Chapter Five: The Sweat-Sting Of Fevered Minds

"We need to split up."

Davy and Micky looked at him like he was nuts, the wan light of the dawn casting shadows over their faces.

"Split up?" Shaking his head, Davy snorted. "Peter, that's got to be the worst idea I've ever heard, and we live with Micky."

"Hey!"

"I know it sounds dumb," Peter insisted, "but we don't have time to go together - we need to make our search area as wide as possible, okay? We have to find Mike, before something bad happens to him." Or to someone else, he added in his head.

He had been stupid to fall asleep, stupid to lower his guard. That bite could have had any number of effects on Mike's mental state - he could be wandering around lost, he could be digging up graves, he could be chewing on some poor innocent bystander-

"Look," he said firmly, "I know it's probably dangerous, but it's the only option we have, okay? We have to check cemeteries-"

"Cemeteries?" Micky frowned, but his confusion soon melted into a strange mix of panic and disgust. "Oh, god, you don't think he-"

"I don't know, Micky," the shaman interrupted. "That's the problem. I just don't know."

"Right." Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Micky then scrubbed his fingers through his hair restlessly. "Right. Okay. This is what we're gonna do. Davy, I want you to go around to all the hospitals and ask around. If something's happened to him, or if he was wandering around and got picked up, he'd probably have ended up there. Someone'll remember a mile-high Texan with a chunk out of his shoulder. When you're done with that, take a…take a drive by the closest cemeteries."

Davy nodded, sprinting to his room for his coat.

"Peter." Micky turned serious eyes on the blonde, and Peter swallowed nervously. "Is there any way you can use your shaman-y abilities to locate him?"

Nibbling on his lower lip, Peter considered the question. "Well…it would take a bit of time to get started, and I could only go so far. If he's outside my range, I won't be able to feel him out."

"Okay, get a start on that, see if you can locate him. If not, well…" Sighing, Micky ran a hand through his hair again. Peter privately thought that it was starting to look as tangled as a bramble, but he figured just then wasn't the time to be discussing hair care. "Look," Micky continued, breaking Peter from his thoughts, "is it likely at all that those two, Ellis and Lydia…I mean, could they have taken Mike?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Mike left on his own, I know that much. If they'd gotten within ten feet of the Pad, I would have felt it."

A bit of tension seemed to leak out of Micky at that. "Okay. Good. While you're doing that, then, I'm gonna start a circular search pattern, see if I can't at least pick up a trail or something. I mean, really, he's kind of noticeable…surely someone will have spotted him."

Peter nodded.

Davy, wandering back in with his coat draped over one shoulder, regarded Peter as seriously as Micky had. "You're gonna track him down, Peter…right?"

Fear slithered icily into his stomach and curled up there, seeming content to take up residence. "Um…I'll do everything I can, Davy, but-"

"That's all we need," Davy replied, grasping Peter's shoulder tightly. "Just do your best, Peter. We can't expect any more than that."

He still felt horrible and alone when they were gone, though. He knew they believed he was more powerful than he actually was. They trusted him to be able to accomplish things he could never do, not in a million years. What would happen when they realized their mistake? How much would they hate him when he let them down? Or would it be par-for-the-course to them? Foolish Peter, always failing, never coming through for anyone.

Sighing, he went to grab his trunk from his room, dragging it out to the bandstand. It took a while to clear the platform of instruments, but it was the ideal place for what he had planned.

He fetched their portable fire pit from the balcony. It had been his own, brought from home. They'd mostly used it for toasting marshmallows until now, although sometimes Peter would accidentally-on-purpose drop a few of the precious treats into the fire as an offering. He could never be sure it counted, though, and after the last time he'd done it, Mike had insisted on toasting Peter's marshmallows for him - they weren't cheap.

Setting the empty pit in the middle of the bandstand, Peter dug around in his trunk. Pulling out a few herbs, he tossed them into the pit. The right smells, Gran had taught him, triggered parts of the brain you didn't even normally use. Althea, wormwood, and sweet grass would be best in this case - they stood for protection, psychic powers, and the calling of spirits. Shoving the trunk back and off of the bandstand, Peter did a quick test of the barriers outside the Pad. Then, breathing in deeply, he wandered a loose circle around the platform.

