Archive of Our Own ^beta

The demons were always there. The demons, and shadows, laughter, blades, emptiness. He had learned to ride it out, let it slip by him and over him and through him without touching him, without him heeding it. Sometimes he screamed and sometimes he giggled but he ignored his own voice as he ignored the rest. Except for the emptiness, the blessing of the void. That came too rarely, but when it did he rested in the lull. Sometimes his eyes would remain open and he would catch glimpses of white walls, doors and cots, fragments of the real, waking world.

He had lived there once. Not long ago. And everything had been going so well. He had known what to do and had done it and it had been right, true. Real. The wonder of science, so marvelous in its simplicity, so enthralling in its complexity. Enlightenment, understanding, and his mastery acknowledged.

He couldn't have known it would go so wrong. He had planned the experiment with all his reason, with all his genius. Always his plans went as they were designed, his tests yielded the results he predicted. It had begun well enough, but then they hadn't followed his predictions. How had he not accounted for those variables? Human beings were only animals, only organisms, subject to the same rules as any physical entities. He had thought he knew them, but he had miscalculated, an unwarrantable error of judgment that he had failed to rectify.

Then she had come, an angel from the depths of hell, and thrust him down to her darkness. Now he was here. She had gone but he was here, with the shadows yet still alone. Empty the room, empty his life, empty his mind.

Always alone.

And then he was not.

He stared up at the great figure, arching horns touching the ceiling despite its stooped carriage, clawed hands crossed over its massive muscled chest. He could see it, hear its rasping breaths, smell the faint stench of sulfur exuding from the leathery skin. If he extended his hand he could have touched that rough hide.

This one was real. He knew it. Unlike any of the others, this one was real. In the dusk of dreams it had come, and when he opened his eyes it still was there, standing before him. His senses for once informed him truly. It had come, to this place, to this room, for him.

He wasn't afraid.

"You could be of use to me," it intoned, so low as to be inaudible, so deep his heart quivered in his chest. "You nearly destroyed them. My enemies."

He knew who was accused; who else would be not the prey but the adversary of a demon? His eyes glowed gray fire at the memory of them, and he hissed, "My enemies."

"Your enemies. Yes. Ours." The mouth of the creature was not made for smiling. Its fangs cut into its grinning lips. "Our enemies. I nearly destroyed them as well. Together..." It hunkered lower, twisting its hideous face closer to the man's. He didn't flinch, not at the proximity of the scarlet eyes or the fetid hot breath blasting over him. "We will not fail. If you are willing."

"I am." He had been waiting, so long, an eternity, or maybe only a day. Maybe an eternal day. It was never quite night in this place, where the lights in the corridor always gleamed. He had been waiting and when he was able he had been thinking, planning, as he always had done. He knew more now. His plans would not fail again. "I am."

"Then join me."

A talon passed before his eyes, a scaled hand pressing to his forehead, and then there was nothing, the quietest, gentlest emptiness he had yet experienced. A sleep without dreams, as he had craved for so long, and as the claws wrapped around and lifted his helpless body, he knew he had chosen rightly.

"Another day, another dollar." Peter Venkman grabbed a handful of ghost traps, still smoking, out of Ecto-1 and marched toward the basement. "Another nine noxious goopers for the containment unit. So whose turn is it to put 'em in?"

"Yours," Winston said, retrieving the remaining traps. "Definitely yours. I think."

"Nuh-uh, it's Ray's," Peter denied.

"No, gotta be Winston's," Ray put in, lugging three of their proton packs to the locker.

Peter stopped before he reached the basement steps. "It's you, Tex, I'm sure of it."

"It's Winston's turn," Ray said obstinately, dropping the packs in a heap at his feet.

"I did it last time," Winston protested, also halting and attempting to fold his arms, no mean feat considering the five traps tangled around them. "Pete's supposed to do it."

"It's a Wednesday. I do dishes. No traps."

"Didn't we work out a schedule for this, too?" Ray wondered. "That's why it's Winston."

"It's Pete!"

"It's Ray!"

"Winston Winston Winston!"

Green eyes glared at brown glaring at hazel glaring at green again. Then all three pairs turned hopefully to their silent member.

Behind round-framed glasses, blue eyes rolled. "It's not going to work," Egon said. "You may bicker as childishly as you please. I am taking a shower." The physicist unsuccessfully pushed back the mass of ectoplasm-soaked hair falling over his glasses. It was a rare event for him to be the only one of the team slimed and he was not enjoying it, but his condition did grant certain privileges. "I would advise that you transfer the ghosts to the unit before the traps fail and you must recapture them. Given your present argument, I would estimate a forty percent chance of you coming to an agreement before then."

Winston frowned doubtfully at his burden. "Uh, how long before the traps fail?"

"Approximately eleven days," Egon said, and stomped for the stairs, the dignity of his exit marred by the soft squelching of his boots.

He had mounted the first step when the phone trilled. "I'll get it!" three voices volunteered, followed by a mass stampede.

Egon raised his eyes to the ceiling again and continued upwards as Ray picked up the phone with a cheerful, "Hello, Ghostbusters Central!" The physicist didn't have to look to know that Ray was thumbing his nose at his teammates as he whispered, "I'll handle this, you guys go put those ghosts away!" He raised his voice to address the caller, "Dr. Stantz speaking, how may I help you?"

"Ray, I'm gonna—" Peter began.

Then stopped. "Ray?"

Egon paused at the top of the stairs, unconsciously holding his breath at the sudden thread of worry in the psychologist's tone.

"Ray?" Peter repeated, softer but no less troubled.

Wooden chair legs scraped against the floor as Ray sat down abruptly. Impatiently shoving his slimed hair out of his eyes again, Egon headed back downstairs. Ray responded, "Yes...okay...I see. Thanks." No hint of tears in his tone, but it was too flat for Ray's voice, all the post-bust energy drained away. "Thank you for letting us know. Yes, please do. Thank you."

By the time Egon made it down his teammate was hanging up. As the physicist approached the desk Winston asked, "What's up, homeboy?"

Ray glanced to him, to Peter, to Egon. Then to Peter again, but when Peter met his gaze with equal parts curiosity and concern he dropped his head. Concentrating on the placidly rotating shapes of the desktop's screensaver, Ray drew a deep breath and said, "That was Brighton Institution."

"Where?" Winston asked, forehead wrinkling as he recalled the name but couldn't place it. Egon took a moment to identify it himself, then stiffened, his attention flying to Peter.

The psychologist's recognition had been immediate, given away by his minute shudder. Egon dropped a hand on his arm and felt the tension vibrating his friend like electricity through a wire. His voice was cool, though. "So what'd Kenny's keepers have to say?"

To those who didn't know Venkman, that easy tone would have betrayed nothing. All three of his teammates heard the inaudible strain as clearly as a shout. Winston reached around Ray to close a hand around Peter's shoulder, his face set but old anger flaring in his eyes. Ray dropped his eyes back to the computer monitor, misery evident in every line of his posture. "Last night, Ken Smith—Ulster—disappeared."

"What?" Peter jerked back, then braced himself against the desk. "Okay, Ray, run that by us again." This time he couldn't quite erase the tremor from his voice.

Ray's shoulders lifted and fell in a helpless shrug. "There isn't anything, really." He stared up at Peter. "Ulster was in his room when the midnight watch checked. When the six o'clock watch came around he wasn't. Everything was in the room except for him; nothing was out of place. It doesn't look like he broke out. He just was gone."

"Jesus," Winston breathed, and it wasn't clear if it were an oath or a prayer.

"Someone released him." Egon barely recognized his own voice. "His colleagues or his employers must have decided they required his skills despite his...condition." There was no other logical explanation. "It would be an easy matter for them to retrieve him."

"It should be all right." Though Ray's eternal optimism sounded blunted, doubtful. "They'll take him somewhere else, put him on a different project. They won't want us involved again. It's too public, we're too well-known. That's why they were so upset with him before." They wouldn't want their cover blown by Ulster attempting to get at them again. Yes, that was reasonable. "Right, Peter?"

"I hope so." There was doubt in Venkman's eyes but the words were sincere, though softly spoken with the intensity of a life behind them. A man hanging on the edge of a cliff, with every energy focused on that single grip. "God, I hope so."

The rest of the week passed normally, as far as 'normal' may be applied to those who make a living dealing with the supernatural. Spring always was a top season for busting and the daily ghosts were many and varied.

As were Peter's nightmares. On the fourth night he gave up when he rolled over and saw Egon's bed empty. Going downstairs, he found the physicist already pouring the hot chocolate. Peter took his mug and settled on the kitchen stool. "Boil enough milk there? I'm not that thirsty."

"Scald, not boil," Egon corrected. "The milk should have already been sufficiently pasteurized."

"Yeah, and if we come down with botulism or mad cow's disease, we always can sue."

Egon set his own steaming cup on the table and pulled up a chair. "So."

"So," Peter echoed.

"Your dream?"

"Subtle, Spengs. And here I'm supposed to be the psychologist."

"Oh, I thought you only played one on TV."

Peter snorted into his cocoa. "Yeah, they auditioned thousands but I got the part. Amazing what sleeping with the producers will get you." He lowered his cup, licked the milk mustache off his upper lip. "It wasn't anything, Egon. Barely counted as a nightmare."

"Good, then we can just go back to bed," Winston said from the doorway.

"Not without the cocoa," Ray objected, heading to the stove to pour their shares. "Here, Winston, want any marshmallows in it?"

Peter quirked an eyebrow as his teammate shook his head. "You sure, Zed?" he wheedled. "They're Stay-Puft."

"Just give me the drink," Winston growled, swiping his unembellished cocoa from Ray and nursing it mock-sullenly as he and Ray seated themselves around the table.

Once settled, Ray broke the quiet, his round face serious. "How bad are they, Peter?"

Peter planted his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands. "Jeez, guess privacy was just a passing fad. Can't a guy sleep in peace?"

"Think that's the issue, Pete," murmured Winston.

Peter lifted his head to regard them with a hint of guilt. "Have I been that loud?"

"No," Ray said. "You haven't been shouting or anything. It's just...we know. I woke up last night and heard you turning over, trying to get back to sleep."

"And you've been napping more than usual during the day," Winston put in.

"Which implies you have been sleeping less than easily," Egon concluded.

The regard Peter aimed at them now was more dubious than guilty. "Did you guys plan this tonight? Set your alarm clocks or something?" He cast a suspicious glance at the now-emptied pot of milk. "Don't we have a bust tomorrow morning?"

"We didn't have to plan anything," replied Egon. "And yes, we have a bust. It would be in our best interest for us to sleep—for us all to sleep. As a psychologist you cannot deny—"

"Yakking about it can help. Yeah, yeah." Peter shook his head. "Swear you all think you're psychologists by osmosis. Okay, docs. I was a little rattled by that call, like we all were. I'm still mad as hell about it. They practically let him walk out the door, and they're not going to find him again. And people will pay for it—if Ulster's back in business, we know what that means.

"But we also know he wasn't working alone. His colleague went up in smoke months ago, and ten will get you one she went right back to the experiment racket. We gave the police and the FBI a handle on that whole damned circle, and the good guys might have luck closing them down yet. Meanwhile, they have Kenny—brain scrambled unless they fixed him, which you guys thought fairly unlikely. But either way, they're not going to risk touching us again. Odds are we're safer now than if he had broken out on his own.

"So that just leaves us to deal with ourselves. And my subconscious isn't cooperating as you've picked up, but it's been worse. It could be worse." He looked around the table at his three teammates, a long, steady stare at each, as if he were counting or memorizing their faces, though he knew their features by heart. "My dream barely counts as a nightmare; I don't even remember it. Just bits, the standard drill, I was running and big things with nasty sharp pointy teeth were running after me. You'd think we get enough of that during the day, but apparently my imagination hasn't tired of the novelty. I'll try to run a little quieter."

"Don't run," Ray told him earnestly. "Just imagine up a thrower and us next to you. We bust them all day; we can bust them at night, too."

Peter smiled, not sarcastic or preening, just the amused grin he got when no one was around to see it except his teammates. "I'll try to think happy thoughts."

"You do that, Peter Pan," Winston said, saluting him with his mug before polishing off the final swallows of hot chocolate. "Now we better sleep, or I'll be too tired to drive tomorrow."

"Putting Ray behind the wheel?" Peter pushed back the stool to usher Winston to the door. "Go on, get to bed now!" He ducked Ray's swat. At the doorway he stood by while Ray and Winston continued ahead, then pulled Egon aside once he had turned off the kitchen light. "Just a sec, Spengs."

"Yes?"

"I want to make sure..." Peter lowered his voice further, though the others were already on the stairs. "I've seen you watching your meter lately, Egon. The PKE readings of those Class Twos today couldn't have been that fascinating. And I know the settings you've got it on. Picking up any interesting biorhythms?"

"No." Egon met his gaze steadily across the darkness. "Not the one I have been scanning for. Nor has Ray."

"Him too? Missed that." Peter cocked his head. "You two don't know anything we don't, do you?"

"Peter, I'd have told you if I had found anything. Anything at all that might pose a threat, even a theory or a hunch. You know I would." His tone was dead serious. "I have detected no trace of Ulster's presence anywhere we've gone, and I do not believe he will return. That is not an excuse not to be careful. There are some things that the probability is not important; only the threat is. If there's any chance of danger—"

Peter clasped his shoulder. "Got it, big guy. Had it already." His teeth flashed white in the shadows. "I'm not about to risk any of you guys." And if that worry cost him a little sleep, he wasn't going to complain about it. Too much, anyway.

"Are you ready?"

He barely spared a glance at the massive being looming over him. "You're blocking my light."

"Are you ready?" repeated the demon, placing a clawed hand on the smooth metal counter to either side of him, trapping him between the table and the demon's gray-green bulk.

The doctor squirmed around to face his oppressor, still holding the glass flask he had been measuring from carefully before the interruption. "I'm nearly ready."

"So you have said for days," the demon snarled, dipping so close its fangs nearly brushed the man's nose.

"Speed must be sacrificed for accuracy," he said. "These facilities are adequate." In truth he had no idea where the demon had found such a lab, fully-stocked, with instrumentation more advanced than any he had ever had access to before. "But this takes time. I don't want any mistakes; nor do you."

"No," agreed the demon. "But perhaps you think to prolong your time here. Perhaps you are enjoying too well the freedom I grant you from the madness. Or perhaps your heart is not truly dedicated to vengeance."

At that the doctor swung back the flask and smashed it against the demon's horny brow. Acid splashed in the scarlet eyes. The demon howled and flung itself away, clawing at its sockets.

"You are a fool," the man rasped, tossing aside the broken glass spout. "My heart doesn't matter. Only my mind, and that's dedicated to the plan, to only the plan. There's nothing else worthy of my attention. Certainly not your petty concerns."

Staggering against the opposite lab counter, the demon reached ebon talons toward him. Black ichor dripped like tears from its injured orbs, their pure red now streaked with olive veins. Its snarl was so distorted by rage as to hardly be comprehensible. "I could rend your limbs from your body, I could pierce your skull and devour your so-valued brain—"

"But it wouldn't serve you then," he spat contemptuously. "And if you rend my limbs I'll make nothing else with them. I work for your interests as well as my own—your interests are my own. And mine are yours. Let me do my work. It'll be ready soon."

"How soon?" The demon's claws opened and closed spasmodically, but made no grab for him. It seemed to be fighting with its snakelike tongue to form the question without malice. "When do we begin?"

"Patience," he admonished, going to the cabinets lining the walls to retrieve another measure of the acid. "The longer we wait, the more assured our chances become. Let them lower their guard. Then we initiate the plan. Gradually. There's no need to rush."

"How do we begin?"

He shook his head. They had discussed this more times than he cared to recall, and yet still the demon insisted on repetition, affirmation, verification. The worst bureaucracies were less dense than this too-powerful creature, even if the plan was its design as much as the doctor's. "I've told you, we must be cautious. Slow." As slow as the demon's approximation of a mind. "We bring them down one at a time, before they realize they are struck at all."

He had already chosen the first to fall. He had underestimated the man before, misjudged his intelligence and his loyalty. Not again. He would be first, unable to interfere with what followed. The rest would be simpler with him out of the way. And once he was...then would be a time for the heart as well as the mind. He waited for it patiently, but with great anticipation all the same. The conception of the plan was thought, all mind and logic. Its execution would be joy, however, a pleasure shared with this demon.

No matter how irritating working with the creature might be, the rewards were more than worth it.

"I am ready for a vacation." Heedless of the ectoplasm coating him, Peter collapsed onto the couch with a small, slimy splash, shut his eyes, and put his hands behind his head. "Right now, I say we board up the windows, unplug the phone, and split town. New Zealand's great this time of year."

Ray dropped down beside him with a long exhalation and another soggy squish. "We can't. We've got two busts tomorrow, and three the day after—"

"And the calls keep coming." Egon sat gingerly on the edge of the recliner, trying unsuccessfully to wipe slime off his glasses with an equally damp sleeve. "Perhaps now was not the most opportune time for Janine to take her vacation."

"I told you to tell her that," Peter said, eyes still closed. "I promised her two weeks off months ago. I couldn't go back on my word, but you could've convinced her."

"She had purchased tickets already," Egon said hastily. "I don't believe I could have easily changed her mind." Nor had he wished to try. While Peter had on occasion accused him of walking into traffic and off roofs for the sake of accurate readings, the physicist did possess some instincts of self-preservation.

"The Barbados must be almost as nice as New Zealand," Peter mused. "We've got enough money to last us through the summer; let's dump the busts and join her."

"If we cancel all our busts now," Egon remarked, "we would have to go as far as New Zealand at least to escape the wrath of our clients."

"Yeah, bet the mayor wouldn't be too happy. Isn't City Hall scheduled tomorrow?"

The phone rang. Peter opened one eye. "Not me."

"Not me," Egon said instantly.

Ray didn't volunteer one way or another. Peter nudged him in the ribs. "Hey Tex, that'd be yours."

Ray blinked and sat up. "Huh? What?" He rubbed his eyes. "Sorry, I must've dozed off—is someone getting the phone?"

"We're thinking you're just the man for that job—" Peter started to say, when the ringing quit. "Or not."

He was leaning back when Winston shouted downstairs, "How's tomorrow for a bust?"

"Anytime after four should be all right," Egon called back.

In a minute Winston hollered, "We're taking care of a ghost in Queens at half past four tomorrow, somebody write it down."

"Hey, Zed, I thought you had the shower," Peter shouted.

"I DO!" Winston shouted back. "I'm gonna finish now. And if you guys don't pick up the phone next time I'll lock myself in there until tomorrow morning's bust!"

"The eight o'clock one?" Peter shivered at the thought. Ghosts, goblins, demigods, no sweat. Getting up at unholy hours in the morning was a whole other ballpark. "Isn't this a bit excessive? We've been going like this for a month, and this week, geesh! What happened to those boring dry spells? Is there some bicentennial ghost convention going on in New York we should know about?"

Ray blinked rapidly to keep his eyes open. "Hey, I wonder—I don't know of anything but I could check. There have been an awful lot lately."

"But nothing powerful," Egon pointed out. "Excepting the airport gremlin last week and the dueling elementals in Central Park, most of these busts have been a piece of cake."

"Is that a colloquialism?" Peter opened both eyes.

"Easy as falling off a log," Spengler said smugly.

"And an optimistic one at that!"

"No problemo," Egon offered as the capper.

"Better check your calendar fast, Ray," Peter advised. "Spengs is sounding cheerful. Armageddon must be upon us."

"I'll go—" A colossal yawn interrupted whatever else Ray might have said.

"To bed," Peter completed for him, pushing himself off the couch and giving his teammate a hand up. "Me too. I'm bushed. But I want my shower first. Slimer leaves enough of this stuff on my pillow as it is." He tried to run his fingers through his sodden hair and grimaced. "I hate drying slime. Is there anything worse than drying slime? If Winston's still hogging the shower, who's up for battering down the bathroom door?"

"I'll get a ram," Egon proposed.

Egon left the adjusted PKE meter downstairs that night, the first time he had done so in a month, since the call from Brighton Institution. It didn't matter. Even if he had brought it to the bunkroom as he had been doing, it would have registered nothing.

Peter changed his tune after the City Hall bust. "There is something worse than drying slime," he announced conversationally. "Sticky, smelly slime is worse than drying slime any day. I want this gunk off me now!" He stomped the trap pedal with more force than necessary, slamming the doors over the light and the gibbering spook caught within it. "Is that the last of 'em?"

"I hope so," Winston said. "We do any more damage and we'll be paying fines straight into next year." He glanced up at the black ash stains marring the marble pillars—still shiny, but now with ectoplasm more than polish. "Better make the bill for this one small."

"Oh, there's no bill," Peter said breezily. "This was a civil service to the city." At Winston's startled expression he winked. "You can't charge volunteers for the clean-up, after all. And we got the ghosts. Right?"

The last was addressed to Egon, approaching with PKE meter in hand. "I believe so," the physicist said, "though at least two fled before we captured them. But the building is clean." He looked up at the columns. "Supernaturally, anyway."

"That's good." Ray trudged over, dragging a pair of traps behind him. "Do we have time to go home before the next bust?"

Peter checked his watch. "We could swing by and drop these guys off, yeah." He inspected his teammate. "You look beat, Ray."

"I'm just—" He yawned. "Just tired."

"After this bust? Now there's a shocker."

Winston groaned. "If Ray's tired, I should be dead. I thought you were the Energizer bunny, homeboy."

"Guess my batteries ran out on the eighteenth set of stairs," Ray replied with a weary grin. "And this ectoplasm is awfully slippery."

"You're lucky," Peter told him. "Sticky's worse than slippery, believe me." He attempted to rub the gooey substance off his hands, found his own slimed uniform didn't do the trick and borrowed Egon's sleeve.

The physicist adjusted his glasses and grimaced at the orange ectoplasm now staining his jumpsuit. "Why thank you, Peter."

"Don't mention it. Shall we, gentlemen?" He gestured toward the door.

An hour later they were back at work in a supermarket in Queens, facing down a horned beast with twice Slimer's appetite and a face only a mother warthog could love. And she would be hard-pressed, at that. "Look out!" Peter screeched, and dove behind a convenient soup can display as the creature charged him and Winston, cloven hooves clattering on the tiled floor.

Zeddemore took refuge under an empty shelf, emerging after it passed rubbing his head and swearing. He gave Peter a thumbs up in response to his hasty, "You okay?" and they hurried after their target, Peter muttering, "Hope Ray and Egon are being careful. I can just see the headlines: Ghostbuster Gored by Grotesque Grocery Gnu."

"Isn't the 'G' in 'gnu' silent?"

Rounding the corner they almost crashed into Ray, leaning against a frozen foods case, the florescent lights giving his face a greenish pallor. Peter skidded to a halt. "Hey, you okay? Did it run you down?"

"No..." Ray shook his head, straightening with a slight effort. "I'm fine, I just was a little woozy. Egon went that way after it." He drew a breath and gestured with his thrower, forcing some enthusiasm into his battle cry, "Come on, let's get it!"

They charged down the aisle three abreast. Before they reached the end they heard the beast snarl, a decidedly non-herbivorous sound. And it had been prowling the poultry section. This was no ordinary gnu. Peter prepared his thrower as he ran, hoping that Egon had managed to evade those pounding hooves. Where had the physicist gotten to—

His unspoken question was answered by Egon's shout. "Toro! Toro! Over here, you sorry excuse for a bovine!"

