest.

Then Davy and Micky were there, dragging him up and patting him down and firing frantic questions at him.

"Are you hurt?"

"Are you okay?"

"Can you hear me, Pete?"

"Peter, can you move?"

Peter shook his head, trying to breathe deeply. "I…"

Micky launched himself forward and wrapped Peter in a tight hug. "Christ, Peter, I don't know what the hell you just did, but you saved our lives."

Something in him eased a bit at the grateful words, and his guilt was soon entirely forgotten when Davy let out a violent curse and rushed from their sides.

Mike was lying in the sand, pale and still, blood splashed about like a macabre painting. Peter cried out, scrambling to his feet and tripping over to his friend.

"Mike," he rasped, reaching out and pressing his hand to the ragged wound on the Texan's right shoulder. It was deep, sickly dark lines creeping outward from it like a spiderweb, and the bones were likely shattered judging by how misshapen it looked - considering the circumstances, though, Peter knew he was lucky to even still have that arm.

"Oh, God," Micky breathed, dropping to his knees on Mike's other side and staring, his hands hovering over Peter's, unsure. "What do we do? How…what do we do?"

"Here," Davy barked, yanking his nightshirt up over his head and tossing it to Peter. "Press that to the wound, and keep pressure on it. Micky, you and I are gonna go back to the Pad-"

"Are you crazy, Davy, who knows what-"

"-and we're gonna find something to make a stretcher for him so we can get him back home," Davy finished, grasping the collar of Micky's tee and tugging him away.

"Davy, we can't just-"

"Both of you shut up," Peter muttered, hand still on Mike's shoulder, fingers digging into the puncture wounds determinedly.

Ghoul bites were strange things, Peter remembered. There were rarely stories of people surviving encounters with them, but it was always hinted at that no one came away from a bite like that unscathed. Rumors of cannibals and murderers who had thought themselves lucky to escape death by ghoul raced through Peter's mind as he pressed harder.

If they looked closely in the wan starlight, Micky and Davy could probably see the dark veins that had been stretching out from the wound receding, becoming lighter, and vanishing altogether. The would have also seen the flow of blood from the wound increase, oddly dark and thick. They definitely saw, Peter knew, Mike's shoulder gradually becoming less mangled, until the puncture wounds were all that were left.

"Peter," Davy whispered, eyes awed. "Peter, what did you…how did you…"

"What are you?" Micky asked gently, running one shaking hand through his hair.

And Peter wanted to answer, really, but the day had finally caught up with him, and with a tiny sigh, he tumbled forward onto Mike's chest, consciousness slipping away.

The last thing he saw, outlined in the light of the moon, was the gnarled trunk of the hawthorn, bulging oddly at the middle, the handle of an iron poker jutting out like a spear. He slid into a deep sleep, the smell of rotting flesh and Michael's blood following him into his dreams.

A/N - Um…
Wow.
Sorry?