He gathered the ambient energy of the room - traces of his friends, of himself, of their comings and goings - swirls of frenetic motion, great sweeping whorls of paths they took and didn't take - imprints of feelings felt and words spoken. Gathering it to himself, he wound it, spun it tight, and wove it into a barrier. He tread slowly, hands moving automatically as he worked, shaping and stretching the barrier around and up and around again until it domed over the platform, vibrating brightly in his mind's eye. He tested it gently, satisfied with the fuzzy thickness of it, the way it prickled up his fingers when he brushed against it.

Not impenetrable - no barrier was if the attacker was strong enough - but it would do. Now he was very certain that no one could approach without his knowledge, no matter how deep into meditation he sank.

Moving back to the fire pit, Peter reached in and pressed his fingers to the crumbly herbs inside. It took only a fraction of a breath and a rough grind of energy to set them to smoldering, and a breath more to draw the sparks into a blaze. Nodding to himself, Peter arranged himself comfortably in front of the pit and, with a sigh, let everything but the flame slip away.

Mike, he told himself. Reach out for Mike.

The smoky scent of the burning herbs settles in Peter's sinuses as he breathed deeply. He let the dancing tongues of the fire sweep away all thoughts of failure and all of his fear. He swayed a bit, mimicking the motion of the flames unconsciously as he stretched his aura out.

It crept along the floor, millimeter by millimeter, through the walls of his home, out across the sand, across the neighborhood, across Los Angeles. It rippled and slid into homes and shops. It touched everything, every particle of life lighting up dimly - earthy-scented trees and the tiny fluttery pulse of birds, and people. People everywhere, searing bright in colorless rainbows of energy. He could feel Davy, blazing hot and frantic and angry. He could feel Micky, erratic and sparking fear from his center. He surrounded them for a moment, soothing where he could, before moving on and letting them slip from his grasp.

He found squirrels and ants and the constant, reassuring back-and-forth of the ocean. He found creeping vines and bursts of wildflowers. And always, everywhere, there were people.

And none of them were Mike.

Further, he felt, not really a thought so much as a deep nudge. Reach further.

Hot tingles like an electric shock burst at the base of his skull, racing down his spine and up into his mind and pooling at his eyes. He shut them, shut out the fire, and everything, every bit of himself that he has pushed out, snapped back like a broken rubber band. A non-sound like the opposite of a tree being hit by lightning rang in his head.

Shuddering violently, Peter struggled to take a breath. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.

Lydia smiled at him. "Hello, Peter. It's been a long time."

Her voice sounded as light and breezy as it had the last time he'd heard it, on the worst day of his life, but her face looked very different. She smiled at him, blue eyes bright, sunny-gold hair rippling as she shook her head.

"You've gotten so tall…and so very strong, Peter. Stronger than I'd ever imagined you would."

Peter shook his head mutely, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat. A sound behind him made him tense further, and he watched the genial smile on Lydia's face melt into a twisted look of rage.

Yes, that was more like the way he remembered her, he thought as he carefully turned so he had a shoulder to her, and one to the newcomer behind him.

Brushing his dark brown hair up away from his equally-dark eyes, Ellis offered Lydia a condescending sneer. "You never did have the kind of faith in him that I did, you weak-willed bitch."

As Lydia outright growled, Peter felt his insides freeze up. His hands clenched into fists, and he backed up slightly, doing his best to get out from in between them. Not here, he begged the Powers That Be. Please, not here, not in my home. I've worked so hard to build a new family. Please, don't let them destroy that, too.

"He belongs with me, Ellis! He could do so much good in the world!"

"The hell you say! You were never concerned with good, it was only ever about control with you!"

"Oh, ho, look who's talking!"

"Peter," Ellis said insistently, dragging Peter out of his desperate prayers. "Peter, come with me. I know how you handled my ghoul, I know how powerful you are. We'll be the mightiest team, we'll set the world right." He stepped over the second barrier, sending more sickly shocks into Peter's already-muddled brain.

Lydia copied him, clasping her hands in front of her as though begging. "Don't listen to him, Peter. He only wants blood and pain. He can only teach you to destroy - I can teach you so much more."