"Dammit, Spengs!" Peter cried, leaping for the end of the aisle just as the monster barreled past. The three of them sprang out in time to see Egon, square in the path of the sharp horns, whip back a blue tarp and stamp on a trap pedal. The trap's flare caught the beast mid-gallop, swallowing it up and drawing it down.

Removing his foot from the pedal, Egon tossed the plastic tarp over his shoulder with a matador's flourish and arched an eyebrow at them. "That, as they say, is that."

"Shouldn't that be a red cape?" Winston inquired, pointing at the turquoise tarp.

"I used what was available." Egon shrugged and spread the plastic weave back over the frozen fish stand he had appropriated it from. "Besides, bulls are colorblind; the motion is what draws their attention."

"Yeah, or maybe just stupidity," Peter put in. "You about gave us all heart attacks."

"My intent—Ray?" He had spotted his auburn-haired teammate, standing behind Winston and Peter, waver, then slump. Egon lunged forward in time to catch Ray as he crumpled, carefully lowering him to the floor with a worried look at his other teammates. "He told me he wasn't feeling well—"

"Damn, knew he looked off." Peter crouched beside them and shook Ray's shoulder. "Come on, Ray, this floor's too dirty to sleep on."

Ray's eyes blinked open and he struggled to sit up, Egon assisting. "What happened?"

"That's our question," Peter informed him lightly. "Egon played bullfighter with the ghost gnu and then you keeled over."

"I saw Egon catch it. And then I just got dizzy...gosh, guys, sorry, I didn't—"

"Doesn't matter, 'long as you're okay, Ray," Winston told him. "Did you get hit on the head or anything? Here, follow my finger." He checked for the basic signs of concussion while Ray denied any injury. "Looks like your head's all right."

"Relatively," amended Peter. "This is Ray we're talking about."

"I'm tired," Ray said. "That's all."

He swayed when he stood and Peter slung a supporting arm around his shoulders. "We could all use a nap, but pick a better place for it next time, okay? Let's get you home and in bed. You're probably coming down with something."

"Probably," Ray admitted. "My stomach's a little upset. We're done for the day, right?"

"All done," Winston concurred with heartfelt relief.

"The entity has been apprehended," Egon assured him.

"This place is spook-free," Peter announced. "Isn't it great?" At his teammates' querying looks, he grinned wickedly. "Well, you know what they say. No gnus is good news!"

The bedroom was dark when he jerked awake, though a line of gray around the edges of the window shade signaled the approaching dawn. Sitting up, Peter drew up his legs and looped his arms around his knees, concentrating on the sound of his breathing, his pulse thudding in his ears. Consciously he slowed his exhalations, breathed the air instead of gulping it.

Something flickered at the edge of his vision and he spun, the blankets twisting around him. Nothing in the corner of the room. Just shadows. Like his dreams, only shadows, nothing real. He tried to grasp the content of the nightmare but meaning slid away, leaving him with only the terror, followed by irritation. He didn't have time for this; he needed his full eight hours the way they had been pushing of late. It wasn't even five AM. Even farmers wouldn't be up yet. No one in this timezone should be up yet, unless they hadn't gone to bed in the first place.

Like the wise men they were, Ray and Winston slept on. Ray had gotten well over his eight hours by now; he had dozed off during the ride back from the bust and barely woken for dinner before crawling into bed. Definitely sick; illness was about the only thing that would slow Ray down. The most grueling busts only energized him for more, normally. He even managed mornings without coffee. Peter suspected his body was a natural producer of caffeine.

He realized then that the adjacent bed was vacant, though Egon had retired at the same time as the rest of them. The light was on in the lab, Peter observed, slipping out of bed and padding across the hall on bare feet. The physicist was busy at his computer, typing figures into the machine and scribbling the results onto a yellow pad.

"We do have a printer, you know," Peter remarked directly behind him.

Egon jumped, his glasses almost flying from his nose. He pushed them back in place as he resettled himself with a brief glare at his friend. "Peter. I didn't hear you come in."

"No, really? Aren't I always quiet as a mouse?" Peter grinned, pulled over one of the lab stools and perched on it. "Whatcha doing?"

"I might ask the same," Egon returned with a significant look over the red frames. "Are you aware of the time?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you aware of the concept of pod people?"

Peter groaned theatrically. "Show a little initiative and everyone accuses you of being an evil clone." He shifted in his seat. "Okay, I had a couple bad dreams. Par for the course. I don't even remember what, but it was a little dark in the bedroom for a moment there." Egon nodded understandingly; with that sympathy he shrugged off the last of his unease. "So what about you?"

Egon interpreted the underlying question without difficulty and shook his head. "No dreams. I simply awoke early."

"'Early' means after dawn. This is still 'late.' You had trouble falling asleep, too," Peter commented. As Egon usually was the first to drop off, his tossing and turning had been noticeable. "Something bugging you?"

"Not that I'm aware." Egon tapped long fingers on the edge of the desk. "Last night I was thinking this over. I'm correlating our recent busts by location and level of spectral activity. Your complaint about the unusual abundance of busts lately was not unfounded; if there's a reason for the increase it'd be best to find it as soon as possible. I've been wanting to take a closer look but there simply hasn't been time. I imagine that's what's bothering me. And since I was awake there was no reason not to take the opportunity to investigate it."

"Since you love the smell of number-crunching in the morning. Sometimes I don't know about you, Spengs." Standing, Peter stretched like a cat, arching his back, then propped his elbows on his friend's shoulders and examined the columns of digits on the screen. "Any interesting patterns?"

"Not yet." Egon rubbed the base of his neck. "It may very well be random chance. We have had even busier periods before."

"But it doesn't hurt to be careful. Or paranoid," and he lightly rapped a knuckle on Egon's blond cranium. "Pod people indeed. I'm gonna suspect you of being an alien duplicate if you keep stealing my lines."

"You hardly have a monopoly on verbal wit on this team."

"I know. Comedians, all of you. Just don't start doing it front of the women." He covered a yawn with the back of a hand. "Think I'm ready to turn back in for a couple more hours. You coming?"

"I'm not sleepy," Egon said. "And as today promises to be as busy as yesterday, I might as well continue this research while I can. On the off-chance my paranoia is with cause," with a wry glance at his friend.

"Okay, but don't make a habit of it. Even brainiacs need their Z's. We don't want you coming down with whatever Ray's got."

Egon looked at him again. "He is all right?"

"Sleeping like a rock when I woke up. It's just a cold, I hope. Last thing we need right now is to have to close because of the flu. The mayor would probably sue us for negligence."

"And you're all right?" Egon asked.

The question had nothing to do with his physical health. "Yeah, I'm fine," Peter assured him. "Thanks. I'll get back to bed and leave you alone."

A glint of amusement lit in Egon's eyes. "You have four hours until this morning's bust, and I imagine Ray and Winston will want you rouse you early to make sure you're awake for it. I wonder what are the chances they'll believe you already were awake, even if I told them?"

Peter made a face. "Thanks a lot, Spengs. You're a real pal."

"Sleep well, Peter."

This was better than television. Not that he had ever been one for watching TV or movies, even when he had been able. Newspapers gave adequate coverage of significant current events, and the mix of advertisements and trite emotionalism that constituted the rest of the airwaves had never been worth his time. Fiction might have its place, but not in his world. He had too much respect for truth.

He might have been more tempted if television had been like this.

He had carefully examined the mirror several times when the demon wasn't present. It was taller than him and wide as his outstretched arms, the frame of some heavy dark wood carved with deep parallel gashes, like the tree had been mauled by a knife-clawed tiger. But it was an ordinary mirror, the glass backed with black, offering a clear reflection of the light hitting it. It stood in the back of the lab, and he hadn't understood why it was there at first.

Then the demon had shown him, passing one great hand over the smooth surface while mumbling some arcane phrase. The mirror's glass had clouded over—not condensation, but as if smoke were filling in the room it reflected. And when that bizarre obscurity faded, the mirror displayed their prey. It would show them at work, capturing ghosts, or in their base of operations, the old firehall. Wherever and whenever the demon directed it would go. The image was silent, but the doctor found if he focused on them when they spoke he could make out the words, distant whispers not in his ears but deeper. Together they observed the team going about their business. Together they watched the implementation of the plan, and its first effects.

"They don't suspect a thing," he purred. It would be too late when they did, much too late.

"No." The demon's eyes were scarlet slits. "If there is even anything to suspect. I see no proof that we have done anything at all."

"It's there," he said. "You must appreciate the subtlety." If the brute even had the faculties to do so.

"I have been patient," the demon growled. "I waited until you were ready. But I expect results, human. It has been almost a week since we began and I have yet to be gratified."

"There will be results." He watched them on the screen, battling a flock of sprites. Only three where yesterday four had fought. It thrilled him, a rising satisfaction as the pieces fell into place. But the demon was too simplistic to delight in such exact manipulations. No matter. "You'll see obvious reactions soon." Obvious even to its blunt mind. "Should we step them up a bit? The lethality of the dosages is only an issue of fine-tuning. The next one could be fatal, if we so choose." It would be interesting to see how soon they caught on after one of them died.

But his cohort shook its head ponderously. "No. Appealing as that might be." Its wet worm-tongue lashed over its cobalt lips. "Let them live. In death their souls escape us. Alive we feed on their pain, as long as it will last. As long as they are no longer a threat to me or any of my kind."

The doctor doubted the demon felt much kinship to most of the creatures they captured, but he nodded all the same. "They won't be a problem for any ghosts for much longer. The only ones they'll endanger is themselves." Not that they would believe that. Even in a mostly-silent mirror, the trust that each of them depended on was evident in every gesture, every exchange. That it could be shaken, that the foundation of the team and their very selves could be knocked out from under them, they would not believe. Not until it was too late for them to ever regain their footing.

He smiled, and knew the insanity glowing in the demon's eyes was no match for that in his own grin.

"I'm better," Ray insisted the next day. "Maybe it was just a twenty-four hour bug. I can 'bust today. I'm feeling okay."

Crossing his arms, Winston eyed him skeptically. "Just okay? Not great?"

Ray's gaze dropped to the breakfast tray his teammate had brought him, passing over the untouched toast and melon and lingering on the empty glass of orange juice. "Okay, my stomach still feels a little funny. But I'm barely tired anymore."

"After sleeping all day yesterday, you shouldn't be." Winston looked wistfully to his own bed, wishing he could call in sick himself. But their schedule remained busy as ever and he wasn't ill. Just a bit sick of busting. It was exciting work, important work, and he wouldn't have been happy doing anything else, but there were times a regular nine-to-five job sounded very appealing. A free weekend would be nice.

None of them were getting a break, though, so he didn't have any right to one. And Ray, who did have a right to more time off, was of course arguing himself out of it. Not for the first time Winston wondered how it had happened that his three best friends were lunatics. Because they made him look normal? "Look, Pete's right; if you're sick, we don't want you to get any worse. This morning's bust is going to be easy stuff from the sound of it. Why don't you stay in for now, and if you're still feeling all right later you can come on the afternoon one."

"All right, all right," Ray grumpily agreed. "You don't have to treat me like a five year old. If I'm feeling worse again I'll wait until tomorrow."

"That sound good, Pete?" Winston asked their teammate, who had returned from the shower to grab his hairbrush.

Peter stopped grooming mid-stroke and blinked at them. Winston could see him mentally playing back the last bit of conversation. "Uh, yeah. Ray, what's this cold doing to your head? You're actually sounding sensible. Like me. If I were sick—"

"If you sneeze you won't bust for a week," Winston said.

"And you make us stay home to pamper you, too," Ray teased.

"Well, we shouldn't inflict contagions on the innocent people of New York." Peter affected his best martyr's attitude. "Who knows what kind of awful ghost-virus I might get, considering how much the little buggers slime me?"

The words were right but the tone was off, too mechanical, like he was reading from a script. Winston eyed him askance. "Don't tell me you are getting something."

"I'm fine." And that answer came way too quickly. "We better get moving if we want to make the bust on time. I'm going to go check on the packs."

Winston glanced at Ray after the psychologist left. He was gazing at the door with a furrowed brow—no, he hadn't been fooled either. "If you're feeling up to it, try to drag Egon out of the lab," Winston said. "I'll go help Pete with the packs." Ray nodded and climbed out of bed as Winston headed downstairs.

As promised Peter was verifying the power levels of the proton packs, studying the readouts with a focused diligence at odds with his usually lazy demeanor. Venkman protectiveness on overdrive. Something was definitely bothering him. The psychologist had a tendency to deal with his own problems by concentrating on his friends.

He put aside one pack and Winston picked it up. "This one ready?" When Peter nodded Winston loaded it into Ecto-1, then checked for the traps. They had forgotten them a couple times in the past; it was embarrassing even when there wasn't a reporter to witness the mistake. When he was done Peter was finishing the last pack; he pushed it toward his teammate and rocked back on his heels, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Sure you're okay?" Winston asked him.

Peter's head jerked around at the soft query; then he unbent his legs and stood. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"I'm used to Egon being in the lab when the alarm clock rings, but this morning you were up before me, too," Winston commented. "I can count the number of times that's happened on one hand." He examined his friend with a critical eye, noting the slight drawn darkness under his eyes. More than just the exhaustion they all were feeling by now. "Nightmares again?"

He expected another denial, but Peter exhaled a long shivery breath and answered. "Yeah. Just the past few nights. I must be working too hard." He didn't bother with his usual griping smirk. "Mind if I unload, Zed?"

"You know I don't, man."

"I'd tell Ray, but...don't want to give him another argument to come busting. Holding him back when he's under the weather is hard enough as it is."

"No kidding." Winston grinned. "We're gonna have to tie that boy down for his own good. What about Egon?" Egon was usually Peter's chosen candidate for dumping the heavy stuff. That was more habit than anything; of the four, they had known each other the longest. And Egon was the first person Peter had opened to, way back in college.

But now Peter shook his head, rapidly. A nightmare he didn't want to talk about with Ray, and wouldn't tell Egon...

Winston closed his eyes briefly, silently swore an oath he couldn't say aloud for fear of burning his lips. He gripped Peter's shoulder and its tense set under the brown jumpsuit gave him all the confirmation he needed. "Ulster again."

"I was back at the warehouse." Peter didn't shrug off his hand, but he didn't turn toward Winston, still facing the wall. "Or in the room—that chair. Don't really remember it myself, when I'm awake, but in my dreams it's damn clear. Sometimes Ulster's there; or I'm alone and I can't move...or I'll be in the warehouse. Egon'll be there, or you, or Ray, or all of you—I won't be able to see you but I'll know you're there. And I'll have the gun, or a knife, and there will be all the demons and the bugs and everything else. But I won't know what ones to hit, because if they're not what I see—I can't fight them, it's like I'm tied up again. They'll attack me and I can't do a goddamn thing, and if I do..." He swallowed. "It's better not to fight back. A lot better." The side of his mouth quirked up in a futile smile. "Odd twist on your basic fear of impotency neurosis."

"How long—"

"Have I been having these fun little escapades? Only the past few nights, like I said." Peter's attempt at a casual shrug was a dismal failure. "And I don't remember much, just flashes. Keep waking up in a cold sweat all through the night, though. Not a recommended sleeping pattern, if you were thinking of trying it."

"I'll pass." Winston shuddered. "Peter...you tell me if this keeps up, you hear? Egon and Ray already know you've been dreaming bad; we don't need to tell them what about yet. But it's no good for you and if it gets worse—"

"If it gets any worse I'll look for help. Trust me on this one, Winston." His smile was bleak but sincere. Then Peter drew himself up and shrugged off the weight bowing his shoulders—or maybe just masked it; even after all these years Winston couldn't always tell. "Now is that Dr. Frankenstein on the stairs, actually coming down from the lab? Why, it must be time for a bust!"

"Hooray," Winston groaned.

Despite Winston's assurances about the morning bust, it was well into the afternoon when Ecto-1's distinctive sirens returned. Ray was waiting downstairs when they pulled into the firehall, his proton pack already on his back. "Come on, we're late," he cried, climbing into Ecto's backseat before his teammates could disembark. "Mr. Doyle has called twice already. What took you guys so long? I thought it was supposed to be an easy bust!"

"It was," Winston began sourly.

Only for Peter to cut him off with a short tempered snap, "If the absent-minded professor here had been watching the ghost instead of his meter—"

"If you had warned me sooner I would have anticipated its dive," Egon returned with equal heat. "I was only momentarily distracted—"

"If 'momentarily' means ten minutes spacing out, yeah, momentarily." Peter threw the vehicle into reverse and backed them into the street, cutting the corner as he accelerated. "We would've had it right when we walked in if you hadn't—"

"I certainly did not intentionally prolong the bust. I also wanted to wash off this slime before the next bust. You have no reason to complain—"

"Guys," Ray said, leaning forward to interrupt the two in the front seats.

"If that spook had taken Winston's and my head off the way it wanted to, we would've had plenty of reason to complain," Peter shot back, ignoring him.

"That is an exaggeration," said Egon coldly. "It was malicious perhaps, but hardly powerful enough to harm you, unlike the class five that assaulted me—"

"Forget it, homeboy," Winston murmured next to Ray. "They've been going like this the whole way back." He frowned at his teammates. "Pete's got reason to be mad, but Egon's not helping things any. It'd be better if either of them could at least pretend to be a rational adult."

He purposely raised his voice on the final comment. Egon and Peter both turned back to glare at him, but their sniping subsided into an annoyed silence, finally broken by Peter asking too cheerfully, "So you're feeling up to speed, Ray?"

"Yeah, I guess—I'm fine," he assured them hastily, when all three of his teammates looked to him. Taking a breath he gave it his best effort, "This next bust should be fun, from Mr. Doyle's description at least two full-torso apparitions are haunting his offices. They've probably been there for a while but they just started causing trouble last week, maybe we can figure out why. They're scaring his employees, though, so we have to capture them. I wonder if they're two separate entities or a paired manifestation—"

"He's feeling better," Peter said in a stage whisper, and the tension in Ecto dropped to acceptable levels.

Ray grinned. "It'll be fun," he repeated, and meant it. Busts usually could be; it was all in how you looked at them.

After Peter demonstrated his parallel parking skills on the crowded street, they marched into the building of their assignment. Their client, Doyle, shook their hands eagerly and ushered them to his offices, remaining in the hall while they entered single-file.

No sooner had Ray walked through the door when a cerulean specter swooped down from the ceiling like a giant, fat seagull and crashed straight through him, dousing him liberally in matching blue slime. Before any of them could grab their throwers the ghost had vanished through the wall. Ray sputtered and wiped the mask of ectoplasm off his face, blinking it out of his eyes.

Peter slapped him on the proton pack, smirking. "Fun, huh? Aren't you glad to be back at work?"

Ray flicked drips of slime from his fingers, unhooked his thrower, and said firmly, "Yes!"

Peter's eyebrows went up. "Obviously this is some strange new definition of 'glad'--"

"I am registering two class four spirits in the next room," Egon announced.

"Forget the slime, guys," Winston cried. "We've got ghosts to bust!"

Half an hour later Ray was beginning to feel more in tune with Peter's sentiments, especially after two more slimings from the wall-eyed, gap-toothed entities. Apparently they had some metamorphic properties, because the second and third servings of ectoplasm were a pale mauve. The pink and blue slime mixed to coat him in a translucent, oily rainbow; he knew his slime-spiked hair looked like an auburn hedgehog nesting on his head; and after thirty minutes of running from office to office and vaulting desks, he was tired to the bone. When the trap finally slammed shut on the second class four, he couldn't even marshal a hooray. Instead he sank gratefully into the closest swivel chair, resting his eyes for a moment while Peter cheered their victory and collected the trap.

The next thing Ray knew Winston was shaking him. "Hey, Ray, we got the check, time to go home."

"What? Oh." Slowly understanding, Ray pushed himself up, and was dismayed when the chair rolled out from under him. He would have fallen if Winston hadn't grabbed his elbow. Gratefully Ray leaned on his teammate as they walked out of the offices. He wasn't sure if he could have found the door on his own, considering the way the room was lazily spinning around.

They were outside on the sidewalk and his pack was slid off his back. Then he was in Ecto-1's backseat, leaning against Peter, who put an arm over his shoulders. A warm hand pressed against his forehead and Egon's deep voice murmured reassuringly, "He doesn't have a fever."

"I'm not sick, I'm just tired." Ray wasn't sure if he actually pronounced that, but he must have gotten the gist across because Winston said, "He probably just exhausted himself. He was doing all right on the bust, so it can't be too bad."

"I hope not," he heard Peter answer, the words resonating through the shoulder Ray leaned again. The seat rumbled as the engine started and Peter's arm tightened around him briefly. "You better not be infecting me, Ray. You're getting enough slime on me as it is."

"Sorry," he mumbled, and felt as much as heard Peter's small chuckle.

"You're forgiven, Tex, just this once. Invalid's privilege."

"Not an invalid," he tried to protest, but before he could say it he was asleep.

With Ray dozing, Winston involved in maneuvers through rush hour traffic, and Egon brooding, the ride back was a fair sight quieter than the drive to the bust. Peter didn't interrupt the silence, but he pondered it and the former disturbance. Arguing with the guys was one thing, but they didn't outright fight much, and Egon didn't get into spats with any of them often. Even after this bust he was still in a lousy temper; Peter read that in the rigidity of the physicist's carriage as easily as anyone could have heard it in his snappish tone earlier.

When they pulled into the firehall Peter reached forward to tap Egon's shoulder. "Spengs?"

"Yes?" Egon replied stiffly.

"Why don't you go take a shower while Winston and I take care the day's catch. Get that goo off you."

Egon relaxed slightly. "You're all slimed as well," he pointed out.

"Yeah, I remember, trust me." He shrugged the shoulder Ray wasn't using as a pillow. "Ray's not awake to care and we'll survive." Winston nodded agreement. Peter hesitated, then took the plunge, "One thing, Egon, maybe you should take a sample before you wash the ectoplasm down the drain."

"What do you mean?" Egon's voice flattened again as he got the implication.

Winston understood as well, making no motion to exit after turning off the ignition. Peter also stayed put, in part because of Ray and in part to watch Egon's reaction. "Scan the slime on you for psychoactive properties. We've run across mood slimes before, and if there's more around we should know about it."

Before Egon could respond Winston put in, "He's right, m'man. You don't usually go off like you did this afternoon. That's more Pete's thing."

"Thanks a lot, Zed," Peter groaned, though with sincerity behind the sarcasm.

Egon tensed, then closed his eyes with the effort to put aside his irritation. He succeeded, sighing as he acknowledged, "You have a point. I'll check for any unusual properties in the ectoplasm, after I shower. And Winston, I apologize for my...irrationality earlier."

"So do I," Peter put in quickly, not to be outdone. "Even if it is 'my thing.' You're lucky I don't want to disturb Ray or I'd give you more examples of it."

"Don't worry, we've seen plenty already," Winston assured him. "Now let's get Ray and those ghosts to bed and to the unit."

"Please keep straight which goes where," Egon deadpanned. "I don't believe Ray would appreciate waking up in containment."

"You better hurry up and test that slime," Peter shot back, "before it does something worse to your sense of humor."