Shaking his head mutely, Peter backed away still further.

As on the beach, several things happened at once.

In his efforts to get away, Peter stepped a bit too far, and now teetered on the edge of the bandstand. With a great cry, Ellis lunged forward, eyes intent, fingers leaving trails of sickly green fumes as he reached for the frightened shaman. Lydia, seeing Ellis making his move, screamed furiously and lunged at him.

Ellis bared his teeth and, reaching out, pushed both Peter and Lydia back and through the picture window with a concussive wave of power.

The impact with the balcony railing knocked breath and sense from Peter. He arched and gasped as dull pain vibrated his joints. Dimly, he was aware of the sound of Lydia crashing into the dunes below. He spared her only a moment's thought as he struggled to his knees, shards of glass tumbling from his shoulders in a sharp, brilliant rain.

"Peter…I don't want to hurt you," Ellis said softly as he stepped delicately over the shattered windowpane, footsteps crunching ominously. His fingers were still smoking green, and he stopped a few feet from the shaking blonde. "I really don't. But if you don't come with me willingly, I will take you by force."

Peter could only shake his head.

Ellis sighed. "Very well." He reached for Peter's face. "It really is for the best, kiddo," he said casually.

Squeezing his eyes shut as he had when the ghoul had prepared its attack, Peter waited for the pain. And, as with the ghoul, it never came.

"Peter!"

Eyes flashing open, Peter watched in horror as Micky vaulted up the steps and, without hesitation, threw himself between Peter and Ellis.

In an instant, the green fumes seemed to seep through Micky's skin. The thin man went very pale, eyes wide and pained, and with a shuddering gasp, he sank to his knees. Ellis didn't release him, though his eyes were as wide and bewildered as Micky's, and Peter could just feel the ugly sickness writhing under Micky's skin.

Exhausted, it was all Peter could do to crawl over the glass towards the pair. Pain spiked up his bleeding palms, and his arms gave out, sending him crashing on his side to the balcony floor. He stretched out one hand to Micky, tears pricking his eyes.

Then there were more running feet, and through his tears, Peter watched as Davy slid to a stop behind Ellis and, with a great cry of, "get the fuck off of him," swung the trusty iron poker around like a golf club, hitting Ellis square in the jaw and knocking him away from his victim.

Summoning the last of his strength, Peter lurched to his knees and held out his hands. He wasn't sure what he could do, if anything, to protect his friends, but if he had to kill himself to do it, he would.

And that was, perhaps, what Ellis was seeing in Peter's eyes, because he backed away and, with a final, meaningful look at Peter, vanished.

Davy ran to Peter, letting the poker fall from his fingertips, but the blonde held up his hands again, "Lydia," he rasped, glancing over towards the beach.

But Davy just shook his head. "She scarpered just as I got here. Now shut up and let me help you." Reaching out, Davy placed his hands on either side of Peter's face and let his eyes slide shut.

Peter stared.

After a long moment, Davy peeked at his friend with one eyes. "Well? Go to it."

"Go to…what?"

Rolling both eyes, Davy shook his head in exasperation. "You said you needed energy to heal, right? Well, Micky obviously needs healing, badly, and so do you. And from the looks of it, you're well out. So borrow from me."

"What? Davy, no, I-"

Behind them, Micky rasped in a labored breath, limbs twitching, and Peter let his own eyes slide shut. "Just…stay still."

It was an effort just to reach out that tiny distance, but as soon as he started to weave the ends of their auras together, it began to get easier, until Peter had pulled enough of Davy's strength to manage. It was unfamiliar energy, not like pulling from the trees and the air and the water. It was white-hot and filled Peter's mouth with the taste of copper and pepper. It itched oddly in his skin, but at the same time, it invigorated him.

He opened his eyes, reaching out to steady Davy as the smaller man swayed alarmingly. "Sorry. Sorry, I might have taken too much."

"No," Davy mumbled, blinking the fuzz from the edges of his vision. "No, whatever you need, Peter." Then he grinned. "You can return it later. With interest."