"Anything?" Peter inquired from the doorway of the lab.

"No. Nothing." Egon shoved the PKE meter away with unnecessary force. "The slime is the utterly normal byproduct of physical contact with a class five spectral entity. There is nothing unusual in its psychokinetic energy signature. Other than its color it is identical to what Slimer produces." Elbows planted on the table, he tossed his glasses down next to the meter and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "It has no psychoactive properties."

"It was just a thought." Peter pushed aside the meter to seat himself on the counter's edge. "Ray's tucked away, sound asleep, and we're all cleaned up and much less oozy. Feel better?"

"Somewhat." Egon rubbed his temples.

"Have a headache?"

The physicist nodded.

"Damn, you're probably getting this cold, too. Is that why you lost it at me today?"

"I...don't know," Egon admitted. "The headache didn't develop until after the first bust. I've noticed no other symptoms, except decreased concentration." He paused. "I—you were right, Peter. The mistakes made on that bust were all mine. I should have been more attentive."

Normally Peter might have been inclined to gloat at that admittance. Now he only shrugged. "Not a big deal, Egon. I shouldn't have blown up at you, either. No one got hurt, after all. We're all stressed, and you're only human. You're allowed to screw up."

Replacing his glasses on his nose, Egon arched a pale eyebrow at the psychologist. "You grant me permission to do so?"

"Given the circumstances, I authorize it," Peter said magnanimously, and dodged the pencil Egon threw at him. After returning the missile to its cup, he slid up onto the table again and leaned back on his arms. "Been meaning to ask, Spengs. Have anything to report from your project the other morning?"

"Correlating the busts? Not anything definite, no." Egon headed to the computer. "I was hoping to discuss the possibilities with Ray tonight."

"Better make that tomorrow," Winston corrected, joining them from the bedroom. "I just checked on him. He's out like a light."

"So what do you have?" Peter asked the physicist.

"Only untested possibilities. A large amount of the busts lately are ghosts that have been present for some time, but have become only recently active."

"Like this afternoon's," Winston said.

"Yes. It may only be coincidence, but I'm considering the possibility that something's influencing them. Most likely a strong entity recently arrived in the vicinity."

"You're saying a demon's come to town?" demanded Peter with a touch of outrage. That was the kind of thing the Ghostbusters were supposed to be on top of.

"Possibly. Or a demigod, or another type of powerful being. I've done some preliminary scans but have found nothing conclusive. If it were a demon from the Netherworld, for instance, to enter this world it would have needed either to make a gate or be brought by some sort of summoning ritual. I've detected no sign of that, but if the entry were some distance away, or some time ago, no trace might remain. And New York's average PKE levels are high enough to mask the signal of such a being unless it's practically on top of us."

Which is why things like Zuul, Watt, and Tolay's brother Arzun could consistently get the drop on them. Peter shook his head in frustration. "One of these days, Egon, you and Ray are gonna have to whip up some kind of early warning device, so we aren't always slammed out of the blue like this."

"We have tried," Egon snapped. "It's a little harder to devise and build a sensitive, resilient, localized PKE surge detection apparatus than it is to program the VCR. If you had any grasp of the technical—"

"Hey, Egon, m'man." Winston spread his hands in an appeal for peace. "Pete wasn't blaming you or Ray or your gizmos, he was just blowing off steam."

"Yeah, I'm just whining like always, Egon," Peter confirmed, taken aback the physicist's reaction. "You gotta ignore me; we've got other things to worry about—if there is a demon in New York, or a demigod or whatever, it doesn't matter how it got here. We need to figure out where it is and what to do about it. And you're the best man for that job I know, you and Ray." He gave Egon's shoulder a little shake to loosen the rigidity. "So, you mad genius, got any ideas?"

"Maybe." Eyes fixed on the computer screen, Egon heaved a sigh. "I'll give it more thought." Breaking his gaze on the monitor, he turned his head to look up at them, reached up to clasp Peter's wrist for an instant. "I appreciate your trust. I do realize it is there."

Peter nodded, accepting the statement as the apology intended. "Hey, no one on this team is going to let us down. We all know that. We all do our best, and our best is damn good." He yawned and stretched. "And right now, I'm going to warm up some leftovers and then do the best sleeping I can do."

"With you there, Pete," Winston agreed, yawning even wider.

"Good night," Egon said. "I'm going to study the problem now, while I have the opportunity."

"Just don't forget to go to bed," Peter told him, not entirely joking.

Leaving the physicist at the computer, they descended to the kitchen in search of an approximation of a meal. As they rummaged through the remains in the refrigerator, Winston remarked, "We better take a plate up to him or he won't remember to eat, either."

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Think these are still good?" He shook a plastic container and frowned at the rattle. Not a sound effect one would expect from mashed potatoes. "We should bring something to Ray, too."

"He's asleep, and he hasn't been eating anyway."

"He and Spengs neither, I know. Damn, it better not be the flu." Peter picked up an unopened can of soup. "Now how'd this get in the fridge? Egon must've put the groceries away last time. Feel like chicken tonight?"

"Sure. You think Egon's getting sick, too?" Winston considered this as he took out a pot. "He hasn't been sleeping like Ray. It would explain why he snapped like that, though. Egon's usually a lot more patient with you. Always has impressed me."

"It's an acquired skill," Peter replied haughtily, then admitted, "He's had plenty of practice." He opened a cabinet over the counter and discovered two more cans. "Here we go. Best known cures for the common cold, chicken soup and a full night's sleep."

"Sounds great," Winston said. "Just don't remind me of tomorrow's busts."

"Too late, you just reminded yourself." Peter took out the can opener and set to work with it. "We'll have to keep an eye on Egon tomorrow, Zed. He's not the only one who's been distracted; we're all getting tired. We need everyone we can on these jobs, and Egon wouldn't admit he was sick if the whole cast of ER diagnosed him with the plague, but if he's coming down with what Ray has..."

Their job could be hazardous at the best of times. It always required alertness and fast reflexes, and after such a busy month none of them were working at peak performance. The cost of an accident was too high to risk. Especially if there were some dangerous, powerful being loose in the city, they needed to be careful, watching out for each other like always. "Got it, Pete," Winston replied.

"Have to keep an eye on..."

The doctor smiled. Behind him he heard the demon's harsh breathing, its words a guttural growl in his ear. "They know."

"They don't have the slightest idea," he corrected impatiently. "They only guess that something with your power might be in the vicinity. Spengler's found nothing conclusive, certainly nothing they can trace to either of us."

"They'll find it," snarled the creature. "They're cunning."

"They're intelligent, perhaps," he conceded. "But not suspicious enough. And their scientists have been compromised as it is." He gestured to the mirror. "Look."

Spengler was in the lab, pacing back and forth, one hand pressed to his forehead. With an irritated shake of the head he flung himself down before the computer and stabbed a few keys, only to rise and circle the lab again, muttering to himself. When with his friends he was making a deliberate effort to reign himself in, and for the sake of duty he tried his best to sleep and eat and focus on his work, but that control was slowly eroding.

He wouldn't crack yet, the doctor doubted. He knew Spengler too well to think he would succumb easily. But he wasn't much more of an asset than Stantz at this point, and he'd be a hindrance soon enough. The others were keeping their tempers now but already they were losing patience with their colleague's distracted state.

"What of the others?" demanded the demon.

The doctor jumped, rankled by how easily his thoughts had been tracked. "They don't have the knowledge or the logic to understand," he spat.

"They are thinking clearly," the demon said. He tapped a claw against the mirror, and the image swirled and shifted to show the black Ghostbuster climbing into bed. "This one goes untouched, since they captured my minion chosen for him. Should we not remedy that oversight?"

"We don't need to bother." The doctor tore himself away from the fascination of the mirror and returned to his lab table, examining the neatly labeled vials. "Zeddemore isn't a scientist; he never even attended college. He won't be in a position to find us, let alone stop us. I'd say it was a fortuitous coincidence that the spirit you assigned to him was caught so quick. It taught the others to be more careful. Besides, if he remains unaffected, his teammates will be that much less suspicious that anyone is targeting them."

Scarlet eyes dimmed as the demon pondered that suggestion. "Reasonable," it admitted at last. "You are a cunning man, Doctor."

Its tone was that of a hunter praising a favored hound. The man's lip curled. "I'm glad you appreciate it," he purred, even as his hand went to one of the vials. He snatched it back hastily, though the demon hadn't turned from the mirror. Not yet. Not until he had refined and tested it further, and not until this was finished and over with.

Not so much longer now. Already he could taste the bittersweet achievement of an experiment's successfully completion. There would always be more, of course, but none so keenly enjoyable as this.

Spengler was on the mirror again, the others uninteresting when asleep. The blond physicist seated himself once more before the computer and clenched his fists at his side, taking deep, measured breaths in an attempt to calm his jangling nerves. The doctor focused on the movement of his lips, and the other scientist's self-addressed whisper sounded in his ears. "Think, Spengler. Concentrate. The guys are counting on you. Why would the spectral signatures be virtually unchanged? How powerful or how close would the hypothetical entity have to be?"

He continued to question himself about his science, and the doctor stopped listening, returning his attention to his drugs. He carefully measured the doses for tomorrow. Only an incremental increase, but it would make a world of difference. Tomorrow even the demon would see the results. And after that...

Smiling, the doctor glanced at Spengler's image one more time. "They'll be watching out for you," he told his former colleague. "But you should watch them. Especially your precious Dr. Venkman. I would watch him closely." He raised a slim vial of lavender liquid to the mirror in a parody of a toast. "Very closely, Dr. Spengler."

It should have been an easy bust. After postponing it for the past week's busts, they finally squeezed it into the next morning's schedule. One class four specter haunting the halls of an exercise gym, slamming locker doors and rattling weights. No problem. Hell, it could've been fun, if only the managers hadn't cleared out the patrons before the Ghostbusters arrived. Peter wouldn't have minded a few young athletic females in tight spandex. None were in sight, though, only his two teammates stalking alongside him.

Ray had barely roused when they left. Sick or not, Peter envied him his repose. His own night had been restless at best—he hadn't slept more than an hour at a time. The content of his dreams was less important than the disturbing, gut-twisting apprehension they awoke him with.

And every time Peter had opened his eyes Egon's bed was empty. Regardless of his promise, the physicist hadn't made slept after all. Yet he didn't look tired now, striding along with his head down but alert to every creak in the silent gymnasium. Maybe he'd be okay. Winston was a watchful shadow next to the physicist, and Peter marched at his other side. If Egon noticed his friends were flanking him he didn't remark upon it, focusing on his meter.

In the corner of Peter's eye a shape flickered. The Ghostbuster spun, jerking up his thrower. "I saw it." Instantly his teammates were ready beside him, aiming their own weapons as he scanned the motionless equipment. No sign of the gooper now.

Egon lifted the meter from his belt again. "I am definitely registering its presence," he murmured. "But the signal is too faint to localize. Perhaps we should split up."

No. The protest almost left his lips before he could stop it. Peter shook his head, irritated with the sudden flash of paranoia. A class four hardly posed a threat to any of them, and the place was too big for them to cover effectively if they stayed in tight formation. He tried to put a finger on his unease, but there was no reason for that momentary panic, logical or otherwise. "All right. You guys cover the main exercise room and I'll take the lockers. If you see it call me on the walkies."

Winston and Egon nodded and continued on as Peter retreated to the entrance. Pushing open the door to the locker room, he was met by a darkness so deep it sucked all light into its depths and reached out for more. Jumping back, he grabbed his thrower automatically, then gritted his teeth and shipped it. A quick glance behind assured him that his antics had gone unnoticed by his teammates on the opposite side of the gym.

"All right, the Boogieman's safe in containment, Venkman." He took a step toward the blackness and felt it pulse against him like a breathing, living thing. "Let's not add nyctophobia to the list." One foot on the threshold, then the other, and he was standing in the doorway, the frosted skylights behind him casting his long, hazy shadow on the tile floor. Two more steps and he felt along the wall until he located the lightswitch, flipping it up with a suppressed sigh of relief. The florescents fluttered to life, bathing gray-green lockers in gray-green luminance.

A form darted by, visible only in his peripheral vision. He turned, but saw nothing except the rows of closed lockers and the wooden bench down the center. His rubber soled boots squeaked on the smooth tile as he paced to the bank of showers along the far wall. No sign of the ghost—

An icy draft brushed him as something dark and angular flitted past. When Peter twisted around it vanished, and he snatched his walkie. "Guys, I think it's here."

"No," Egon corrected, "we're approaching it. I was about to alert you."

"You've got it?"

"I believe—"

"Egon, duck!" Winston's shout interrupted the report, followed by the crackle of air ionized by a proton stream. Adrenaline pounding an uneven tempo in his ears, Peter abandoned the locker room, crashing into the main gym at a dead run and narrowly avoiding a treadmill. Through the forest of weight frames and barbells he spotted his teammates at the other end of the hall, their streams blinding lightning through the cast-iron branches. Within the beams a shrouded form fought and wailed, thrashing at the threads of energy. Fumbling for the trap on his belt, Peter dashed toward them.

Then the blackness rose up before his teammates and the ghost, the darkness fled before now taking form and strength, stretching up toward the ceiling. Inky wings arched over the skylights to blot out the sun; blank glowing eyes fixed on him, pinning his soul like a butterfly to a mat.

Peter screeched and fell back, and the demon reached out for him, huge talons gaping wide, undeterred by the proton streams burning behind its fathomless shadow.

The streams. The guys. Gasping, Peter skidded to a halt and planted his boots on the wooden floor, leaning forward as if braced against a hurricane wind. His hands were shaking but he raised his thrower and fired at the monster's giant form.

A brilliance like an open trap flared and dulled again. The demon didn't react, not to the light or the stream, still extending its hideous claws. He couldn't see Egon and Winston, maybe cornered, maybe crushed beneath that deadly grip. "Leave them alone, you sonuvabitch!" he screamed, and without letting the thrower waver he cranked up the energy, blasting a full-power stream directly between the gleaming eyes.

Distantly he heard an explosion of shattering glass, and a voice shouted his name. Two voices. "Peter!" "Pete!" Egon and Winston, still alive under the monster. He could have sobbed with relief.

And it was gone.

Cutting off the stream, Peter blinked, his eyes watering from the glare. No trace of the demon, and the terror its presence had engendered vanished with it. Where its shadow had loomed the wall was blackened with ash, wisps of smoke trailing up from the scorched plaster. In the center of the char a broken window frame sparkled, shards of half-melted glass wrapped around the twisted metal.

"What the hell was that, Pete?" Winston angrily demanded, rising from his crouch over a steaming trap.

"Peter," Egon began simultaneously, just as furious, "how could you be so careless? We already had the ghost! We almost lost it because of your—"

He only registered the words on a surface level, their meaning refusing to make sense in the face of what he had seen, in the face of Egon's wrath. He barely noticed Winston silencing Egon with a sharp nudge, and had to struggle to understand his teammate's question, all the anger mysteriously bled from his tone. "Pete, what happened? What were you doing?"

"You...you didn't see the demon?" His voice sounded strangled to his own ears, a vicious struggle to force it from his vocal chords.

"There was no demon." Egon was utterly calm. Cool. Dead. A stranger would have mistaken that mechanical statement as emotionless, or if they were more insightful, as cold rage. Peter, who knew every one of his friend's moods, read it as what it truly was. Fear. "There was no demon," the scientist repeated. "Only the ghost."

"On the meter..." He tried to gesture to it, his hand a wooden block at the end of his wrist. "Maybe you couldn't see it..."

"The meter registered nothing," Egon told him.

And they had seen nothing.

Winston took a step toward him, then another. Egon was frozen to the floor, riveted by Peter's stare, as he himself had been bound by the demon. No demon. There was no demon. There had been nothing at all.

Clumsily he undid the straps of his proton pack with numb fingers, shrugging it off his back to let it crash to the polished floorboards. At his side, Winston picked up the pack and slung it over his own shoulder before reaching out to him.

Peter wound his fingers around his teammate's wrist, gripping too tightly but he couldn't relax his white knuckles. "Get me out of here," he whispered, not sure the words left his pinched throat, though Winston nodded. "Get me out of here now." Before his eyes could trick him any further. Before his mind could betray him again.

He felt Winston's hand clasp his forearm, saw the dread etched on Egon's white face, and Peter shivered, with a cold so deep inside no fire could reach it. Before I betray you.

Ray was half awake when the guys returned. Hearing Ecto outside, he struggled against the impossible weight pressing down on him to open his eyes and sit up. He hated being sick. It would be bad enough if he had a sore throat or a stomachache, but this fuzzy feeling in his head, like his brain had been taken out and his skull stuffed with cotton instead...that was worse. He couldn't think, he couldn't even read, he just slept, while the guys were busting. He should be envious, and guilty that he wasn't helping them, even if they were the ones insisting he stayed home, but he was too tired to feel much of anything. With a sigh he leaned back again, his heavy head sinking into the feather pillow.

He heard the door of the bunkroom open and thought it might be one of his friends come to check on him, but no footsteps approached. Rolling over, by the sunlight filtering through the shaded window he saw Peter sitting on his bed, facing the door with his back to Ray, his head canted down.

Everything about his posture was so blindingly wrong that Ray snapped wide awake, fought back the tides of sleep and sat up. "Peter?"

Peter turned enough that Ray could see his profile, silhouetted against the doorway. "Ray. Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No, I was awake already." He rubbed his eyes. "What happened? The bust..." It trickled into his muffled consciousness that his other two teammates were absent, and they wouldn't leave Peter alone, not when he sounded like that. "Where's Egon and Winston? What—"

"They're downstairs," Peter assured him hastily. "Putting the ghost away. They weren't hurt." His eyes darkened. "Thank God they weren't." The last was barely a whisper.

"Peter?" Winston stood in the doorway, Egon behind him. "Don't do that—we thought you were still downstairs with us, m'man." He looked over, caught Ray's eyes and smiled, but even in the dimness his teammate could see the expression was forced. "You back in the land of the living, Ray?"

"Kind of." Ray stared hard at his three friends. "What'd I miss?" he demanded, pushing aside his blankets. "Was it a bad ghost? Was the bust really hard?"

"It was an easy ghost," Peter said in a monotone. "It would've been a damn easy bust if Dr. Venkman hadn't taken pot shots at a demon that wasn't there."

"Peter..." Egon never said his name like that, so deep and sudden it almost was a sob.

Ray didn't get it at first, and then Winston said quietly, emphatically, "Pete, you know it wasn't like that."

And Ray understood, surged to his feet and made it to the other bed to wrap his arms around Peter, not giving him a chance to avoid the hug. Ray felt him shivering, tiny ceaseless tremors racking his shoulders. He put his arms around Ray and rubbed his back, said, "It's okay, Tex," but they both knew Ray wasn't the one who needed the comfort. Peter drew back too soon, pushing himself away with a long shuddering exhalation. He ran his fingers through his hair and made a good attempt at meeting their eyes. "Okay. All right. We knew this could happen."

"What did happen?" Ray asked. He wasn't a psychologist, but he knew repression wasn't a good solution. Peter could handle best what he could talk about. "What'd you see?"

He tried to sound simultaneously sympathetic, determined, and unafraid; and Peter smiled, though it didn't touch his eyes. "I saw a demon. A big black spook with glowing eyes and bat wings, straight out of Fantasia. I should've known it wasn't...it just looked real. It felt real. It scared the hell out of me. We've seen a lot worse, but I was so frightened I couldn't think straight."

"That is...in keeping with what you experienced before." Egon sounded as if every word were being dragged from his throat with iron chains. "The emotional reactions..."

"I know." Peter didn't look at him. "But I should've realized—it felt wrong, it was so sudden. Didn't make sense for it to just come out of nowhere like that. If I'd thought about it before I slagged the window..."

"It's all right, Pete," said Winston. "I talked to the manager, and he's so thrilled the spook's gone that he didn't even think about charging us for it."

"That's not the point." Peter shoved himself to his feet, turning away. "If one of you guys had been between me and that wall—" He interrupted himself with a harsh swallow.

"Are you sure...are you sure it wasn't there?" asked Ray. He had to fight back a yawn to say it, his mind churning against the sluggishness. "Egon thinks there's a demon around. Maybe..."

"I detected nothing on the PKE meter," Egon said slowly.

"Maybe it was in Peter's head because it put itself there," Ray replied. "Did you check—for a weird signal, or some kind of psychic interference?"

"I didn't." Egon stared at Peter, looking ill himself. "I should have. Why didn't I check? A telepathic signal would have faded by now, but we've encountered mind-altering entities before—"

"Don't, Spengs." Peter cut him off with a sharp wave. "We don't—"

"It's possible, though," Winston said. "And it might explain..." Peter's gaze met his. A silent, instant message passed between them; then Winston went on, "why you've been having those nightmares lately."

"Nightmares?" Egon started. "Peter, why didn't—"

"I didn't think they were important, okay?" Peter dropped his head. "I thought it was stress. I'm not the only with trouble sleeping." He shot a sharp look at Egon.

"We're all stressed, yeah," Winston agreed. "But you dream about other stuff usually, right? And this is totally out of the blue, and we know there's a good chance something major is going down in the city. It's a big coincidence that after a year of nothing you'd flashback at the worst possible time."

This time there was the smallest emerald spark in Peter's eyes to match his smile. "I think they call it Murphy's Law, Zed."

"But it is," Ray said seriously. "Maybe it's not a coincidence at all." If there was a demon messing with the ghosts in New York, and with Peter... He had to think. It was so hard, just sitting up was an effort; his whole body felt like it was filled with wet cement and he wanted just to curl up and go to sleep, but he had to think.

The phone rang. Winston grabbed it off Peter's nightstand. After listening for a moment, he said, "I'm sorry, we're on a temporary leave at the moment. Try us again in a couple of days." He hung up before the prospective client could scream more than two oaths and looked at his teammates. "No busts. Not until we figure this thing out."

Peter nodded, a flash of relief tightening his face like pain. Egon assented, "That would be best."

"We better figure it out quick, then," Ray said. "Before our clients really get mad."

"If there is anything to figure out."

Ray didn't know if Peter meant to say that out loud or not, but he heard it, and so did Winston. "There's something," he said. "Maybe it's some demon, or maybe it's what we're afraid it is, but either way, it's a problem we'll find a way to fix. And you know it. Giving up ain't your style, Pete."

Ray nodded adamantly, and Peter looked between them with the barest hint of amusement. "I'll try to stay in character," he said.

The doctor only blinked when the demon roared, and just stepped back when it overturned a lab table with one kick of an immense, clawed foot; but when it lifted a talon over the main counter to dash all the bottles to the floor, he raised his hand and thundered, "Stop!"

Out of sheer surprise if nothing else the creature obeyed, its chest swelling to even greater dimensions as it drew in air for a truly impressive bellow. Before it released it the doctor snapped, "Cease this temper tantrum immediately! I don't work with children and brutes." He subjected his cohort to an icy gray glare, not flinching when it was returned in boiling scarlet.

"Our work might as well be finished," hissed the demon. "Laying siege to our foes in their own home will be too costly a battle. And once they understand—"

"They haven't won yet."

"No? We cannot give them your potions so easily when they stay nested there. And you heard them. They will not emerge until they have a way to defeat us."

"They weren't scheduled to receive much more of my 'potions' as it is," the doctor said. "And they're hardly home free yet. The effects of these drugs are cumulative." When the demon favored him with an inquiring stare he sighed. "The chemicals and their effects build in their systems. True, they'll eventually recover. But now—look at Stantz. And you saw Venkman. Neither of them have been dosed in over twelve hours; has it helped them? Venkman now is primed for another—"

"We can hardly walk in and give it to him!" the demon howled.

"Don't bother. Bring him to you. You think they'll stand by that agreement? They're heroes. They have responsibilities. Stir up a big enough disturbance and they're come out for it. And if they leave anyone behind we could send your minion to him."

"No." The demon's objection was firm but no longer enraged. "I will not risk any of my servants. But a disturbance, yes." It flexed its talons. "Yes, I can do that."

"Why not risk it? It'll be easy. One more dose—"

"No," snarled the demon. "We will deal with them all when I demand it. Your poisons are already prepared, and my servants know their duty to me." It bared its hideous fangs. "Watch the mirror, Doctor. You may enjoy this." Gesturing at the glass, it summoned the clouds within its depths, then scraped one claw down the shimmering surface. The doctor winced at the screech as the demon rent the image in two, then watched as the creature stepped into the darkness between and was gone. The mirror swirled and cleared, no scratch marring its clear reflection.

Having seen this trick of travel before, the doctor ignored it. There were other, more important matters to attend. Regardless of the demon's plans, he had his own schedule. The doctor had observed enough of the team to know that Stantz would almost certainly be left behind. His friends were worried for him, with good reason. But not if the demon wouldn't continue with the program.

He was no servant of the creature, sworn to do its bidding. Nor was he a prisoner; he left the lab regularly for meals and rest. The demon was too much of a coward to finish what they had begun. So be it. Humming a baritone aria, the doctor examined his flasks, selected several and measured their contents into tiny vials, which he stowed in his coat pocket along with a couple of plastic-wrapped hypodermics. Then he turned off the lights, cast one final glance at the still mirror, and walked out the door.

If you want something done right...

Though he gamely offered suggestions and encouragement, by the time Egon finished the scans Ray had dozed off on the threadbare lab couch, his head angled awkwardly against the sagging back. After detaching himself from the headset and sensors, Peter crossed over to him, wondering if it would be worth the effort to send him back to bed. He settled for waking Ray enough to get him to lie down before he got a permanent crick in his neck.

"Nothing." Egon's bass growl cut through Ray's soft snores. Peter patted his sleeping friend's shoulder and rejoined the physicist at the computer. Egon's teeth were clenched as he glared at the screen. "There's nothing that might explain any of this."

Peter sighed. "We knew there might not be. And I feel fine now, Egon. I don't think I'm under the influence of any big bad demon lord." He clamped his fingers around the back of Egon's chair. "We don't have any proof that I was, either."

Egon jerked like he'd been pricked with a needle, twisting around to look Peter in the eye. He stood abruptly, as if suddenly fearing the chair would collapse under him, his hands restless at his sides. "Peter...I'm sorry, I—"

"Spengs, this isn't your fault."

Egon slipped past and threw himself into pacing in front of the main table. Peter watched him stride back and forth, only advancing a couple of steps before pivoting on his heel and heading in the opposite direction. "It wasn't your fault before," the psychologist said. "It isn't now, whether or not you can detect anything. Whether or not there's anything to detect."

Egon quit his caged tiger impersonation. "No," he agreed. "That wasn't my fault. But my accusation during the bust today—that was unconscionable. I know you, Peter, well enough to know that you don't make errors of that nature, not without damn good reason. And well enough that I should have been aware of your nightmares—"

"When I wasn't telling you about them? When you aren't even in the bedroom at night anymore?" Peter threw up his hands. "Geeze, Egon, yeah. You're a major failure on the psychic network. Better turn in your union card."

"That failure doesn't concern me," Egon whispered. "Failing you does."

"You don't need to worry about that," Peter replied instantly. "You never will." He sucked in another draught of air through his teeth. "Me, though...I should've told you about the nightmares. I mentioned it to Winston, but I should've told all of you. Warned you. I was hoping this wouldn't happen, really hoping. But if I'd..." He couldn't get any further; he couldn't even put the thought into words.

He didn't need to. "You wouldn't have," Egon denied with unapproachable certainty. "You didn't hurt us, and you wouldn't have."

"You didn't see it, Egon. You don't know—it was real. To me, it was totally real. I couldn't see you guys, I thought—you don't know what it's like."

"No," Egon said, "but I was there last year, in that warehouse. I knew you wouldn't harm me then, and you didn't. And this wasn't as bad as that."

No, it wasn't. Nowhere near. The warehouse, Ulster's testing grounds, didn't exist in his memory, only in his dreams, but those dark fragments—nothing had been real then. That Egon had survived at all was a miracle that the physicist refused to acknowledge as such. But his eyes were shadowed all the same, blue darkening at what he himself recalled all too vividly. Peter wasn't the only one with nightmares from that.

Before Egon could turn aside, Peter grabbed him and pulled him into a hard hug, just as he had been tackled by Ray earlier. "We made it, Egon," he reminded. "We're okay." Knock on wood.

Egon's arms looped around him and squeezed, hesitantly, as if almost afraid to test the proposition. "I hope—" he began, then frowned. "Is that the phone again?"

Peter cocked his head. "Sounds like. I should go give Zed a hand answering them, if you're done testing me. Bet no one in the city's happy with us right now, and he shouldn't have to bear the heat alone." He caught the physicist's arm. "Egon. Right now, I feel fine, like I said. If that changes, I'll let you know. But—" He swallowed. "If I don't realize—keep an eye on me. Make sure—"

"I will not allow you to be hurt," Egon said firmly, fully aware that this was not the request Peter was making. And Peter nodded, knowing that Egon understood all the same, and sustained by the faith in his teammates that he could not have in himself.

"Damn." Winston dropped the receiver back on the hook and stared at the phone. "Damn it."

Shoving back the chair, he headed up to the lab, taking the stairs two at a time. He nearly bumped into Peter at the doorway, about to exit. "Hey, Zed, was just going to—"

"We have a problem."

Egon glanced up from the computer, saw his teammate's grim face and straightened with a frown. Peter raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

Winston rubbed a hand over his close-shaved skull. "Just got a call from the police. There's something big going down at the docks on the east side. They need us."

"We said no busts," Peter stated neutrally, at odds with the charge of emotion that flickered through his eyes.

"It's a demon," Winston told him. "Maybe more than one. It's big and it's powerful and it has thirty men trapped in a warehouse. The police aren't equipped to deal with this. Bullets aren't worth a damn against a demon, and it flipped a cruiser when they tried to corral it."

"If it's that powerful," Egon remarked, "it may in fact be the being we have suspected as the source of our problems." He picked up his PKE meter and strode to the door. "Winston, you and I will go investigate, and do what we can."

"No..." Winston threw a glance at Peter, but the psychologist's mouth was clamped shut, letting his teammate carry the argument as they went down the spiral stairs. "Egon, we can't hold a demon with just one stream, and someone needs to wield the destabilizer. And there might be something else with the demon, they weren't too clear what, but if it's not alone—we don't want to do this solo."

"We don't have much choice." Egon didn't look to Peter once, striding to the lockers to collect the necessary equipment. "The two of us will have to be enough."

"It'll take us apart," Winston protested.

"Then it'll be a short bust!" Egon snapped. "Our options are limited."

"I know." Winston planted his hands on Ecto-1's hood as if to draw patience from its sturdy frame. It never did any good to fight with Egon, not when he was on as short a fuse as he had been lately, and especially not when he was right. Which he usually was, always a liability when working with geniuses. Limited options, hell, they didn't have any. Thirty people in danger wasn't a bust they could turn down, and he didn't want to go it just the two of them, but there was no way he would ask that of Peter. The flashback before didn't worry Winston, not anywhere near as much as the unnatural dread behind his friend's shuttered eyes. He watched now them from the corner of the garage, not volunteering anything. Peter mute was a bad sign. Winston exhaled and headed to the locker for his jumpsuit. "Okay, we better get over there, see what we're up against—"

"I'll come." Ray's weary voice drew their attention to the stairs. Red hair tangled and round face pale against his brightly striped pajamas, he was barely on his feet, gripping the banister for balance. "Just let me get dressed."

Coming to life, Peter guided him over to Janine's chair and gently pushed him into it. "Think you should sit this one out, Ray."

Ray shook his head and tried to rise again. "We've gotta help those men, and if this is the demon that's been doing everything else—Winston and Egon can't bust it by themselves—"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, homeboy," remarked Winston wryly.

"He's right." Peter looked at none of them, his gaze fixed on a point between his head and the wall, one hand at his side curled into a fist so tight the nails dug into the flesh of his palm. "I'll go." His eyes flickered to Egon and away again just as fast. "Better have one meter set to watch me and make sure nothing changes. I'll wait to fire until one of you does. And if I start feeling off I'll call it quits. If I can."

"Peter..." Having spoken simultaneously, Egon and Ray looked at each other when he heeded neither of them, Egon's jaw clenched and his brow furrowed, Ray's face drawn and his heavy-lidded eyes dark brown with concern and fatigue.

"You sure, Pete?" Winston asked.

Peter met his teammate's eyes, let him see the fear in his own, and the resolution. "Yeah. If you're sure."

Winston nodded sharply. "Then let's go."

The deciding factor had been Ray, because Peter knew his going was the only way Ray would willingly stay behind. They left him safely ensconced on the couch in the den, watching the news for any bulletins and celphone in hand. Even odds he'd be napping when they got back; he was fighting the good fight against whatever illness had gotten its claws into him, but so far it was a losing battle. If he wasn't showing any improvement by tomorrow they should drag him to the doctor. It wasn't right for Ray to be sleeping his life away; that was supposed to be a Venkman occupation.

Winston rolled his eyes when Peter said as much, and Peter pretended it didn't take the effort it did to say it, ignored the effort it was for Winston to react properly. Egon didn't make the attempt at all, dividing his attention equally between Peter and the meter he had tuned to Peter's biorhythms.

That was no good. With Ecto speeding toward a demon their focus should be on a strategy of attack, on figuring out what it was they were about to face. Much as Peter generally craved the spotlight, it was time to shine it elsewhere, on their job. "If this is the demon that's been setting all these ghosts against us, any idea what we should be expecting?"

"No." Egon saw his frown and relented, testily, never liking to hypothesize on insufficient data. "Possibly a being from the Netherworld, or another such dimension. If so, the destabilizer should allow us to secure it in a trap. If it's a different type of entity we may have to take a different approach. If it does have telepathic projective abilities—" Long fingers clutched the meter convulsively, a desperate grasp for the reassurance of science.

"If this thing plays psychic mind games," Peter said firmly, "you'll pick it up on that gadget." And if it wasn't that—let it be the demon. Or at least let him hold it together until this bust was over. He concentrated on the familiar feel of his thrower's handgrip. Nervous, hell yes, his heart was thumping at twice its normal pace, but not with that irrational fear of this morning. His tension now was justified, and the thought of facing the demon didn't worry him, not any more than it should. He remembered the emotion—if he'd been thinking he would have recognized it this morning, that building, causeless terror. Watch for it, Venkman. You start jumping at shadows, then there's trouble brewing. And tell the guys. That was the most important thing to remember. He could trust Egon and Winston to know what was real and what wasn't.

If only he was certain he'd remember that trust, should the shadows come for him again.

There was almost no one gathered before the police barricade, not an encouraging sign. Audiences for their busts tended to be tenacious; a demon nasty enough to scare people away rather than attract them couldn't be pretty. Neither were the grim expressions of the uniformed officers by the barriers, to a man frowning and with their hands hovering over their belt holsters. Winston parked Ecto between the two cruisers and the three Ghostbusters disembarked and surveyed the scene. Behind the orange sawhorses the blocky, gray warehouse hunched over the dark waters of the bay. Ten feet inside the barricade a police car rested on its roof like a beached turtle, glass from its shattered windows glittering in the long shadows spread by the setting sun. The site had the unsettling calm of a battlefield, after the bodies were carted off but before rain washed away the blood.

Hopefully the impression was only figurative. Winston conversed with the police lieutenant in charge while Egon and Peter readied the equipment, then returned to report, "They haven't seen the demon in about fifteen minutes; it went back into the warehouse and since we were coming they figured they'd let it be. There were thirty-one workers in the building when it showed, and only two managed to slip past it. The others were locked inside, or maybe locked themselves in. They're all unaccounted for."

"Get any descriptions of the beastie?" Peter asked.

Winston shrugged. "Really big, horns, sharp teeth—several cops saw it but they're sketchy on the details. Not a sight they're keen to remember."

Egon had been adjusting his meter. It twittered softly and a little of the tension lining his brow eased. "I'm registering twenty-nine biorhythms in the warehouse, all gathered in one area." Before his teammates could express their relief he pushed up his glasses and continued, frowning, "There are also a pair of Class Seven entities, but these signals are inconsistent with any demon we've encountered. And there are several other readings, including Class Eight—"

A shout in concert from the policemen interrupted his account. Following their pointing fingers, Peter whipped around in time to catch a glimpse of a blob flying toward him like a neon orange bat out of hell. It was upon him and gone again so fast he barely realized he had been hit at all, until he shifted and realized he was sitting on the pavement in a puddle of gooey ectoplasm.

Spotting a rapidly vanishing green dot in the purple sky, he snatched his thrower from his back and took aim, but the stream fell short of its target and the thing faded into invisibility. Peter swore loudly and climbed to his feet, fruitlessly pawing at the goop plastering his hair to his head. A sharp glare aimed at the officers behind the barriers stifled the smirks at his expense. "If that was the spud—" He threw a sticky gob of orange slime to the ground and then blinked at it. "Hey, I thought it was green."

"It was." The mix of anger and consternation in Egon's voice snapped Peter's attention to the physicist. He had managed to maintain both his footing and his grip on the PKE meter, but the instrument, as well as his jumpsuit, hair, and glasses, were all dripping a translucent olive. "The entity that struck you was orange, however. And neither was Slimer, though they were Class Fives. Both are now out of range."

"Hit and run. Is it just me or has that been happening a lot lately?"

"Not to me," Winston remarked, drawing attention to his own pristine, dry condition. His smirk was harder to intimidate away. "Maybe it's your cologne."

"Or maybe even ghosts won't go near yours," Peter shot back. "I swear, that gooper's gotten me before. I'm gonna fry its—"

"The Class Eight residuals are still in evidence." Egon's bass called them back to the task at hand, slime or no slime.

"Residuals," Peter repeated. "So it's no longer around?"

"The Class Eight, no. The Class Sevens, yes." And a Class Seven was nothing to scoff at. Two would be a handful. Ray had been right; he was needed on this bust, justified apprehensions or not.

On the other hand, after that soaking in slime, he was definitely in the mood to kick some ectoplasmic butt. Drawing his thrower, Peter lead the charge into the warehouse to whatever nightmare there awaited them.

Winston had been expecting something nasty. And after so many years on this job, 'nasty' was quite a wide category, including all manner of freakish creatures and monstrosities. Therefore he was pretty much set for anything when they marched into the warehouse.

He sure the hell hadn't been expecting this.

Lunging to the floor as the giant gray tentacle swiped by inches above his head, Winston immediately rolled to his feet and blasted indiscriminately behind him. His wild shot must have scored because something bellowed, a horrendous whistling shriek, and the snake-like limb twisted out of his path. Ducking his head, he plowed forward until he hit the door, shot through it and slammed it shut behind him.

Peter and Egon, already within, joined him in bracing the portal, the flimsy metal shuddering and bending under the assault from the monsters outside it. "What are they?" Winston cried, digging his heels into the thin carpeting, his back against the door. "Cthulu's girlfriends?"

Boots set and head down, Egon's arms were locked straight and his palms pressed to the metal. "I believe," he panted, "they are what ancient mariners termed 'devil fish.'"

"The devil I'll buy," Peter growled, crouched with his shoulder to the door as he awkwardly held the twisting handle in place with both hands. "But these ain't no guppies!"

"No, Peter," Egon agreed. "Devil fish is a vernacular name for the giant octopus."

"Octopus?!" It did explain the tentacles...

"Not true octopi, of course," Egon hastened to reassure them. "These are diabolic aquatic entities akin to Nexa's undines, almost certainly summoned by the demon. They have preternatural as well as physical attributes, and violent dispositions, quite unlike the shy, gentle temperament of the genuine article."

As if the things had heard the slur, the pounding ceased. None of the Ghostbusters changed position, holding their breaths and preparing for the siege to resume any second. When a minute passed and it did not, Winston whispered, "Think they're gone?"

"Unfortunately," Egon murmured back, "devil fish do share the true octopus's distinction as the most intelligent invertebrate—"

A slimy gray arm, like a massive elephant's trunk rimmed with circular ivory suckers, plunged through the wall a foot from the door frame in an explosion of plaster. The three men scrambled back as the limb flailed blindly, curling around the desk in the center of the room and crushing it to splinters before lashing out for a new target. By then they had retreated to the far wall, Peter kicking desperately at the wooden door leading to the adjacent warehouse offices.

"Hello?" a faint voice called in response to his blows. "Who's out there?"

"Ghostbusters, m'man!" Winston shouted, trying to get a bead on the thrashing tentacle. If he didn't sever it on the first shot he was just going to piss it off.

"Great! Is the demon gone?" asked the voice anxiously.

"We're working on it!" Peter hollered, and blasted. Winston fired for the same spot at almost the same time, and outside the offices the monster gave a scream like a locomotive's steam whistle. A seared stump of tentacle yanked out of the hole, leaving behind a long, thick tendril writhing in a pool of black gore.

"We'll have you free shortly," Egon was telling the men behind the door. "You say you are all there? Unlock the door and prepare—"

A new gray limb, whole, whipped through the hole, and then another slammed through the wall on the other side of the door. Winston shot at one and Peter aimed for the other, but before their streams could burn through the leathery skin, the arms met in the center over the door, knotted around each other, and yanked backwards.

"Shit!" Peter expertly defined the situation, as the door was ripped, frame and all, from the wall, and five more tentacles joined the two already within. Behind the squirming, serpentine tangle a hard ebony beak snapped, topped by the curving mass of its head, or body, or whatever. Malevolent white eyes the size of dinner plates glared at them with an eerily human-like cunning.

The devil fish didn't take well to proton streams in those glowing eyes, Winston quickly learned, but that didn't mean it slowed it down. On the contrary, it made him the number one target, and all that saved him from being wrapped in the stranglehold of a lightning-fast tentacle was Peter shoving him to the floor at the last second. As Winston scrabbled backward he heard the psychologist call, "Egon, get those men out, while Zed and I make sushi out of this sucker!"

Great, Venkman, now how the hell do we— but before Winston could ask his teammate, Peter dove forward on his stomach, under the tentacles and heading straight for the beast. No, straight past it—as Winston fired another distracting blast at the devil fish's head, Peter slipped through the gaping hole in the wall. A second later another stream crackled past the monster's ears, or would have had it had such organs. It bellowed and twisted around to face this new irritant, and Winston dashed forward as Peter yelled, "Now!"

Behind him the door burst open and Egon lead a bedraggled crew of men racing for the demolished wall. Winston ducked through with them, unhooking a trap from his belt. As they sprinted for the exit, Egon covering them with well-timed blasts from his thrower, Winston made a break for the monster's enormous bulk resting on the cement floor. Here goes nothing—

He slammed the trap into the wrinkled, pulpy flesh, ignoring the arm that wrapped around him, and with his hand pressed the pedal. The doors flipped open, engulfing the creature in light, and the tentacle, tightening like a belt around his waist, shook free. Its arms whipped about, floundering in uncoordinated rage as it fought the energy trying to confine it, handicapped but it wasn't going down. "The destabilizer!" Winston shouted. "Pete, blast it with—"

He heard Peter scream then, an inarticulate cry that could have been anger or just as easily fear. Damn it, the other one, there were two of these monsters—but if he let go of the trap now this one would be loose. He wasn't sure how he was holding it as it were, but as it was working he wasn't going to ask. To Peter he shouted, "Hang on!" while frantically trying to think up an out to this predicament.

He didn't have to find one; an angel must've been listening to his prayers, because a corona of blue lit around the devil fish and its solidity fluctuated, then failed. The creature bellowed as it was drawn into the depths of trap, helped on its way by the destabilizer Peter had appropriated from Egon.

Winston dropped the trap, grabbed his thrower, and spun in one swift motion, only to see no sign of the second monster.

A rippling energy current flashed overhead and he swung around to follow it to its target, but nothing was there. Whirling again, he spotted Peter, back against the wall by the loading dock, discharging shot after shot into empty space, wide eyes locked on that nothingness as if the Apocalypse were materializing and he was the only man standing between it and the world's end.

"Damn," Winston gasped, almost transfixed himself by the terrified determination in his friend's face. "Pete!" he shouted. "Peter!" The destabilizer jerked in Peter's hands as he heard the call—at least he wasn't that far gone. "It's over!" Winston hollered to him, trying to approach while avoiding accidental destabilization by a stray beam. "We got it! It's over!"

"No!" The force of that shout drove him back a step. "Everywhere—can't see 'em—demon's trick—" Peter's choked gasps were barely articulated, let alone intelligible, but the current of fear running through them was so strong Winston was frightened himself, and more horrified. Even if it was all in his head...

"Peter, you're gonna be all right, man, you're gonna be all right." To fall this far, this fast—it wasn't like this morning. Ray must be right; something was influencing him, anyway. This couldn't just be a flashback, not so sudden and so overwhelming. "Just calm down, you gotta—"

"Gotta stop 'em!" Peter panted, edging along the wall, firing sporadic bursts into the air. His head jerked around as he sought to track the paths of invisible monsters. "Gotta—can't let—"

"Listen to me, Peter!" Winston rapped out. "You're safe, I swear. Nothing's gonna hurt you!"

Oh God, he better buy it. He was heading straight toward the loading dock, and Winston realized the guardrail was gone, the aluminum tubing snapped off at its base. Probably by the emergence of the devil fish; the demon had to have called them up from somewhere. But without the rail nothing blocked the ten foot drop to the murky waters of the bay, and if Peter took the plunge in this condition Winston doubted he'd swim like a fish. More like a stone. "Pete, don't move. I'll help you fight 'em, just stay there."

"Don't trick me!" He had never heard his friend sound so hostile, the shout vibrating with bitter fury, even stronger than the fear. "Not real!" Winston ducked a beam shot over his head with a bare inch to spare. "You're lying—

"This is me, Pete, this is Winston!" he cried, dodging another blast, trying to slip past his guard while Peter advanced another two strides toward the loading dock. "You know I don't lie to you, m'man. Trust me!"

Peter took another step onto the concrete around the dock, only five feet from the drop-off. The destabilizer beam wavered as his hands shook, but he wasn't about to let go of the weapon. "You gotta trust me, Pete," Winston begged, "come over here—you can see 'em better over here."

He stepped toward his friend, and Peter's head whipped around, dark glittering eyes focusing on him for an instant. "You're not Winston," he said clearly, hatred in every syllable. "It's a lie, get outa here, I won't let—" He raised the destabilizer as he backed up, one foot down, then the other, the next, and the last would be over empty space—

Winston mentally crossed his fingers, feinted right, dodged left, and flung himself at Peter. One wild shot almost struck, tingling past his ear as he caught his teammate around the waist and sent them both tumbling, away from the treacherous brink of the loading dock. The destabilizer was knocked from Peter's hands, and before he could grab for it Winston wrestled him to the floor, trying to pin his arms. Winston had the advantage of size but Peter's wiry frame was at least as strong and he fought like a madman, flailing wildly and cursing without words.