Somehow, in spite of everything, Peter managed to huff a laugh. With a groan, he stood and hurried to Micky's side. His friend was shaking violently, wracked by sharp pains and raging fever. He watched them through narrowed eyes, seeing and yet not seeing, and Peter let out a shaky breath.

"What'd Ellis do to him," Davy whispered as he tottered after the blonde.

"He made him sick," Peter replied, pressing his still-bleeding palm to Micky's cheek. "Soul-sick. It's not a pleasant way to go."

"So, he was trying to kill Micky?"

Peter felt guilt twist bitterly in his gut. "No, he was trying to subdue me. Micky just got in the way, and Ellis pushed it a bit further, probably because he was so shocked." Peter could relate - he could have sworn that when he'd seen Ellis touch Micky with that twisted energy, his heart had stopped.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Peter leaned down and grasped Micky by the elbows, swinging him as gently as he could up onto his back and levering himself to his feet, Micky's arms drawn firmly around the shaman's shoulders like a scarf. Then, balancing the half-unconscious man carefully, Peter reached down and grasped Micky's thighs, holding him in place as best he could. He glanced at Davy as a thought occurred to him.

"Uh, Davy?"

"Yeah?"

The blonde hefted Micky a bit higher on his back as Davy yanked the back door open. "For future reference," he grunted, maneuvering through the doorway with minimal instances of banging Micky's head against it, "iron doesn't work on shamans."

As he settled Micky onto the couch, be became aware of Davy staring at him blankly.

"Peter," the smaller man began conversationally, "I don't care if they're a shaman, a ghoul, a vampire, or fucking Bigfoot, if you want to stop someone doing something, I guarantee you that an iron bar to the face works beautifully."

Peter paused, considering this. "Well…yeah, fair enough."

The managed to get Micky to the couch, which had more than served them well in the past few days. Davy had insisted that Peter run his hands under warm water and wrap them before he'd let him get to work on Micky, and Peter complied only because he knew that the stubborn look on Davy's face meant he wasn't going to give in on the issue. He needed to get to Micky, needed to trace the sickness and pull it out before it spread too far.

As he settled onto the edge of the couch next to the drummer, fingers peeking out from the ends of crisp white bandages, he watched Davy pace the floor from the corner of his eyes.

"So, when do we find Lydia?"

"What?" Fingertips hovering over Micky's brow, Peter frowned. "We don't. We definitely, definitely don't."

"What? But…Peter, we have to help her!"

Peter shook his head, bewildered, as he tried to feel out the sickness. "No, Davy. We don't."

Davy blew his bangs from his eyes, frustration twisting his face into a scowl. "Of course we do - she's the good guy. We can join up with her, help her defeat Ellis, and-"

"No, Davy. That's not how it works."

"It's the right thing to do, Peter. That's why it's called The Light, innit? Light is right, it's the side of good! How can we just sit back and not help her fight!?"

Peter grit his teeth, shaking fingers pressing against Micky's jaw, his throat, and around to the back of his neck. How was the energy meant to flow? What was the order? Why couldn't he remember?

"You're just gonna sit there and let evil win?" Davy hissed. "After what that bastard did to Micky, you're gonna let him win, when we could be out there, fighting, helping the good guys-"

"That's not how it works, Davy!"

The words echoed sharply in the space between them. Davy stared at him, face tight, eyes full of Decency and The Right Thing, and Peter felt sick. He could feel the tight press of hysterical sobs building up in his throat.

The gross strands of Micky's fever twisted and undulated under his fingertips. His friend shivered, skin clammy with sweat, and looked up at him with dark, ill-bright eyes. Miserable and half out of his mind, Micky looked up at him trustingly, and smiled. He thought Peter could help him, that Peter was strong enough to help him.

Peter felt sicker.

From the top down, a memory of his Gran suddenly whispered. Bottom-up's for combing hair, silly boy.

"Of course it works like that, Peter," Davy was arguing as Peter tried to comb the slick-hot-squirmy threads of the disease out of Micky's aura. "Light is good, dark is bad, and we're the good guys, right? So we help the light and save the world, and-"

"It doesn't work like that," Peter repeated in a softer voice. "They aren't good or bad, Davy, either of them, and you can't have one stronger than the other. That's just how it is."