"Pete! Come on, please, it's all right, just calm down, you're gonna be okay..." Frantically repeating the mantra of reassurances, he crouched over his friend, grappling to force his wrists to the ground. It would be impossible to hold him for any amount of time, not without hurting him, but if he bolted... Winston was starting to panic when Peter went limp under him, collapsing against the cement floor.

Still gripping his wrists, Winston stared anxiously down at his teammate's white face. Peter's head was tipped back, glassy gaze roving over the ceiling. He drew a long shuddering breath and whispered, barely moving his mouth, "Winston?"

"I've got you, m'man." And not about to let go.

"What's real?"

The absolutely calm dread in that question made Winston's skin crawl. It was in no way rhetorical. "I am," he avowed. "You are, the warehouse is. The calamari from hell were, but we caught one and the other left. Everything else...I don't see anything in here except us, Pete."

Peter panted in short quivering inhalations, fighting the terror raging in his eyes. "Trust you," he mumbled, "can trust you, it's not real..." He screwed his eyes shut and snapped them wide again, as if the darkness behind the lids was worse than whatever he saw with them open. "Where's Egon?"

Right on cue the walkie on Winston's belt sputtered to life. "Winston? Peter? Your assistance is required outside." The physicist's terse bass was ragged, out of breath, and faint cries could be heard over the background static. "Respond if you are able," Egon commanded.

Peter was listening, tensing at Egon's voice but not fighting back. Hoping his momentary frenzy was over, Winston released one of his wrists and seized the walkie. Before he could thumb the button to open the channel, Egon came on again, all pretense of composure snatched from his voice, "Peter! Winston! If you can, help!"

The walkie went dead. Pulling away from his teammate, Peter jerked his head around, staring at the communicator with a different kind of terror. Winston hit the button, shouted, "Egon? Egon!"

Outside, something roared, a high wail that still thundered through the warehouse, rattling the windows. Using the wall to lever himself to his feet, Peter started at the noise, looking to his teammate in desperate entreaty. Winston shook his head, gasped, "That's real!" He recognized the devil fish's bellow. The other one wasn't gone after all. It must have ducked through the loading dock to head outside in pursuit of the escaped men—and Egon. The physicist wouldn't lose his cool unless it was really that bad. "I gotta help him, Pete, don't move, stay right here—"

The other man nodded sharply, once. The fear that flashed across his face was at last an expression Winston recognized, not induced fright but real. The only thing that ever truly scared Peter Venkman, worry for the team, for his friends. He was coming back to himself; at least Winston prayed it was a sign of recovery. No time to secure him; he had to rely on Peter to act for his own good. "Just stay here," he ordered one last time, snatched the destabilizer from the floor, and ran for the exit.

Night had come early, Winston thought, when upon leaving the warehouse he found himself in a pitch black void. Then he realized he could see nothing at all, not the faintest glimmer of lights above or below or to the side. And the Big Apple never slept. It was like going blind.

The monster howled again, and this time he heard other cries echoing it, frightened human voices. He plunged through the blackness toward them, abruptly emerging into pale twilight. Wisps of inky darkness swirled around him, and he looked back to see a huge cloud of deepest black filling the area between the warehouse and the police barricade. Behind the barricade a number of men in work clothes, the rescued victims of the demon attack, mingled with the officers. All eyes were on the black smokescreen. Egon's tall blond form was not among the watchers.

"Egon!" Winston yelled at the top of his lungs, debating whether to grab his thrower or the destabilizer, or go back to the warehouse, or just stick his fingers in his ears and try to wake up. This had to be a nightmare. Things couldn't go this wrong in real life, not so quickly.

The police lieutenant pointed to the cloud, shouting, "Dr. Spengler's in there—it grabbed him! What is it, a giant squid?"

"Close enough," Winston growled. "What—"

"One of my boys saw it coming out of the bay and shot at it, and then it released this smoke," the officer explained. "Dr. Spengler was saying that's normal for these things when threatened, then a tentacle whipped out and he was gone."

And now he was trapped with the devil fish somewhere within that cloud, which was a lot larger than the monster; no way to tell where he was. Winston wished for a split second that they could change places. He'd rather be fish food than out here, alone, and if Egon were him he already would've thought of a solution—

Had to do something. Egon was too damn good to have just been swallowed; he'd have thought of some way to hold it back. He had to be alive in there. Winston didn't have the strength to consider the alternative. Unshipping his thrower he cranked the power down to minimum. At that level it shouldn't hurt Egon, just stun him, but if it stung the creature a bit... Winston swept the stream through the cloud. Halfway across the devil fish shrieked. A plume of darkness swelled into the air above the blackness, pinpointing its location.

He remembered the monster's huge round eyes. Hopefully they weren't any better than a human's at penetrating that cloud. Focusing on his goal, Winston dove into the fog again, charging toward that spray of inky smoke. He knew he was getting close because the darkness thickened, the faintest glimmer of light fading as he neared the center. Funny that he couldn't feel or smell the black; must be magic, not physical. That would explain how it could be so overwhelmingly dark. Then he tripped and almost fell over the tentacle, thick as a telephone pole, suddenly in his path.

Instead of running Winston gripped his equipment and stood his ground. Can't fire, not until he was sure of where the creature actually was, and whether his teammate was in the way. He couldn't see the limb, but he felt it wrap around him, and he twisted so that it encircled his legs and torso but not his arms. Then he was borne into the air. He tightened his hold, the destabilizer in his right hand, the trap in his left. The devil fish must've retreated or the cloud was dissipating; rushing through the darkness he could make out the dim shadow of the tentacle and his destination, the hulking body with its snapping, beaked orifice.

When he glimpsed the eyes, twin moons in the false night, he fired the destabilizer. Energy enveloped the creature's body and it roared, flinging him aside. Expecting the reaction, he quickly rolled to his feet, the destabilizer's beam still trained on the monster, and then he flung the trap out, stomping the pedal when the line went taut.

Jet black whirls twisted down into the light, and with them came the devil fish, screeching all the way. The destabilizer shuddered as its target abruptly vanished, sucked into the trap.

Cutting the beam, Winston took his foot off the trap pedal, then dropped to his knees. "Egon?" he asked, too hoarse to shout. The destabilizer slid from his fingers, clattering to the pavement. His whole right arm was numb where it had hit the asphalt, a warm trickle of blood sticking to the sleeve of his jumpsuit. "Egon?" You better be okay, man, after all that, you damn well better be okay—

"Here, Winston," came a faint rasp, nothing like the physicist's usual implacable bass.

He tried to look for the source but met only thick darkness. "A trap," Winston said, recalling how the cloud had reacted to his own. "Open your trap."

After a moment light flared and the blackness cleared, fading to a dusky mist. Through it he made out Egon sitting a few yards away, next to the hulk of the flipped police car, divested of his proton pack and PKE meter but a trap still hanging on his belt. He blinked at his teammate fuzzily, his glasses absent as well. "Winston? Where is Peter?" the physicist demanded huskily.

Without even bothering to swear, Winston struggled to his feet, abandoning his own pack in his haste, leaving it in a pile with the destabilizer as he sprinted for the warehouse. He banged through the door with a hiss of pain as his injured arm brushed the frame, then stared in dismay at the empty building. "Oh no. No, no—" Still a nightmare. Had to be a nightmare. This was only a bad dream; this could not be happening.

Running for the offices, toward the demolished wall, he saw the open metal door in the wall he had left Peter leaning against. Only a narrow fire exit; he hadn't even noticed it before. A few feet from the door Peter's proton pack was propped against the wall, deliberately placed.

Winston saw no one in sight when he peered outside. It had only been a few minutes; how far could he have gotten? "Peter!" No response. They couldn't be so lucky.

"Winston?"

Egon's rasp paused him on the threshold. Winston turned and jogged back to the main entrance where the physicist stood squinting around at the warehouse. He looked steady on his feet but clearly couldn't see much farther than Winston had in the cloud. Under his collar circular bruises were starting to redden on his throat, the sucker patterns explaining his hoarseness.

"Pete's gone," Winston told him, and without giving Egon a chance to assimilate that he grabbed the taller man's arm and pulled him outside. "Need a PKE meter, we've got to find him," he said, relating what had transpired as they stumbled to Ecto-1. Egon listened in silence while Winston spoke, silently damning Egon for almost getting himself strangled, and Ray for not coming, and Peter for not staying put, and himself for not finding a better way to handle everything. Himself most of all. He couldn't justly blame his friends; none of them had had any choice in their situations. But he had. And he had managed to screw it up but good.

Had to make up for that. If it wasn't too late.

Ray's eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. He wasn't entirely awake, either, but he was thinking as hard as he could. The television was a muted drone in his ears; if his teammates were mentioned he would hear it. There had been a brief bulletin shortly after they had left the firehall, reporting that the Ghostbusters were on the job; whatever had occurred since then must not be enough to warrant attention, at least not until the evening news. Peter would probably lament the lack of publicity, but Ray would just as soon it went uncovered. Reporters only got excited if things went wrong.

He hoped everything was going well and that they'd be back soon. He should be out there, even if he was sick, and if anything happened to them because he wasn't there... He hoped Peter was okay, too. He had been so upset by the flashback, but it couldn't have been that terrible, since he had been willing to take another bust. If it had been worse he wouldn't have gone. He wouldn't risk them like that.

Even if he wasn't with them, Ray still could help. Alone in the firehall he brainstormed about the demon Egon hypothesized was behind their recent flood of busts, and maybe the cause of Peter's flashback as well. It was possible. It would need to be a powerful being, though, and they hadn't detected any residuals on Peter indicating he had been psychically touched. Then again, a demon running around the city should be leaving large residuals all over the place, and they hadn't found anything so definite. Unless it was staying put, which wasn't common demon behavior, unless its power was contained somehow...maybe an artifact...

The TV remote slipping from his fingers awoke him. Ray blinked and straightened up on the couch, pushing back the afghan. Couldn't fall asleep. The guys would be back soon and he'd have to do more theorizing with Egon. Retrieving the remote, he put it on the coffee table next to the cordless phone. When they were done the bust they'd probably call. Maybe he could take a short nap until they did.

Before he closed his eyes he heard something over the television. A low creaking—footsteps on the stairs. The bust must have been easier than they expected. Funny, he hadn't heard Ecto pull in. Ray sat up to see over the back of the couch. "Guys?" he asked around a yawn. "How'd it—"

"I hope you don't mind, I let myself in."

At that cool baritone Ray leapt up and spun, tripping on the afghan tangled around his legs and falling to his knees on the couch. Half of him didn't recognize the unfamiliar voice, the suppressed amusement running beneath the icy monotone. The other half knew it instantly, and with the sudden precision of a lock being sprung, every recent event made a terrible sense. Before he spotted the figure in the doorway Ray was bracing to lunge at Kenneth Ulster, fatigue canceled by the charge in his blood of equal shares fear and fury.

He didn't make it. Before he could vault the couch the world flashed white fire, his nerves screaming in almost audible agony before falling silent, dropping him limp to the cushions. His eyes remained open; he couldn't even blink, and only the faintest tingle from his limbs assured him that his body remained at all.

"Ah, so it was the right setting. Good." Ulster, a proton pack strapped over his dark jacket, stepped into Ray's line of sight, blocking the television. "I also helped myself to one of these," and he waved the thrower before his eyes. Ray couldn't focus on the wagging muzzle, but behind it Ulster's face was clear, staring down at him. With perfect clarity he made out the smile playing over the scientist's thin lips. "Your secretary was good enough to show me how it works, last year."

Anger crossed his features and vanished so swiftly it barely could be counted. "You know, there were moments, when I was lucid enough to think of it, that I blamed her for everything. If she hadn't caught me—I wanted to punish her for that. But finally I acknowledged she had only done it for the basest of motivations. Pure emotional attachment, for which of you I can't even figure. It didn't matter anyway.

"None of it did, really, did it, Stantz? She didn't matter. If she hadn't gotten me then, you would have. I'm right, aren't I?" Shipping the thrower, he crouched beside the couch. Very distantly Ray felt the man's hand on his arm, pushing up the loose sleeve of his pajama. "If I had killed Venkman or Spengler, or even hurt them—you would have found me eventually, wouldn't you? You would have hunted until you tracked me down. You're a stubborn man, Stantz. Too much so for your own good."

A silvery glitter drew Ray's attention to Ulster's hands again. The paralysis of the low-level thrower was slowly fading; he could blink, and the tingling was intensifying into pins and needles. He might be able to move his limbs a little but he deliberately stayed still, watching Ulster withdraw from his jacket a tiny vial and a hypodermic, which he inserted into the vial and filled from it. The bottle he returned to the pocket; the needle he tapped the side to disperse bubbles, then bent over Ray again. "You bring faith to your teammates when there is nothing to believe in, and hope when all is hopeless. Our plan can't afford that obstinacy."

Ray acted then, flinging up his arm to knock the needle from the other scientist's hands. But Ulster was ready; he grabbed his victim's wrist and twisted it down over his back, effectively pinning his other arm under him. Still weak from the stream, Ray couldn't turn his head far enough to see the needle go in; he felt it jab into the vein above his wrist, cold fingers clamped over his skin, and then they withdrew. Ulster stepped back, capping the needle with his eyes on Ray and that disturbing, edgy smile contorting his mouth. "In some ways your lot is the easiest. I never liked you, Stantz, but I respect you now, as I failed to before. You were right about the ghosts after all, and the demons. You are a scientist, and a talented one. Perhaps if everything had been different I may have worked with you, learned from you."

Ray felt a heaviness, a warmth in his arm, moving down through the fingers and numbing the pricks of the recovering nerves, up into his body and everything calmed, his thumping heart quieting, rapid breaths slowing. Stealthily he worked his other arm free. Ulster was watching but with his gray eyes so intent on Ray's face he might not see it, the phone knocked to the floor, if he could but drape his fingers over it, open a line and warn the guys...

The limpness was flowing down his arm, and the first warm wave of sleep crashed over him, but though he closed his eyes he fought it, concentrating all his energy on his hand, on the phone, feel the buttons, find the autodial, bring the guys, warn them, had to warn them...

The phone slid out of his hand, falling up off the floor to the ceiling. He levered open his eyes. Ulster's blurred face was close to his, the phone enormous in his great square fingers, thrust close to Ray's eyes. His mouth moved, still smiling. "You are stubborn."

He was drowning in a soft tropical ocean, the waves rocking him. "Wha..." He couldn't move his own mouth, too tired to lift his tongue from his teeth. "Wha...gi' me..."

"The same as you've been getting, only more concentrated." He couldn't see Ulster anymore, and the scientist's words were all blending together, nonsense pouring down on him. "If you're sufficiently acclimatized...well, we'll see. Exact dosages are tricky at this level of precision. You may be strong enough..."

There was more but it washed over him. Distantly he heard Egon's name and fear sparked in him, No, Egon, stay away, he's here, he's here, he'll hurt you too...but Egon had Peter and Winston with him, and they'd protect each other. They'd protect him too, though he barely remembered what he would need protection from. Didn't matter. He could trust them. He was safe.

The final tether to consciousness snapped, Ray drifted away.

"No answer. Ray must be snoozing." Winston hung up Ecto's car phone, momentarily glancing away from the street to his teammate in the passenger's seat. "Anything?"

Egon, bent over the PKE meter in constant attention and fine-tuning as they drove, didn't respond to the question. His silence was answer enough. Taking a route spiraling outward from the warehouse, Winston scanned the sidewalks with eyes peeled, but caught no sight of a brown-suited figure. None of the officers, workers, or reporters had spotted Peter leaving. Presumably he couldn't have gotten far, but the meter was obstinately refusing to detect any trace of his biorhythms.

It hadn't before, Winston reminded himself for the hundredth time. When Ulster had drugged him during the abduction, his signal had been altered enough to be unreadable. On the city streets, with so many thousands of people, tracking a single biorhythmic frequency was damn tricky business to begin with; under these conditions, it might be impossible. That didn't stop Egon from trying.

At the street corner Winston pulled over long enough to lean out the window and ask a man handing religious pamphlets to passers-by if he had seen anyone matching Venkman's description. No luck. With a sigh he guided the vehicle back into the traffic, suggesting, "Maybe we should go to the firehall. He might have gone back." He would have needed to take a cab or a bus, though; the bust had been several miles away. Would he be thinking that clearly or not? Winston rapped his fist against the wheel. Predicting which way Peter would jump wasn't an ability he possessed even under normal circumstances; now...

Egon, though, had a talent for it. The physicist shook his head sharply. "No, he wouldn't have gone home." The declaration was issued through clenched teeth.

Winston threw his teammate another look, observed the rigid line of his back hunched over the instrument, the slight shake of his hands, and decided another tack was needed. "Before you lost your meter to those squid, did you pick up anything else from the demon?"

Egon took a moment to reply, his focus still on the meter he held now. "A signal that might have been influencing Peter? No. I had no warning that he would—"

"Hey, m'man, neither did I, and I was right there." Egon was sounding dangerously close to...something. An edge, on the verge of screaming, or crying, Winston couldn't tell, but the quiver in his usually unshakable teammate's voice worried him. It was too close to the growing desperation he was feeling himself. Everything out of control—"Where'd the demon go, anyway? From what those cops said, they saw something that wasn't the devil fish. Just hopped back to the Netherworld, you think?"

"Unlikely." Egon's tone leveled as he invoked logic to explain. "Even for a powerful demon, a great deal of energy is needed to travel between dimensions. A strong demon originating from the Netherworld may return there to its home with relative ease, but to cross to a different world takes an extremely powerful spell, even if they are assisted by someone here."

Which explained why they weren't hip-deep in demons all the time. Generally that travel impediment was a good thing, but it wasn't as positive now. "So the demon's still hanging around, then. Great." His mind continued the thought even when he would rather it hadn't. If the demon were affecting Peter somehow—or even if it weren't, if it just ran across him now...they didn't know what being this was, but there were quite a few out there with reasons to hate Ghostbusters. And Peter didn't have his pack, let alone—

Can't think like that; this was Pete Venkman they were talking about, whatever his current state of mind. He didn't let anyone or anything get the drop on him. Winston tried to tell himself as much, but he couldn't get the image of Peter's face out of his head, how he'd looked for a moment there, that stark, uncontrollable terror swallowing every spark of reason in his eyes. If he were too busy fighting invisible monsters to see a real one... "Any ideas at all where he'd go?"

"No. Nothing." Egon twisted a dial so savagely the meter squealed in protest. "I should be able to recalibrate to detect his signal, but it will not allow me—damn this worthless piece of junk!" Whatever had been holding back Egon's temper broke like a flooded dam; his frustrated growl climbed to a hair's breadth from screaming. "Useless, obsolete, ineffective garbage, goddamn it!" Choked with rage, he grasped the meter in both hands and raised it overhead to smash it against the dashboard.

"Jesus!" Before the device was reduced to its component parts, Winston swerved to the side of the street and grabbed for Egon's wrists. Ignoring the infuriated honking swelling behind them, he forced his teammate to release the PKE meter, placed it on the seat and then subjected the scientist to a sharp stare. Egon was breathing hard, fists opening and closing spasmodically, gaze on the windshield but his eyes unfocused behind the glasses. "What's wrong?" Winston demanded, twisting to face him and folding his arms. "I know you're scared about Pete, but this ain't you, Egon. What the hell's the matter?"

"I don't know." He seemed to dredge the words up from a pit deep inside, swallowing between each syllable in his effort to calm himself.

"You don't know?" Winston repeated incredulously. "Man, that's not good enough—something's eating you up, what is it? Please!"

Egon shook his head, not denial but echoed confusion.

Winston had to force down the impulse to punch his fists through the windshield. Fracture the glass and watch all the pieces fall down, like everything else around him. "What's going on then, huh? Why are you losing it? Jesus, if I didn't know you better I'd think Peter wasn't the only one on—"

The sentence died in his throat. He sagged back against the seat, the traffic zipping past the window blurring into meaningless noise. "Egon, look at me."

He barely heard his own voice, but Egon obeyed, turning toward Winston with an odd expression and his eyes wide behind his glasses. Wide, and the pupils wider, despite the streetlight shining in them. His breathing was slowing, but still fast, barely noticeable but too rapid.

"Damn," Winston whispered, changed gears and wrenched Ecto into motion again, flipping on the siren. He accelerated, cars clearing from their path as it became evident he wouldn't brake for them. "Damn it." It should have been obvious right off the bat, with none of them acting right—

"Winston?" Egon gripped the dashboard as he took the corner so sharply the vehicle tipped onto two wheels.

"You're under the influence, but it's not supernatural. And Pete wasn't having a flashback," Winston growled. "That was the real thing."

Egon didn't need any further hints. "Ulster. But how—"

"No clue." He was racking his brain as he maneuvered through the evening traffic. Food? Their water supply? Maybe in the air, or while they were sleeping?

"If I am drugged," Egon said, "it cannot be the same substance; my symptoms are nowhere near as extreme. He must have a method of reaching us individually."

"Yeah, and at the worst time, too." Was that dumb luck? If the job had been easier lately and they hadn't all been so stressed to begin with, the signs would have been more noticeable. "We've gotta find Pete and stop this, now."

"Yes," Egon agreed, "but why return to the firehall—" He got it then, the blood draining from his face as he fumbled for the PKE meter, latching onto it like a security blanket. "Ray."

"Maybe he is just sick." Winston wished he could believe that at all. "Just in case—make sure he's okay. How you doing?"

"Passably." Determination overcame any uncertainty in his tone. "Agitated but I can handle it, knowing the source. I don't think you or I are as strongly affected."

They better not be. Ray and Peter needed them. "Don't know if I am at all," Winston said. "I feel fine." Except for being mad as hell and out of his mind with worry. "You check on Ray, if he's doing any worse—"

"I'll bring him to the hospital. A blood test should prove our hypothesis. You—"

"I'm going to keep hunting Pete." If Ulster was behind this...they had to find Peter, now. "Could you fix that meter to track him? Without going ballistic on it?"

"I will try," Egon said, and bent over it again with a forced patience borne of will and necessity.

The city was alive. Why he had never noticed it before, the pulse of the pavement beneath his feet, the subtle curve of the breathing buildings, stretching up taller and taller, seeking the clean air above the smog. Oblivious to that larger life, people rushed by, transient, unimportant. Like ghosts they were, the dead walking the streets. Shadows of some higher beings; a wonder he could see them at all, through the night and the glittering lights. His own shadow danced around him, flickering behind him, in front, to his side, in two and three directions at once as the brilliant gazes of automobiles and streetlights passed over him.

Momentarily taken by dizziness, he leaned against the wall, the brick rough and warm under his palms.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

Could a shade talk? Did he know that voice; did it know him? He couldn't see the speaker's face, only blank darkness where features should be. A ghost trying to lure him to its own fate. Fight it. With the snarl of a cornered animal, he tore himself from the wall, shoved back the specter and fled, half-running, half-falling through the haunted living streets until the danger was far behind him.

On the bright-lit corner he turned a slow circle. The ghost-people all were strangers, but the buildings above them he knew, different now in the animate night but recognizable. The firehall was blocks away; he could head for it, back to the guys. Ray was there. They would help him, fight them off—

Or he would fight them. From the center of his being a tiny voice asked how could he be sure that the ghosts were even real. He couldn't see their faces. No way to know who they were when it wasn't night. Demon's trick. This wasn't who he was. Nothing was, in the dark.

He wanted the night to be over. Dawn. Light, warmth, safety, protection. The firehall, his friends, his home.

Too valuable to damage. Too dangerous to bring the night. Moaning with a pain almost physical, he turned his face from the direction he knew, set his feet on the opposite path and marched it. The street wavered but his stride remained steady. The shadows flowed around him, water parting, slowing to a trickle as the darkness above the glittering eyes of the city deepened. He watched his feet, one in front, then bring the other forward. Every step was harder, every shade closer, and he shivered at their cold, the cold of night. It was all he could do not to leave the path, fly at them and force them away.

Then, from the mouth of a narrow alley, two shadows struck at him. They knocked him from his course, and he lost his way, lost his focus, lost that single tiny voice inside questioning what was and wasn't. Abandoned to the darkness, he fought back.

"Ray!" Egon shouted his teammate's name as he ran into the firehall. Winston had pulled away the moment he slammed Ecto's door, returning to the streets to search for Peter. Alone, Egon entered the silent building and hurried across the garage floor. "Ray?"

No answer. He spun up the spiral stairs so quickly he stumbled when he reached the top, burst into the study gasping his name.

Ray didn't respond. He was stretched out on the couch where they had left him, lying on his side with one arm bent awkwardly back, sound asleep. He didn't move when Egon called to him, his eyes tightly shut and sunken, his face pallid. His chest was barely moving, breaths coming slow and far too shallow. The afghan had fallen to the floor, one hand hanging down over it, fingers slack.

Egon grasped the hand, placed his other on his friend's shoulder and shook him roughly. "Raymond. Wake up, immediately."

Ray's hand was limp in his, the skin cool. His head rolled back and forth with the shaking, but his eyes remained closed. His breathing caught and continued, even slower than before, it sounded to Egon. Desperately he tightened his hold on his friend's hand, pressed the fingers of his other hand to Ray's wrist, then against his throat, seeking the carotid artery. The pulse fluttered there, slow and too weak.

"Damn it," Egon swore, swallowing. Have to keep in control, for Ray's sake..."I'm here, Ray," he whispered, though he knew his friend was too far under to hear him. Squeezing his hand again, he shakily rose and sprinted for the kitchen, the phone. Emergency number, get an ambulance here immediately to determine what was wrong, fix it. He should have made Winston stay, were he here they could drive Ray to the hospital this instant—

But they needed to find Peter as well. They needed another vehicle—Not now. Focus on the present emergency. Ray appeared to be recently drugged. If it were something in the environment he must be removed from its influence as soon as possible. They had to figure this out, before anything worse occurred. If it were Ulster's hand, as seemed logical—if it were in their food—if it were different substances—

His mind churned out a thousand possibilities in a split second, and the only sense Egon could make of any of it was that he must find the right one. Winston and Peter and Ray, all counting on him to find the answer, and if he didn't, if he failed them—

He grabbed the phone and was punching the nine when he heard a distinctive chirp. Not the telephone but a different, thoroughly recognizable tone. The proximity signal of a PKE meter.

Egon spun. He had left the meter on the kitchen counter all week, repeatedly forgetting to take it up to the lab. It needed to be readjusted from its current setting, detecting a particular set of biorhythms he had deemed fruitless to scan further for.

Beep. Beep.

He squinted across the room at the chiming meter, trying to read the tiny screen, how close how close—

"Hello, Spengler. Better hang up that phone before it's as noisy as your meter."

The order was underscored by the rising whine of a charging proton pack. Egon turned slowly, already knowing what he would see. Framed in the kitchen doorway, Ulster nodded in a friendly manner, belied by the proton thrower in his square fingers, the muzzle aimed firmly at Egon's midsection. This close he could not miss, no matter how tightly the stream was set.

Egon dropped the receiver, heard it bounce on the linoleum. He didn't, couldn't, look away from Ulster's face. His former colleague was almost shockingly unchanged. The dark hair was still neatly trimmed, the thin lips slightly curved in that perpetual small, cold smile. The proton pack was incongruous with his charcoal suit, the straps rumpling the smooth line of the jacket. He didn't look like a recent resident of a mental institution; he appeared every inch the reputable scientist, come from an important presentation.

Except in his eyes, where behind gray ice danced a spark of something that should never be found in a human being.

Egon ignored the shiver that ran down his spine at that glitter. "What did you do to Ray?"

"You do have a one track mind," Ulster observed.

Egon took a step toward the man without realizing he'd moved, his hands curling into fists. "What did you do to him?"

The other scientist didn't so much as lift an eyebrow at his approach, only remarked off-handedly, "I'll drop you if you get too close."

"Did you use the thrower on Ray?" Egon mentally ran over the symptoms of a low proton stream stunning. Perhaps it wasn't a drug after all—

"Yes," Ulster said, "but the injection I gave him afterward is more of a problem. I wasn't entirely certain on the dosage. Is he dead?"

Rage and horror collided inside Egon, whiting out the world for an instant. He gripped the countertop, willing himself not to stagger, the aftermath leaving him so drained his voice was monotone. "He was alive. Let me call the hospital, please—" It couldn't be too late, it cannot be—

"No, I don't think so," Ulster denied. "This was my intent, you see. Either way. He may be in a coma, in which case you'll get to watch him slowly waste away. If I don't allow you to get any water or food into him...how long that would take to kill him? I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. He's got enough of the drug in him now that he won't be waking enough to get a snack on his own, anyway. On the other hand, it might be lethal yet. Though probably not, if he's still breathing. I thought his constitution was strong enough.

"It would have been interesting otherwise, however, don't you think, Spengler? If you had come back and your friend was already dead. I might have just slipped out the door. Seen how long it would've taken you to get over the shock to come after me. I'd almost certainly escape, you know. You wouldn't be able to come up with an alternative in time. You hide your emotions decently, but you can't purge them. They slow you down."

"I'm sure the substances you've been feeding me are contributing to that." Egon's head was ringing with the insanity of this. Trapped in his own home, shackled when his hands were free...the phone was at his feet, but he couldn't grab for it; Ulster would stun him before he dialed a single number. Couldn't attack Ulster outright, not unless he came closer, and he wouldn't. The window shade was drawn, denying any opportunity to signal outside.

And Ray was in the other room, sick, drugged...dying...

Ulster's smile widened. "Finally figured it out? I knew you would. After Venkman went off it was inevitable. There was too much for you not to realize it. Did you take him to the hospital?"

"What did you give him?" Egon demanded in return. "The same drug as before?"

"Close enough," Ulster replied easily. "Though the situation was different, both in method of imparting and his physical condition. I expected the longer-term exposure to counteract the uneven dosing and the advantage of resistance conferred by his healthier state, however. Was he as confused as he was before, in your estimation?"

Couldn't allow himself to be baited; that was what Ulster wanted. Instead Egon shot back, "I'm hardly an objective observer. What have you dosed me with?"

The other scientist's eyes brightened with unholy zeal. "Ah, there's a question. It took me the longest to decide what would be best for you. Venkman, it was obvious. And Stantz, I knew I needed him out of the way. But you...it was a difficult choice." He fingered the thrower thoughtfully. "I would have liked to give you the same as Venkman. See how you take to your world disintegrating around you, teach you what it's like to live without logic, without rules. Nothing makes sense. Nothing. It's not there, you tell yourself that, and you don't believe your own words. You can't think, you can only react, reduced to an animal, knowing the demons have stolen your reason but that is all you know—"

He drew a deep breath, wiped the spittle from his lips with his sleeve. His eyes hadn't left Egon once and the thrower didn't waver. The feverish, climbing whine in his speech echoed and died; when he spoke again his voice had returned to the cool baritone. "You would have realized, though, too soon. With Venkman you'd only think it was a flashback, but with both of you... So that, unfortunately, was not an option. There were other substances, of course, that would impair your faculties. I could have put you in a coma like your colleague's now, or made you a veritable vegetable. But it wouldn't be the same.

"It was a risk. With your intelligence intact, it was only a matter of time before you deduced how you and your associates were being affected. But a little added stress...keep you from sleeping, heighten your anxiety. Not much. Enough that you wouldn't be quite as clear, quite as focused. It was a risk. But it paid off admirably." Ulster's eyes all but glowed, a grin wholly unlike his old self stretching his lips back from his even teeth. "Now you're where I wanted you to be.

"I gave it much thought, you know. When I was in the institution—sometimes it was all I allowed myself to think of, for hours. If I concentrated hard enough I could ignore the rest, forget the demons. Stay focused on this. What could I do to you.

"You know what you took from me. You more than anyone in the world know. You and she, the ghost, you stole what mattered most. Taking my thoughts from me and giving them over to the monsters. How could you have done that? You had a right to punish me, perhaps, for what I did to you, though it was for a higher cause. But that punishment—a man's mind is his own, always his own. All I am is what I can think. To violate that—you, a scientist...

"I had to take the same from you. I imagined so many ways to do that—with drugs, with electricity. A well-aimed bullet. Induce a stroke. I had so many ways...but it wouldn't have been the same." Ulster's eyes narrowed. "No, it wouldn't have been. They wouldn't reject you, no matter what I did. Your colleagues, your coworkers, your friends. They would have stood by you, whatever I did to your mind, and they would have found a way to help you.

"And then I knew, knew what I could do. Even worse for you. Worse than losing your mind—perhaps even worse than my loss. It's a weakness, Spengler. To rely on others that way, to have them rely on you. You've broken that, you realize. You've violated their trust, not piecing everything together before. Your so-wonderful team fracturing before your eyes, and you should have grasped it so much sooner, but you didn't. And you won't have a chance to make it up to them. I've seen to that. Everything has already been set in motion. Now I'm only going to watch, Spengler. I'm going to watch you watch them die. And then I'll leave. I won't touch your mind. That is yours.

"But I wonder how much of it you'll have left, with them gone, and that guilt cast over all your thoughts."

Winston searched. He had crossed Fifth Avenue eight times, and every time the lights were brighter as night deepened. Times Square was a riot of brilliant, flashing colors, seeming almost a hallucination itself.

Peter wouldn't go there. Winston knew that instinctively. He had been running, from his demons, from people—if he were at all aware of his surroundings, he would stay away from the crowded areas, the bright places. Probably hiding somewhere, a dark corner where he could wage a private battle and hurt no one. If he was that aware.

Winston hadn't understood fully before. He remembered everything Egon had told them about Peter's responses to the drug, but this... Over time he had become accustomed to dealing with the strange, the wild, the incomprehensible and the unbelievable. He had had to accept what he had known couldn't be real. And the only reason he had managed to do that was because of the other Ghostbusters. His friends. Three scientists assuring him of the reality of what they encountered, and three teammates he could trust to watch his back, and three men just crazy enough to make almost anything seem sane. Peter was a major part of that, always having a wry comment no matter how tight things got, never taking anything at face value but always demanding to know what was going on. He might give the appearance of panic, but he didn't lose his cool. Not when it counted.

Reconciling that friend with the terrified, lost man in the warehouse...it was the drug. Not his fault. Not really Pete at all. It still scared the hell out of Winston. And if Ulster had truly managed to get to Egon—and Ray. God, what if Ray was more than sick? Egon would've called him by now if it had been that bad. But the thought sent icy shivers down Winston's spine. If he hadn't caught on now—he should have realized it sooner. He knew his friends better than that. Why hadn't he guessed before, as soon as everything started going to pieces...

How was it even happening? If it was Ulster—never mind why, that could wait. How was more important; if they couldn't figure that out, what hope did they have of stopping it? Winston's fist tightened as he jerked the stick back, grinding Ecto's gears. Though usually more careful, now he didn't even notice, as he spun the wheel and accelerated around the corner.

The meter, adjusted to the correct distortion of biorhythms, was silent. Peter wasn't in the vicinity. That didn't stop Winston from scanning the street as he sped down it. Dozens of people, in fancy evening attire and grungy street clothes, but none the man he was looking for. Where would Peter go? It wasn't just Ulster. This late, in the darkness, disoriented—Peter would make easy prey for a mugger or a gang. Hell, in his condition he might just as soon run into traffic—

No. With a will honed by years of managing painful memories, Winston shut down that train of thought. He'd find Peter before any of that. That was a fact. He couldn't afford to think otherwise.

At the carphone's sharp twitter he nearly drove onto the curve. Grabbing the receiver before it rang again, he gasped, "Egon?"

"This a Ghostbuster?"

Winston didn't recognize the gruff voice. "Yeah. This is Winston Zeddemore."

"There was no answer at your headquarters, but this number was on file. This is Lieutenant Rawling, NYPD."

His name meant nothing. His title meant everything. Damn it—"Can I help you?" Let it be another bust, just a job—

"Peter Venkman's one of yours, right? Do you know his whereabouts?"

Damn it all. "Not this instant," Winston said carefully.

"Then please send someone down to the local precinct office. We need you to make an identification."

Winston's heart skipped a beat and then tried to make up for it by doubling its rate. "An identification?" he asked dumbly. Not a body, couldn't be—

"A man was brought in. He had no ID on him, but he says he's Venkman, and he seems to be wearing one of your uniforms."

"He's—all right?" That might be too much to ask for, but he was alive, and that was worth a hell of a lot in Winston's book. For the first time in what felt like days he smiled. If Pete was talking—

"He was mugged," answered the cop. "Don't think he was hurt, though. Not badly, at least."

"Then why'd you bring him in?" Winston demanded. "For questioning?" For more than that, if they needed someone else to confirm his identity...

"He's under arrest for disturbing the peace."

"Hold it, if he was the one mugged—"

"He was the guy mugged," the lieutenant told him. "But he was also the guy who beat one of his attackers unconscious and broke the other's arm. Self defense isn't a crime, but Venkman was screaming his head off all the while about demons and men in black. And there wasn't anyone else in the alley."

"How are you doing this?" Egon heard his voice shake, deliberately steadied it. He focused on Ulster's face, using every last snatch of willpower not to break contact with those freezing, mad eyes. "How are you here at all? It couldn't have been easy, escaping from the institution."

His goad failed. The biochemist only smiled. "Actually it was quite simple. Almost as easy as breaking into this place. I'd advise you to improve your security, but that hardly matters now, does it?"

"So what happens now?" At one time he had known Ulster, not well, but enough. He had understood how the other scientist thought, to an extent. Not now. "Do we wait for your associates? You can't be working alone."

That struck a nerve. Ulster's face, pasty under the florescent kitchen light, twisted in fury and smoothed out again. "What I've done to you has been my plan, my action—"

Egon pressed his advantage. "But your escape couldn't have been wholly engineered by yourself, Kenneth. And your state of mind is...improved from what it was—I don't believe that could be your doing, either. Without assistance you could not have done anything."

A muscle in Ulster's cheek twitched as he fought to control his temper. Egon prayed he could hold it. One of his fingers was curled over the trigger of the thrower; the barest motion would activate the stream. Egon didn't want to be stunned. Conscious, he wasn't helpless. Not entirely. He tensed, preparing to dodge, as the biochemist began to snarl, "I came here—"

"Under my aegis," spoke a low, deep voice, disembodied, rattling the dishes in the cupboards. "And you have done well for me, Doctor."

Egon heard the inhuman resonance in the voice, and was not surprised when dark smoke began pouring through the kitchen door, surrounding Ulster. There wasn't a demon born or hatched who didn't like to make an entrance. Through the haze emerged a giant form, impressive even stooped under the low ceiling. Ulster backed away, unwillingly, and still aiming the thrower at Egon, not at the monster he must know.

Scarlet eyes fell on Egon. The terrible horned head tilted in a satiric nod and the grotesque fangs slid apart. "We meet again, Dr. Spengler."

Half of Egon wanted to laugh out loud at the cliche. There was another part of him that wanted only to run from this nightmare. He ignored all of it, standing firm behind the wooden table, and let his voice go cold. "But in my world now."

"For now," allowed the demon. "It will be mine soon. With this one helping me." A massive talon fell on Ulster's shoulder.

The scientist shoved it off. The spark in his eyes had flared to a bonfire. "We succeeded because you helped me! It was my plan, my doing—"

"Yes, and its workings were beautiful to watch. And now you have brought them to where I needed them to be."

"No!" Ulster spat. "It's not completed, not yet! They live—they'll be dead. All but him." He stabbed a vicious finger toward Egon, watching mutely. "We wanted their failure, but they haven't lost yet—we want—"

"Your desires are not mine," the demon purred. "Nor do they matter. I have needs. Demands, which they are now placed to answer."

"Demands! " howled Ulster. "You demand nothing of them but their pain, only their—"

His tirade was cut short by a jarring trill. So out-of-place was the bright sound that it took another ring before Egon recognized the phone, muffled by the demon's bulk. It snapped everything back into a perspective of sorts. The gray smoke was clearing, and the monstrous crouching figure of the demon was hideously incongruous with the small kitchen, one green-gray knee pressed against the oven door and its talons scratching the linoleum. Egon's head was spinning, from the fumes or the drug or plain shock he wasn't sure. Who would be calling? If it were Winston, he would figure out something was up when it wasn't answered. Let it be Winston—

Listening to the phone's final ring, Egon didn't see Ulster turn the dial, but he heard the proton pack's whine shift higher as the power was increased. He looked back to see the biochemist raising the thrower once more, gray eyes narrowed, focusing on Egon as if he were the sole person on the planet. An obscene grin distorted his thin lips. "Demand nothing but your end," he murmured, finger tightening over the trigger as Egon stared in paralyzed disbelief.

Almost idly the demon flicked a massive clawed hand. The thrower went spinning out of Ulster's grasp to the floor. The man followed the weapon, slammed against the counter by another casual wave. "You will not kill him," the demon rebuked him mildly.

Dazed, the biochemist glared up at the monster, fumbling for the thrower. "Our plan was to destroy them," he rasped, "that was the goal—"

"You're a fool, Kenneth, if you thought a demon would plot honestly with you," Egon said. The thrower could do him no harm now; the muzzle was bent perpendicularly and the trigger's casing had cracked. "If all he had wanted was our destruction, he would've simply tried to rip our hearts out—"

"I will devour them yet," the demon rumbled. "But I have need of you first. You are human. You will serve me, to prolong your life that much."

"They won't." Ulster had calmed himself. Ignoring the pain creasing his features, he leaned heavily on the counter and struggled to his feet to speak reasonably to his monstrous associate. "Try to use them and they'll turn on you. Kill them now—better him dead than to give them that chance."

"What do you want of me?" Egon asked swiftly, before Ulster's argument could be considered. He kept his attention divided equally between the man and the monster. The demon might appear the more dangerous, but the scientist was the greater threat. It was his drugs that had already struck down Ray and Peter; it was his eyes now that burned with a fury so intense it might have been supernatural. Better to side with the demon now; any bargain would be worth it, if it would help his friends.

"I desire a door," the demon began, only to be interrupted by another trill from the phone.

"It's them," Ulster hissed. "You'll see—they'll come, his associates, and they'll end this, before either of us get our desire."

"Then they will not come."

"You won't be able to stop them, unless they're all dead." He looked to Egon, fists clenching. Then, coming to a realization, he relaxed. "But you can stop them, Spengler. Tell them to stay away."

The phone's ringing had quit. Another, higher chime broke the silence. Ulster crossed the kitchen in four swift steps, wrenched opened Egon's jumpsuit and took his celphone from the inner pocket. "Answer it," he commanded.

Egon looked from the phone to the demon, watching with an expression that might be curiosity. Did he even understand the nature of phones? But he trusted Ulster's judgment, it seemed.

"Answer it," Ulster repeated, shoving the phone at him as it issued another electronic warble. "Tell your colleague to stay away. But be careful what you say, Spengler." From his pocket he withdrew a hypodermic, tilting it so the light glinted off the metal needle. "Think of an excuse quickly, because if anyone comes here, I'll inject your partner in the other room. And he won't fare so well as he did with the last dose."

Fighting to keep his hands steady, Egon took the phone.

Waiting for an answer he didn't think was coming, Winston debated what to do next. He needed to go to the station, check on Peter, but there was no answer at the firehall, and now no answer from Egon's celphone. It would be a miracle if his heart didn't give out, if the rest of the night kept going like this. Come on, Egon, answer—

"Spengler speaking."

Winston almost dropped the phone. "Egon, thank God. Look, we got problems—"

"Zeddemore, you must listen carefully."

"But Peter—"

"Venkman isn't a major concern."

Winston blinked. He didn't know what shocked him more, the physicist's icy tone, or the statement itself. "Egon, man, what—"

"There is a problem with the containment unit," Egon said, enunciating each word with a cold deliberateness. "It may breach at any time. You are to stay away until I have informed you that it is fixed."

Though definitely a major concern, and certainly a reason to stress, even that disaster wouldn't be enough to freeze his teammate's voice like that. And such an emergency wouldn't negate his worry for Peter—in fact, it would heighten it. The physicist's control was good, but not that good. He shouldn't sound so collected. Either Egon had snapped completely, or the drug was doing unexpected things to him—or he was under a different kind of stress altogether. One he wasn't talking about—one he couldn't talk about, for fear of being overheard. "Egon, you got company?" Winston murmured.

He knew he didn't imagine the relief underlying Egon's even response. "Yes, I believe I can fix it."

"Ulster? Is he there?" whispered Winston.

"You are right, there is a high probability of an overload, among other things."

Other things—someone else? Damn. Of course Ulster had to have help; he didn't vanish from the loony bin on his own. But who, if not the circle that had employed him before...? No way Egon could answer that aloud, though, not if Ulster could hear. Winston racked his brain as he asked, "Ray, how's Ray—"

"I do not require assistance; I can handle this on my own."

Meaning he was alone, meaning Ray—"Oh God, Egon, he's alive, right—"

"The problem is momentarily under control." Which hopefully was an affirmative—had to be an affirmative. Even with Ulster watching like a hawk, Egon wouldn't have been able to hold his composure to deny that.

Ulster must be getting suspicious nonetheless, because before Winston could continue with their personal variation on Twenty Questions Egon spoke hurriedly. "Zeddemore, don't come. You don't want to be destabilized as I was; remember what happened to me as a result of that accident. I'll contact you when the situation is improved. Do you understand?"

"Got it, Egon," Winston said, but before he reached his friend's name Egon had disconnected. Hanging up the carphone, Winston slumped back. 'Don't want to be destabilized'--what'd that mean? He hadn't missed the subtle emphasis. Egon had been accidentally destabilized, years ago, not an incident Winston was likely to forget. They had thought he was dead, and then he was sent to the Netherworld.

The Netherworld. Home to more demons than you could shake a stick at. All signs pointed to a demon in the city now, behind their ghost problem—behind their other problems as well? Someone else—or something else—was at the firehall with Ulster. No one knew how Ulster had gotten out of his cell—teleportation? A magic spell, like a demon might cast? There were plenty of Netherworld demons with reasons, good and not so good, to despise the Ghostbusters. If Ulster somehow contacted one of those...