"But-"

"And as soon as you start thinking you have the right to judge them - to judge anyone - to be good or evil, you have a problem."

"He's hurting people, Pete, he's hurt Micky-"

"She hurts people too, Davy," the young shaman replied, pressing his fingertips to Micky's collarbone and dragging them downward in short, quick strokes. "They always do, both sides, ever since the beginning of time, Gran said. She said-"

"Will you stop talking about what your sainted Gran said and start thinking for yourself?"

Peter didn't look up from his clumsy efforts to heal their drummer friend. He wasn't good at this, he never had been. There was so much, so many tiny threads to find and gather, and they kept slithering out of his grasp and burrowing even further.

Of course, he could…

Blinking down at his hands where they had stilled, pressed against Micky's stomach, Peter let his eyes slide shut.

He could feel it there, untouched - Micky's center. He could feel it pulsing in time with Micky's life rhythms, feel it prickling against his own aura invitingly. It felt so nice, so pure, so very Micky, and it would be so easy to reach out and just push, push every last disgusting bit of sickness out, eradicate it as though it had never been. It would be so easy.

Peter opened his eyes.

Davy was watching him, his expression still one of righteous fury, and Peter sighed and let the tingly brightness of everything that was essentially Micky fall away from him.

"When I was, I think…six? Or so? Anyway, I was real little, and my mother and father were fighting over some stupid little thing. I asked Gran why they were fighting over it, and she said it was because they both thought they were right. She said that they each thought they had the better reason, the better plan, the better whatever, and they both thought they had to fight for it."

Micky was murmuring nonsense as Peter continued his task. The blonde could feel Davy staring at him, curious and upset.

"But, Davy, there wasn't anything to fight over, because by the time they were done fighting, they'd forgotten whatever it was that had started it." He smiled at his still-confused friend. "They did that a lot, though. Fought over stupid things instead of compromising, or working together. And it caused a lot of trouble, you know? Nothing got done, no one was happy, and it…it hurt me. They hurt me, not because either of them were right or wrong, but because they each thought the other was wrong. Do you understand?"

Davy perched on the arm of the couch, resting the back of his hand against Micky's brow and heaving a great, quavering sigh. "Yeah, Peter. I think I get it."

"Gran always said that the problem was people who start thinking more than feeling."

"You've gotta think sometimes," Davy pointed out.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, combing his fingers from Micky's shoulders to his elbows. "But you gotta feel, too, or how do you know if you're thinking the wrong things?"

Davy huffed a laugh, watching as Peter continued his clumsy healing.

"Do you miss them?"

Peter blinked. "Miss who?"

"Your parents. I mean, I know you said the fought a lot, but…sorry," Davy muttered, looking away. "Not my business, I guess."

Moving down Micky's body, Peter considered his answer. "I do miss them. All the time. They weren't always the best parents, but they were the only ones I had, you know?"

"Yeah," Davy whispered, eyes distant. "I do."

Minutes turned to hours, and Peter continued, sifting through Micky's aura from top to bottom. Every time he finished, there would be more of the sickness, more ugly little strands of corrupted energy, and he would have to begin again. The sun swung through the sky, dipping down below the horizon. Davy got up to tack a tarp over the broken window and sweep up the glass and heat up Micky's soup from the day before. He coaxed the broth into Peter as the older man worked tirelessly on borrowed energy. And still, Micky didn't improve.

Finally, shaking and swallowing back tears, Peter slumped down, resting his forehead against the back of the couch. "Davy…I can't…I-"

Holding out his hands, Davy tried to smile through his fear. "Take some more."

"I can't…too much already…no time…"

"Peter, please, you have to take more."

"I don't-"

"Good thing I thought to fetch Cousin Lucy, I guess," a weary voice spoke up from the front door.

Peter lurched up, feeling Davy's hand clasp his elbow to steady him as he teetered on the edge of the couch, and stared at Mike.

The Texan smiled comfortingly back and reach around the doorway to pull his cousin into the room. As she removed her hat and crossed the room to gently pull Peter away from his stricken friend, Mike followed.

"Y'all look like you could use a healer."

A/N - Oh, so that's where Mike went.