Egon's destabilization wasn't the only incident they had with the Netherworld. He could have mentioned half a dozen. But that was a memorable one. Not in the least because of the demon they had encountered—one of the most powerful denizens—one of the worst, and probably with one of the biggest grudges against them—

"Oh, shit," Winston swore yet again, pulled into the night streets and roared toward the police station. Whether Peter was still drugged or not, there was no way Winston could handle this on his own.

A doorway. It was so simple. And not so difficult a request to grant, at least from the scientific perspective.

Egon stared up at the demon, who watched him in turn, his eyes scarlet slits. He had explained succinctly, then stopped, waiting for the answer with diabolic patience. Only his tail moved, lashing around his scaled legs as if possessed of its own mind.

A doorway, from Earth to the Netherworld. Open a permanent gate. Of course the demon would want that. Travel between dimensions took so much power; with an external connection, he could arrive at full strength, return without being depleted, perhaps even draw power from his sources in his own realm. And bring others as well, his servants, the lesser demons, the Terror Dogs, who knew what else. An invasion. The city would fall in no time. Even the Ghostbusters at full strength would be hard-pressed to stop it. To do little about it at all, except destroy the conduit as they had done with Gozer, but if they were the builders of that conduit...

Scientifically, Egon could do it. They had crossed dimensions before, though it took a great deal of energy. Transporting the demon would take as much as the containment unit required. To hold open a continuous gate, a wormhole between universes—he couldn't think of anything off the top of his head except a cold fusion generator which could provide enough energy. But he could find a way, if necessary, and at first a simple transporter would probably suit the demon's demands. Enough for him to travel himself and perhaps bring a few of his more powerful servants. Hypothetically, at least, Egon knew he could build such a device.

Rationally, and ethically, he knew he could not. Not as a Ghostbuster; not as a human being. To allow such evil into the world, unchecked—how many would die, for the demon's amusement? How many would he kill just to watch blood flow, and how many more for his dark magics? He could not do this thing.

A movie hero would spit in the demon's eye. Egon wasn't given to such displays, but he should deny him. I would never do such a thing. Such a refutation was right, even if the demon struck him down for it—or allowed Ulster to have his way. It would be the honorable answer.

Desperate men have no time for honor. "I'll do it," Egon agreed quietly. "I have no choice."

"No," the demon said, satisfied. "You will begin now."

"I can't. Not yet," Egon said. "I—"

"You are in no position to bargain, human."

"I'm not bargaining," the physicist denied. "There's a problem. I can't do it alone, what you want. I don't have all the knowledge to build a gate like that—the coordinates, certain theoretical and technical aspects. Ra—The man in the other room, Dr. Stantz. He built the device they used to rescue me from your world. I need his expertise to build what you want. You need both of us. Awake."

"It's a lie!" Ulster cried. "He's lying!"

"It's the truth," Egon calmly replied. Calm outwardly. Inside he barely withstood meeting the other scientist's hateful glare. Because it was a lie. It would take him longer and be far more difficult without Ray's assistance. But it would not be impossible. If Ulster saw that...

Ulster was intelligent, if not at the level of Egon's intellect, then very close, though their fields of expertise differed. His utter rationality could incise almost any problem, crack near any cipher, and even distorted by madness that brilliance hadn't faded. The brightness of his eyes was sharp with more than insanity as he stared at Egon. He was a scientist still, trained to observe, judge objectively, and predict based on what he saw and knew.

But Ulster was not Peter Venkman. He would never have the empathy or the insight to penetrate the secrets in someone's heart. He stared into Egon's eyes, and Egon returned the look, steadily. "I'm not lying."

Ulster faltered, unsure, and then spun on his heel, putting his back to both Egon and the demon. The monster was making his own observations, and seemed relatively satisfied by what he saw. He tail twitched once; then he rumbled, "What you need, you will have. Doctor—"

"He can't. I didn't bring the antidote."

"Then I will bring it. Tell me what I seek." When the doctor didn't reply he growled again, a note of menace entering the bass chord. "Tell me where I will find it."

Ulster turned back. "Fine. Fetch it. The smallest set of bottles, number C-112." His lip curled. "Spengler will be gone by the time you get back, you know. You think I can hold him here, without a weapon?"

Egon's stomach twisted. If the demon did leave, then he could overpower Ulster, he was fairly sure of that, being younger, taller, and more fit than the other man, and Egon's own desperation would probably be a match for his insanity. But if he were armed, another thrower or anything else...Egon doubted he would survive until the demon's return. Ulster wanted his pain, but he wanted his destruction even more. However he accomplished it.

Besides, even if he could defeat Ulster somehow...

The demon laughed, a harsh sound like sandpaper scraped across metal. "He'll be here without you holding him. With his friend on his deathbed, he'll be here. You'll stay as well, Doctor. I'll bring you back if you run. And if you do anything to harm him, so that he cannot do this task for me..." He bent low to bare his fangs before Ulster's face. "You will find that madness does not teach you everything there is to know about pain and fear. Remember, Doctor. They are where I want them now. That means I have no need for you. I will not tolerate your boldness much longer."

Ulster looked tempted to spit in the creature's eye himself. He showed some measure of reason by refraining. The demon drew back, and with a guttural snarl raised his clawed hands. Smoke rose around him; when it fell away he was gone.

Through the fading black vapor Ulster stared at Egon. "And it's just us again."

Egon ignored him. Unless Ulster attacked him first there was no purpose in attacking him, except for the gratification of doing so, and that would in the end accomplish nothing. Instead, as soon as the demon was gone, he hurried to the den.

Ray hadn't moved, his breathing still shallow. But steady. Egon sank to his knees beside the couch, in part to examine his friend closer, mostly because his legs would not support him any longer. He grasped Ray's still hand as he heard footsteps behind him.

"Still alive?" Ulster murmured from the threshold. "That's a shame." When Egon twisted his head toward him, the doctor smiled. "I'm sorry, would you rather I left you two alone?"

"You can go or stay; I honestly couldn't care less," Egon said wearily. He squeezed the cool fingers wrapped in his own, then rested his other hand on his friend's forehead. "I'm here, Ray. You will be all right." Half a promise and half a command. He had to be. Winston was coming; Winston understood—he had been saying something about Peter. Perhaps he had found him. There was a problem, but it couldn't have been as bad as their fears or Winston would have told him. Not even in words; his tone would have been enough. Peter was alive. And Ray would recover. He had to.

He knew Ulster was smirking behind him but if the doctor wasn't interfering it didn't matter. "I'm sorry," Egon whispered, hoping Ray somehow could hear him. Hoping he would have another chance to say it, to all of them. "If I had realized sooner...I'm sorry."

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by smoke billowing from the kitchen signaling the demon's return. Automatically protective, Egon hunched over Ray as Ulster stepped closer to clear the way. Somehow the creature maneuvered his massive bulk through the door of the den. He was clutching a capped glass bottle, ludicrously tiny in his huge talons, which he put into Ulster's hands.

The doctor smiled as he took it. Egon saw the twist of his lips and realized then that no matter the demon's wishes, Ulster would not be breaking from his agenda. "Wait!"

Then Ulster's smile vanished as he squinted at the bottle. Egon closed his mouth as the other scientist suddenly turned on his erstwhile partner. "This is the wrong compound," he snarled coldly. "I said C-112, you cretin—"

"I brought the right potion," the demon told him. There was no anger in his grisly countenance; the baring of his fangs might even have been...amusement? "You asked for the wrong one; I corrected your error."

Egon almost missed the blood draining from Ulster's face, the hesitation before he regained control. Fear. The doctor spoke calmly, but the demon's quick answer had disturbed him. "I didn't make an error. What—"

"I demanded the antidote. To wake this one you bound," and the demon waved a negligent claw toward Ray, "so that he may create what I command. What you requested I bring wouldn't have helped. He cannot work for me efficiently as one of the dead."

Still holding onto Ray's hand, neither willing nor able to release it, Egon glared at Ulster. But the other doctor only gaped at the demon, astonishment overriding both his control and his fear. "How—how did you—you don't know the drugs, how—I never told you the antidote!" he almost screamed. "You couldn't—"

"It was in your thoughts when I posed the question. I plucked it easily," the demon purred.

"My thoughts?" Ulster choked.

"Your mind, which I smoothed for you. You are no longer hunted by your own monsters, are you, Doctor? I keep them back. I am there now, holding them at bay. Shall I leave, and return you to them?" He raised a talon suggestively.

"No!" Ulster shrieked, throwing up his own hands as if to ward off the creature. He lowered them again, gasping, and then with an effort so great sweat shone on his brow, he reestablished his equilibrium. "No," he repeated, composed. "If it's necessary, stay. I simply didn't know it meant you could...read my mind."

"I did not mean you to," the demon rumbled. "It was not necessary for my plans."

Egon saw the hate in Ulster's eyes as he glared at the demon. Outmaneuvered, and only now realizing how badly he had misjudged his ally. The Ghostbuster nearly laughed at the shock written across the man's cold features. He recognized that his own humor owed no small part to shock itself, and had to work to keep the tremor from his voice. "I cannot work without my fr—my colleague," he reminded.

The demon nodded. "Awaken him, Doctor," he commanded.

Ulster jerked at the order, then wordlessly filled the hypodermic. He brushed past Egon and thrust it into Ray's arm, barely pausing to find the vein. Egon held his breath as the amber-tinged solution flowed from the needle into his friend's blood. If the demon were mistaken, if this were not the antidote...

Every fiber of his body was focused on Ray's slow breathing, his cool, motionless hand. Nothing changed as Ulster wrenched the needle out and stood, not bothering to wipe away the dot of blood that welled where the skin had been pierced. Egon pressed his fingers over the tiny wound.

"It'll be at least half an hour before there's any effect," Ulster said dispassionately. "I'm sure you can begin to plan out whatever you'll build."

"Yes. Begin," the demon ordered.

Egon had no choice. Not yet, not until Ray woke up. Checking his teammate's pulse one more time to assure himself there was no change, for good or ill, he rose and led his enemies up to the lab.

It wasn't as bad as Winston thought it might be upon first arriving. The mountain of paperwork before they would even allow him to see Peter—despite the fact that they had been the ones who called for him to make an identification—was at best daunting. His protests to the desk sergeant might as well have been addressed to a brick wall.

Salvation came from an unexpected and unlikely source. Detective Lieutenant Frump arrived five minutes after Winston did. The huge man approached the desk, and before Winston could decide whether to appeal to him or not, the Inspector spoke. "We didn't need you after all, Zeddemore. I ID'ed him. It's Venkman, all right. He's screwed himself over good this time."

There might have been a hint of triumph in his tone. Frump had always had it in for Peter. He didn't want to see him dead, or even falsely arrested, but a legitimate reason to put him behind bars would make the detective's day. At times, Winston could see his point. Peter liked to get on Frump's nerves; it was kind of a hobby, or maybe just natural talent. Either way, there was no time for it now. "I need to see him. I'll post bail, sign whatever, just let me down there—"

"Venkman's not gonna just waltz out of this one," Frump said, halfway pleasantly. "We've got him on three counts and I'm sure we can find more. The language he's used with some of the boys isn't exactly endearing him to them. What happened? If I didn't know him better I'd say your shrink has popped his cork."

Winston winced inwardly, then opened his mouth and cut through all the red tape, the objections, the arguments, with two words. "Remember Gettering?"

The inspector did. Anger swept away the satisfaction in his small eyes. The detective didn't like Peter, but that was nothing compared to his hatred for real lawbreakers. And what the police had found at Gettering's secret lab, the little they had actually gotten hold of and everything it implied, the extent of those activities—Frump wouldn't soon forget.

After that it was easy. There might have even been sympathy in the detective's voice when he told Winston the details of Peter's arrest, leading the way to the holding cells. "We've got him alone," he said shortly, and without explaining he unlocked the door and gestured Winston inside.

It looked the same—it might have been the same cell they had put Kenneth Ulster in, almost a year ago. Where Winston had watched Egon confront his former colleague, and the ghost had come, and the doctor had lost it. But Egon wasn't here now; it was only Winston, and the man behind the bars. Not Ulster now. Tall, brown-haired, brown jumpsuit.

"Pete?"

He jerked around as if yanked by a string. "Yo, Zed. Come to spring me?"

Jesus, no wonder they'd arrested him. It didn't take an MD to see he was high on something. If his pupils were any more dilated his eyes would be solid black. "They don't believe I'm not drunk," Peter said. His voice had an odd singsong quality, not monotone but emotionless. "Even with nothing on my breath. Think I should let them take a sample and try to figure out what's in my blood?"

"No." He couldn't catch Peter's eyes, moving over and past him without ever focusing. But he wasn't hallucinating, and he looked steady on his feet. "I think we've got to get you out of here, we have to get to the firehall—"

"No," Peter snapped. His darting gaze lit on Winston's face and remained fixed for an instant. "Take a real good look, Zed. All cylinders aren't firing. I'm staying put until this is over. It's safer." Not for him, of course. Especially not if he went through withdrawal as he had before. But for them...

"That's why we gotta go back," Winston said in a rush. "It's not just you. Egon's been way off, and Ray's not just sick—"

Peter lunged forward, against the bars. "Ray—dammit, what happened to Ray?"

"I don't know. Some kind of poison, I guess—it's Ulster. It's been him all along. You aren't having flashbacks; you're getting dosed. We all have been, I don't know how, but—he's at the firehall now, Pete."

"Ulster?" Peter's eyes were wide with more than the drug.

Winston nodded. "It's worse—Egon's there, and Ray, Ulster's holding them, but it's not just Ulster. Remember what Egon was saying about a demon in the city?"

Peter closed his eyes, drew a deep breath. He wrapped his hands around the bars as if for support, then opened his eyes. "You better tell me. Everything."

Winston put his hand over Peter's. "You gonna be all right?"

"No," he said flatly, and Winston felt a tremor vibrate through his clenched fist. "But I'll manage."

He would. Drugged, under arrest, against Ulster, demons—he had to. So he would. There wasn't anything more to it than that.

Ray awoke by degrees, as if he were being dug up from the ground, layers of mud slowly stripped away. He was lying down with his eyes closed. Gradually light filtered through his lids, feeling returned to his heavy body. Lying on something soft, giving under his weight. One arm stiff beneath him. That would be all pins and needles when he moved it. The rough yarn under his other hand...the afghan. The couch. He was on the couch, he remembered, but he couldn't hear the television...he had been watching the news, the guys were on the bust, and he—

Everything flooded his memory at once. With a gasp his eyes snapped open and he struggled to sit up, blinking rapidly to bring the room into focus.

"Ray?" He barely recognized Egon's voice, and then his friend's arms wrapped around him, tightly enough to be painful. Like he was afraid he'd be ripped away. And he was shaking; Ray felt him shiver, as if the warm room were an icebox.

"Egon?" he asked unsurely.

Before he could move Egon drew back, adjusting his glasses. "Ray," he repeated, calm, that brief contact enough to warm him. "How do you feel?"

"What? I'm fine—" Ray grabbed Egon's arm. "Egon, he was here, Ulster—" Then he looked past his friend to the man standing in the doorway and stopped. "Oh."

Ulster smirked. "If you're both well, then there's nothing stopping you from working now, is there?"

"I suppose not," Egon said stiffly. "Can you stand, Ray?"

"Of course I can." Ray proved it by pushing to his feet, then grabbed Egon's arm when his head spun. While bending down to let the blood to flow back to his head, he whispered to Egon, "What work? What are we doing?"

"I'll explain in the lab—you're sure you're all right?" Egon's sharps eyes raked over him, seeking any signs to the contrary.

"We're not all right," Ray hissed, surreptitiously indicating Ulster. "But I'm—what'd he give me?" He remembered Ulster injecting him, but what had he said? It must have been a tranquilizer; the worst he felt was a little sluggish. Better than he'd been the last few days.

Egon's face was pale. "It doesn't matter," he murmured. "You're fine now."

That was relative. Ray had a fairly wide concept of 'fine,' and, as Peter was apt to point out, an even wider one of what was 'great,' but neither included Kenneth Ulster chaperoning them up the stairs to the lab. They definitely did not include the demon awaiting them there, nor his demands.

Neither Winston nor Peter was in sight. Ray's momentary rush of hope was crushed when Egon explained the reasons for their absence. Ulster smiled, his white teeth bright. The demon only watched, hardly seeming to care what they talked about as long as they did what he wanted, though when Egon described their fruitless search for Peter his lips curled over his fangs in a nerve-wracking grin.

Egon himself seemed surprisingly unaffected by everything. He let a quiver enter his tone when he talked of Peter, but Ray watched him and it wasn't in his eyes, quite. He was afraid, and he was upset, but he almost might have been exaggerating it. When he had first grabbed Ray upon waking up, that had been real, and Egon had composed himself immediately to make up for it. The loss of that composure now didn't ring true, not entirely. As if playing up to their audience, Ulster and the demon, letting them see what they wanted to see, the fear, the pain.

Egon would be feeling that, but he wouldn't show it, definitely not to them. He was doing so deliberately, which meant he had a plan. Ray set to figuring it out, and allowed himself a small flicker of hope. It wasn't too difficult to hide it from their enemies' eyes. Even with a plan, this situation was about as far from 'great' as one could get.

He heard the door open and close again. "Pete? How you doing?"

Crouched in the corner of the cell, Peter managed to lift his head. Winston's eyes on him, watching worriedly. He tried to smile, keeping his teeth clenched so they wouldn't chatter. "Been better."

"Yeah." Winston bent down and reached through the bars to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Hang in there—geeze. You're shaking like a maraca. I'm gonna demand a doctor—" He made to stand.

"Wait." It was a struggle, but he stilled the tremors. "I'm okay. Docs won't be any help. Need to get out of here—" He grasped the bars to pull himself up.

Winston stopped him. "Stay put. I got it worked out; they're finishing the office garbage now. We leave soon as an officer comes to let you out."

Peter nodded jerkily. "Thanks. Try my best not to let you down."

"I never worry about that, m'man." Still, Winston studied him without hiding the concern. "You sure you're up to it?"

Not really...but he didn't have that option. "Not that bad. Was a hell of a lot worse before." What he remembered of it, anyway.

Winston shut his eyes momentarily, as if to block it from his own memory. "Better not be that bad, Pete. Or we're going to the hospital straight from here."

"Can't. Egon and Ray got bigger problems."

"They wouldn't see it that way. Dammit, Peter...you better be straight with me." Your life's on the line. Winston's thoughts were so clear they were almost audible.

Peter drew himself up, taking care that his voice didn't waver. "I'm on the level. I can handle this. Give me another hour and I'll be totally fit for busting." That was an obvious lie, but Winston didn't protest it. "Unless Kenny finds a way to get to me in here—"

"Been thinking that over," Winston said. "I know how he's doing it."

"Really?" Peter blinked at him, impressed. Admittedly his mental state wasn't ideal for puzzle-solving, but the mystery had occurred to him.

"It's the demon, Pete—we knew it was around, but we didn't know it had teamed up with Ulster. We knew it had servants, too—those devil fish, but demons often have ghosts following them too, right? Remember this afternoon, the ghosts that got you and Egon?"

The hit-and-run goopers, Slimer's second cousins, that he'd sworn he'd seen before. He had, for the last couple weeks now. Right when they entered a bust site, he and Egon and Ray slimed, and the ghosts gone before they could even fire a stream... "The slime."

Winston nodded. "That's the only thing I can figure. Bet Egon didn't check for physical stuff when he scanned the ectoplasm. You must've absorbed it through your skin—it probably took a while to build up, or they were changing the doses."

"Ray..." Damn it, Ray had worsened every bust they went on, and he hadn't noticed, just chalked it up to exhaustion. Egon, too—and himself, though it wasn't until today he even knew something was wrong. His symptoms were comprehensible, but he should've seen what was happening to his friends—

"I should've caught it a week ago," Winston said. "Far as we can tell he hasn't touched me, so I don't have an excuse. I knew you guys were off, and I didn't think about it—"

Peter nearly laughed, weak, sick, and in pain as he was. "And we say Ray takes guilt trips."

Winston looked to him, startled, and then he grinned, a flash of white teeth. "All right, guilt's on hold until after this is taken care of, agreed?"

"Okay...so why're you smiling?"

"Because it finally sounds like you, m'man." As if that were the best reward he could want, the highest hope he had. Just like that it was back, the strong, reliable steadiness for which the rest of the team always depended on Winston. And in turn it inspired in Peter a grain of his usual confidence, the surety that there was a way through whatever lay before him, and he and his friends would find it.

"Egon, we can't do this." Ray spoke in an undertone, all too aware of the two pairs of unwelcome eyes and ears upon them, Ulster's and the demon's. He didn't know which was more terrible. At least they were not so focused as they had been; half an hour's worth of technobabble had been enough to lose their attention. In the midst of their discussion of phase shift stabilizers and conversion mechanics, Ray had interjected his protestation, hoping for it to slip under their captors' notice.

"On the contrary," Egon returned quietly, "we have built similar portals several times in the past; while difficult, they are not impossible to construct."

"That isn't what I meant," Ray said, knowing that Egon was being deliberately obtuse. But he couldn't help himself. He stepped around the tangle of wires wrapped around the central component of their machine, gesturing for Egon to follow, ostensibly to help him adjust the transistor coils in the back. Once out of their antagonists' direct line of sight, he whispered, "I know you know as well as I do that we can't finish this thing. No matter what they do to us. If he got a gate to the Netherworld—it'd be worse than Gozer winning. So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know yet," Egon said.

"If we made it a one-way portal, when he goes through he wouldn't be able to come back..."

"I'm sure they've both considered that," replied Egon. "I suspect they will bring one or both of us along as insurance, so if they are stranded we will be as well."

"That might be worth it." Ray peered through the frame of the equipment to the scaled green hulk of the demon. "I'd volunteer—"

"That is not an option, Ray. If you did go through, we would have to get you back, and then Ulster and the demon would simply return with you."

"So don't get me back."

"That is not an option," Egon repeated, with more force. His tone dropped again as he asked, "I'm also not sure it would work. The demon did come through once, after all, and he also teleported in my presence."

"Teleported to the Netherworld and back?"

"I am unsure, though the impression I had was he traveled somewhere on Earth. Still, teleportation is not an ability often ascribed to this variety of demon, is it?"

"Not usually, no, but..." Ray nibbled his thumbnail, noticed he was doing so and stopped. "I'm guessing that he originally came from the Netherworld through Ulster, somehow. Whatever that ghost did to him, exactly, I think she warped Kenneth's perception of reality so much that he broke through to the spirit dimensions. But the demon would need a lot of power to physically come, more than we were detecting. He must have some kind of artifact—that's probably what allows him to teleport, too. Usually the only place a demon can apparate is in the Netherworld—since that's where he originated, he's naturally drawn back there. He couldn't return once he got there, however; that's why he wants us to build this portal. But a powerful magical artifact would anchor him here even when he teleported."

"As our instruments are usually calibrated for animate psychokinetic emissions," Egon murmured, "it's reasonable that we wouldn't have detected such an artifact."

"Yes—but if there is one, and we destroy it, then we'd cut most of the demon's power. If we could find it somehow—or if Winston and Peter could—"

Concern tightened Egon's face, but he only said, "We must find a way to get word to them, then. At least to Winston."

"Peter too." Ray caught his friend's hand. "Egon, you know Peter will come through, no matter what they've been doing to him. And he's got Winston. They'll be okay, we have to trust them."

"Having a little tete tete back there?" a cold baritone broke in. They looked over their shoulders to see Ulster leaning around the corner of the table, smiling that stretched mad grin. "Don't worry, I didn't hear anything but that stirring endorsement of your friends." He twisted the final word into an insult. "Given that, I thought you would like to hear that my associate a short while ago noticed two familiar souls approaching this very building. He just dispatched what's needed to take care of them."

As the color drained from Egon and Ray's faces, Ulster nodded sardonically, barely even trying to control his pleasure. "Only an FYI, not really your concern. But I'll let you see how it turns out. Now, gentlemen, if you would, please return to your work."

With Winston's force of will backing him, when the officer arrived Peter managed to stand and walk out of the holding cell under his own power. It didn't flag until he reached Ecto and sank gratefully into the passenger's seat, trying not to let Winston see him catch his breath. A lost cause, from the way Zed looked at him, but his teammate didn't comment, only started the engine.

"We need a game plan," he said once they were on the street. "We don't know what's going on at the firehall, what Ulster's doing, or the demon. Ray and Egon even might have something cooked up, you know them...Pete, you listening?"

He was trying to. Carsickness, hell, the Plague couldn't have anything on this. Half of him wanted to curl up and go to sleep, the other half would've rather simply died and gotten it over with. The few shreds of sanity he'd gathered were barely coping with riding herd over his rebellious body. With fierce effort he focused on what Winston was saying. "Kenny and the demon versus our two mad geniuses. Almost makes you sorry for the demon."

"Pete, you should be at the hospital—"

"No."

Winston didn't try again. Peter closed his eyes and concentrated on staying awake. The nausea actually helped in that. When they stopped moving he dared slit his eyes. Red light, and he recognized the intersection. Only a few blocks from the firehall.

"Almost there," Winston said. "We could try driving in through the front garage, but I think it might be better to go on foot, if you're up for it."

"Sure thing." Peter hoped that sounded more convincing aloud than it did in his head.

Or not. Winston didn't look at all convinced. "Maybe you should wait in the car, guide me on the walkies—"

"Guide you how? I hope you know the way to the firehall from here, Zed." Peter sat up, took a deep breath and blinked, marshalling the last remnants of his strength. "I'll come, at the least I can provide a distraction—"

He thought at first that he was seeing stars through the city smog, and then he thought he was hallucinating again, and then he realized what those two growing dots in the sky out the window really were.

"Zed, out of the car!" Peter cried, and fumbling with his seatbelt he wrenched open the door and dove out himself. He tumbled out on the pavement just as two blobby masses plunged through Ecto-1's windshield, not breaking the glass but splattering it and the front seats with orange and green slime, glowing with an unearthly pale luster under the streetlights. Dangerous slime, they knew now, laced with more than phantom malice.

Peter twisted his head to follow the goopers as they arced back into the sky and looped around for another pass. He struggled to his feet, waved his arms and shouted to the drivers and pedestrians on the block, "Ghostbusters! Everyone clear off the street! Call the police," he ordered one middle-aged woman with a celphone in hand, "and move it!"

No one needed any encouragement. The ghosts were zooming down again, and while they weren't very large nor very dangerous in appearance, their speed and dripping slime were enough incentive for citizens to clear out, or at least retreat to the illusionary safety of buildings. Several drivers opted to flee on foot, their abandoned vehicles providing makeshift blockades.

At least the ghosts didn't appear to be targeting anyone except the Ghostbusters. As one dove for him again Peter threw himself out of the way, watched the orange gooper soar up to the rooftops. Bigger than Slimer, and even uglier if that were possible. And much too familiar. They had had enough experience not to stay too close in the range of the Ghostbusters, and apparently didn't realize they were currently unarmed.

Peter's head spun and he grabbed a parking meter to steady himself. Searching for Winston, he saw him dodge for Ecto-1 and pull a pack and two traps from the trunk. "Toss one over here," he called, rediscovering his sense of balance as he scanned the dark sky, and Winston nodded.

Then his eyes widened. "Pete, behind you!"

Peter whirled, too late. He felt a coldness like ice water envelop him, which transmuted all too quickly into the unforgettable, despised sensation of slime, dripping from his jumpsuit and hair in squishy orange glops. Then lightning rippled and white light flashed as Winston opened the trap, swallowing the ghost into its imprisoning gullet.

Even as his eyes recovered from that burning afterimage, he saw a glimmer of green blur through the maze of streetlights and headlights. As Winston bent to collect the filled trap, the remaining ghost zigzagged like a joyriding UFO and hurtled toward him, determined to cover him in lime protoplasm.

"Look out, Winston!" Peter flung himself at his teammate, shoving him out of the way, and putting himself square in the ghost's path instead. The force of its passage through him was as substantial as a gale wind, knocking him to his knees and soaking whatever the first had missed.

Quick as a cat Winston rolled to his feet and brought up the trap, opening it as the ghost howled toward him. Before it could even shriek protest it was sucked inside and the metal doors slammed shut over it, leaving Winston unscathed.

He dropped the trap and charged to Peter, extending his hand toward him to help him up. Peter almost accepted, then yanked back, falling backwards onto his butt with the effort of his refusal. "Don't touch me!" he gasped.

"Ah, God, Pete." Winston stared at him, horrified. "They got you good..."

"Both of them, yeah." He dragged his hand through his slime-logged hair, gazed at the mix of glowing orange and green covering his sleeve, then clambered to his feet. His hands slipped on the helpful parking meter but he managed to regain his balance; the dizziness had vanished, replaced with the thrum of adrenaline. "Come on. We better take care of things quick."

"Peter—" Winston's face was a picture, a collage of fear and pity and frustrated rage; he looked as if he were anyone else he might have broken down and cried right there on the street. But giving up wasn't Zed's way.

Nor his, either. "Save it, Winston. Hey, better me than you, right? At least one of us will keep their head." He fancied he could feel the drugs in the slime leaching into him, soaking through his skin into his bloodstream. Not so slow poison. Hallucinations and paranoia, the symptoms' onset already, maybe. But at least withdrawal wouldn't be an issue for a while yet. And Ray and Egon needed them. "Now let's move. While I'm still lucid."

Egon wondered if they had made the right decision after all. With little other choice, he and Ray were constructing precisely what the demon had requested. Built from scratch, it would have taken even them a week, but they had the necessary components already, and most of the work was in making the portal big and stable enough to admit a demon, and calibrating it to reach the Netherworld. In truth they could have completed it already—just as in all honesty he could have done it alone. But that gamble had paid off, at least; Ray worked beside him, healthier than he had been in too long. Even with Ulster's interference, Egon couldn't believe that he hadn't realized how off Ray had been in the past week. But at least now he was all right.

That relief, though great, was not enough to counter his fear for Winston and Peter, however. Not to mention the terror that he and Ray were doing what they had always promised they would not, no matter their devotion to science—they were endangering the world. They might as well be building a nuclear bomb for a psychopath, only a demon had even more capacity for evil than the most twisted human being. And then there was Ulster, who possibly disproved that axiom, except Ulster was even less human than the demon. Egon was unsure if this had always been so, but it certainly was true now; his genius could not redress his sadism, or his lust for vengeance.

But they could not afford to refuse the demands. Not to save their own lives; Ray was right in saying that was not important compared to the fate of Earth. But if the demon did have an artifact such as Ray believed, until they located and destroyed it they wouldn't have a chance of defeating the monster. And while the demon's current state might not be enough to threaten the whole world, he certainly could take out a good chunk of it. The city of New York very well might not survive his wrath.

So they delayed one danger, by creating the possibility for an even greater danger. Egon did not approve of the logic, but he could see no other recourse. The only solution he could come up with was Ray's—destroy the portal once the demon had crossed through it, not allowing it to return. And he would make sure that he was the one the demon brought through for insurance. He had been stranded in the Netherworld before; for the sake of his friends and his world he was willing to die there. Far better him than the others. His only worry was that the artifact might still allow the demon to return somehow, but he might buy the other Ghostbusters enough time to dispose of that threat as well.

So fixed was Egon on this course that he didn't notice Ray's determined mien which exactly mirrored his own, down to the squared jaw and steady hands as they worked on the final construction.

Unaware of his teammate's own plans, Egon concentrated on making the delicate refinements in the phase calibrator needed to focus their makeshift portal on the Netherworld. With the increased sensitivity, the waveform would adjust to match any detected phase transformations and automatically open the portal to the corresponding dimension...

Absorbed in the necessary complex mental calculations, he was startled back to full awareness by the crash of shattering glass.

By the time Egon's head jerked up a split second later, Ulster was already pounding to the door. But too late; the demon with its inhuman agility was faster still, somehow maneuvering its massive bulk through the door to thunder to the bedroom adjacent to the lab.

Egon and Ray both raced to the hall, right at Ulster's heels. The demon in the bedroom doorway blocked their view, but they all heard the distinctive whine of a charging proton pack, then saw the coruscating energy flash in an electrified corona over the creature's green scales.

The demon only laughed, as if the beam were a light spray of water, then pounced like a giant cat. When he whirled around, his prey was clutched in his talons, struggling fruitlessly against the powerful grip.

Egon took in the brown jumpsuit and wild green eyes in an instant. "Peter," he groaned, torn between relief in seeing him relatively conscious, dismay at his capture, and, overwhelmingly, shock that he was here at all. The broken window leading from the fire-escape outside gave testament to how he had entered, but how could he have been so foolish? Surely he knew he would have been heard—he hadn't even tried to sneak. But he also should have known that the proton pack on his back would be useless against a demon such as this.

And yet Peter's eyes, though wide and dilated, appeared aware, and the cocky smile he gave Egon and Ray, even as the demon's claws bit into his shoulder, was unmistakably their teammate, not a drug-confused victim. "Hey, guys," he drawled.

The demon flung him down. Ray leapt forward in time to keep Peter's skull from cracking against the floorboards. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, but Peter extricated himself immediately, scrambling out of contact. "Stay back, Tex. You don't want to get this stuff on you."

Ray pushed up onto his knees and stared at him, wide-eyed. "Oh, no, Peter," he whispered, wiping his hands on his tan pants.

"You were slimed again?" Egon demanded, seeing the tell-tale traces staining the brown jumpsuit. He shook his head in horror.

Behind him he heard a laugh, a chuckle growing to a full-throated, hysterical chortle. "Quite an amazing team, Spengler!" Ulster howled. "What an impressive rescue attempt! We should let him keep the weapon—so we can watch him turn it on you when the drugs take effect." He swaggered forward to where Peter was clambering up, almost negligently kicked his feet out from under him to send him sprawling again. "So the phantoms found you. Did they get your teammate too—is that why he's not here? Or is he creep—"

Ulster broke off abruptly, narrowed his eyes down at Peter. "Which ghost got you?" he snarled.

Peter's mouth stretched into a grin only a hair's breadth away from a grimace of pain. "Why do you ask?"

"Which one?" Ulster demanded, but even as he snarled he was retreating a step back, his eyes locked on the Ghostbuster.

Peter climbed to his feet, slowly—not like it was an effort, but with a cautious deliberation, almost graceful. He stared down at his hands, opening and closing his fists as if to jog the flow of blood. Egon, seeing the sweat beading on his forehead, wondered if the hallucinogen were taking hold. "Peter," he said quietly, trying to sound reassuring.

Peter's head came up and his gaze passed Ulster to fix on Ray, then Egon. His pupils had dilated even further, so all that was visible of the green was a bare rim around the black holes. Yet his face held none of the terror Egon expected to see. Instead he was smiling, a terrible and vicious grin. "Hey, Spengs, what do you think?" He spread his arms as if putting himself on display. "Green and orange aren't usually my colors, but I can pull off anything, right, Ray?"

Ulster's face distorted horribly. "You mixed—both—" he gasped, and then he whirled to the demon, all semblance of composure smashed. "The lab!" he cried. "Bring compound B-6, immediately!"

Either the doctor's tone or something read on his mind provided sufficient impetus for the demon to obey. Sulfurous smoke poured from an invisible furnace to engulf the horned figure. In seconds he was invisible—

"Oh no you don't!" Peter yelled, and then he sprang, diving with impossible speed into the heart of the choking clouds.

"Peter!" Egon heard Ray shout, echoing his own cry. An instant later, as the blond scientist coughed and tried to peer through his fogging glasses, a wind from nowhere blew the smoke away, leaving behind no trace of the demon—or Peter.

"Fool!" Ulster screamed, without specifying to whom he referred.

"Peter!" Ray shouted.

"What happened?" Egon demanded, turning on Ulster. "What did you do to him?!"

"Me?" Ulster brayed. "Not my idea! Either the ghosts' ineptitude or your moronic teammate's—not me!" Then he seemed to recall himself, straightening up while darting a nervous glance to Ray as he realized he was outnumbered and unarmed. "I know where they've gone," he hissed, backing away. "Kill me and you'll never know—"

"Egon, stop him!" Ray lunged for Ulster. Egon, internally cursing himself, grabbed for him too, but the mad doctor eluded them, slipping free like an eel and dashing for the lab. Egon swore aloud as he pursued. There was equipment there with the potential to be weaponry, and Ulster had surely had enough time to figure out what to grab.

The door slammed shut and the lock rattled. Egon pounded uselessly on the paneling.

"Together," Ray said, and side by side they crashed their shoulders against the door, but the lock held. Ulster must be occupied locating a weapon; he offered no sarcasm for their efforts.

"Again!" Ego panted, and they slammed into the door again, rattling its hinges. How could this be so difficult? In the movies doors always gave with a single good kick.

They drew back to throw themselves against the wood a third time, but before they could complete their battering ram impression, they heard the bolt slide back, and then the door swung open.

Framed in the doorway stood Winston, blinking at them. "Ray, thank God," he breathed, then asked anxiously, "You guys okay?"

"I guess..." Ray began.

"Hold on, where's Pete?" Winston cut him off.

"Where's Ulster?" Egon demanded in turn.

Winston flashed a quick grin and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. Ulster lay on his back on the floor behind him, his eyes closed and an overturned bench on his chest. Chips and screws were scattered around him like cast seed.

"Sorry about the mess," Winston said. His other hand he shook out, flexing bruised knuckles, a match to the purple spreading over Ulster's chin. "But since you guys all had your shot at him, I figured it was finally my turn." The satisfaction in his voice fell away as he turned back to them, cancelled by concern. "Now, where the hell is Peter?"

Peter heard his teammates shouting, but by then it was too late; he had already flung himself at the demon. As his arms locked around the scaly neck, the monster tipped back its head so its horns brushed his hair, and bellowed like a wounded bull in a Spanish arena.

The fog flickered. Peter hung on grimly as reality shivered like a heat mirage, then reestablished itself as a room with lower ceilings and florescent lights. Three long counters were arrayed across the broad tile floor, spread with glass apparatuses and bottles of multi-hued chemicals.

The demon seemed smaller—perhaps it had shrunk to accommodate the altered surroundings; one could never tell with supernatural entities. At any rate his grip was looser around the thick neck, and before he could readjust his hold the demon bucked like a champion bronco and sent him flying.

He hit the edge of one of the metal counters, flipped over the top to land square on the proton pack on his back. The horned shadow loomed over him. Unbuckling the straps, he squirmed free of the pack, kicking it into the corner as he scooted away. It wouldn't do much good against the demon without a destabilizer, and that was back at the firehall, not wherever he was now.

His blood was pounding in his ears, a shriek building in his throat, though not of fear. The demon ignored him, pacing down the aisles, scanning the flasks on the smooth counters. Searching for whatever formula Kenny had demanded. The antidote.

Peter flexed his fingers, felt their strength like sharpened claws and began to understand the doctor's desperation. Mixing drugs was never a good idea. Reactions could combine in unpredictable ways. He definitely didn't feel normal, but the terror hadn't come, nor the confusion of the hallucinations. The far opposite, in fact; his senses had a vividness to match the electric energy pumping through his veins. Maybe it was an illusion, a deceptive high. Or maybe not. Ulster had really been scared.

Ulster was with his teammates now. Had to get back to them—but he didn't know how he had even gotten here, or even where here was. What were likely windows lined the far wall, but they were covered with light-blocking shades. The decor looked more human than supernatural, though that was only a judgment call. Still, demons didn't employ electric generators or mass-produce test-tubes last he checked. Probably somewhere on Earth, but they could be anywhere on the planet. Ulster hadn't minded keeping a safe distance from his victims before...

Something shining caught his eye. Now that looked supernatural: a mirror standing a good seven feet tall, with a frame of rough dark wood supported on carved claw feet. It didn't belong in a biochemistry laboratory, certainly. A fiend's device, or he was no Ghostbuster.

Ducking beneath the counter, he crawled toward the mirror. He was only a few feet away when the demon leapt nimbly across the room to land square between him and his target, its claws gashing the tile floor. The monster growled as Peter jerked backwards, scrambling to his feet. Before he could dodge, it spread one massive talon and, almost negligently, batted him aside.

He crashed into the opposite counter, and heard something crack in his chest, the sound driving through him like a gunshot. Flattening his palm on the countertop he pushed himself up, braced for the agony of a broken rib.

But there was only a faint twinge, like a toothache deadened by the dentist. The dull roar in the back of his mind was rising, waves smashing against the fortress of his sanity. Eroding it stone by stone, and what flew screaming from those dungeons was neither terror nor a nightmare, but a fury so purely intense it could be mistaken for ecstasy.

He swept his arm across the nearest countertop, knocking the glass to the floor in a chiming cascade. Steaming liquid rose from the devastation, and the demon, examining the mirror for damage, whirled about, its scarlet eyes blazing. Idly Peter wondered if his own burned as deliriously. "Whoops," he said, the words echoing as if his throat were hollow. "Hope you weren't looking for one of those."

Then, with a feral grin which would have done a werewolf proud, he leapt for the demon's throat. The creature snarled, probably in surprise more than anything, and raised its talons to snatch him up.

The snarl changed to a shocked hiss as its prey almost effortlessly wrenched free of the steel grasp. The human caught one scaled wrist and twisted it down with a sharp jerk. With a fluid click the joint bent at an angle unnatural even for a monster, and the demon yowled, flinging up its other arm to knock him back. Ducking under the blow, Peter kicked the scaly shins hard, then dove between the bowed legs.

The demon twisted around, but too late did it realize the Ghostbuster's true goal. Even as it leapt for him, Peter smashed his fist into the mirror's sheer black glass. A spiderweb of cracks radiated out from the blow, and then the glass slid from the frame and shattered into a thousand jagged pieces on the floor.

A sourceless wind whipped back his hair, swirling out from the broken mirror. As the demon howled, the obsidian shards melted like ice to an oil that evaporated into black smoke. The dark wood of the frame burst into flame, so azure-hot that it was reduced to ash in seconds.

Peter, throwing himself backward to avoid the phantom fire, felt himself caught and lifted by the neck into the air. The demon had him in one hand, the other arm hanging uselessly at its side. The claws squeezed around his throat, not to strangle but to snap the bones. "Worm!" it raged, its fangs gnashing inches from his nose, its glowing red eyes filling his vision. "Wretched creature, did you think that would stop me? I, Tolay? I am here now in your world and I will not return, until I have a path to bring over my armies! Once your comrades complete my gateway, their blood will feed my lieutenants, and we will march over your world with your skull hung on my standard!"

"You wish," Peter grated, and jackknifed his body, bringing up his knee to slam into the demon's jaw. The horned head snapped back and the talons released their murderous grip. Peter dropped to the floor, rolled immediately to his feet. He could feel blood dripping onto his collar where the claws had scratched down his throat, but that pain too was only a distant concept. Sweat poured down his face as heavily as the blood, and when he raised his arm to wipe it from his eyes, he saw his hand shaking. Probably not much longer before shock overcame the advantages of the drugs.

The peculiar lucidity of that conclusion made him laugh out loud, even as the demon sprang for him again. Peter met the attack squarely and grappled with his foe, inwardly marveling at his own unnatural strength. WWF, eat your heart out. The demon was stronger, but not by much, and he had it over the green monster in speed. Only made sense, since he was on speed, or rather Kenny's own special cocktail, fun for the whole family—and he was definitely losing it.

Wrestling was entertaining and all but he needed to get rid of this monster. He racked his scrambled brains, what had Ray told him before about demons... They couldn't easily come to Earth—they could always go back to the Netherworld, but never willingly, not when it was so difficult to get here. But once they found some loophole, some crack in the door—or a cracked-up doctor—they invariably raised hell. Into destruction, death, pain. And this one was the worst of the worst, and despised the Ghostbusters besides. No wonder Ulster had bonded with it. If he didn't stop it now it would find its way back to the firehall, back to his friends, cutting a swathe of devastation a mile wide along the way. And then the blood would really flow.

No. This ended here.

The demon brought its elbow slamming down, and he barely managed to avoid the crushing blow. Pressed for time, he abruptly dropped and heaved, and the monstrous creature went flying over his shoulder in a remarkably successful judo throw. It smashed through one of the hanging florescent lamps before landing across two counters with a satisfying thud, breaking glass and, with luck, a few bones. Peter didn't waste time watching; he dashed across the lab to where he had been thrown when they had first appeared, searching. There it was—

The demon's roar shook the room, making the lights flicker. Peter snatched up the proton pack and skidded several more feet before spinning around. If anything the demon was more hideous than ever, with black ichor leaking from a gash on its ridged brow and grazes along its broad chest. One leg dragged across the floor, the claws scraping the tile with the earsplitting shriek of fingernails on a blackboard. Peter winced as he lifted the pack.

The demon halted its stalking progress, red eyes narrowed, and then it bellowed a laugh. "You're weakened enough to try your pathetic toy, even knowing it's useless against me?"

"Not quite." Peter forced his grim smirk broader, showing as many teeth, even if they weren't as pointed. "Not quite useless, I mean." Deliberately he flipped the row of switches along the back of the proton pack. A red light began blinking urgently, accompanying a nearly inaudible, rising whine.

The scarlet eyes blinked; then it advanced another step, claws screeching along the floor. "What do you think to do?"

Peter stood his ground, the pack gripped in both hands. "No thought needed; already did it." He tightened his fists to keep them from shaking. The whine was louder now, higher and still climbing. "Hear that? Overload. In a minute this pack will blow this block sky-high. Bet even you can't survive your atoms flying apart at lightspeed."

The demon stopped again. "You wouldn't," it snarled. "Risk yourself, other humans—"

"After what you did to me? After what you did to my friends? I'm bringing you down, whatever it takes." The pack's electric shriek rattled his skull; he felt as if he must shout just to be heard over it. "You can't run far enough to escape, and I bet with your looking glass broken you can't do that smoke and mirror trick."

Now the demon took a limping step backward. "You would not—"

Peter advanced a pace, staring up at the monster with his eyes bloodshot and the mad grin still stretching his mouth. "Look at me. You think right now I care?" The electric whine finally broke the threshold of perceivable sound, soaring to an agonized supersonic scream. "You know what they say about revenge, Tolay? How it's a dish best served cold?" His eyes flashed green fire. "Screw it."

White flame exploded out from the proton pack.

The demon threw back its head and roared fit to shake the building's foundations, and then, without smoke or warning, it vanished, leaving behind nothing save the faint pop of air rushing to fill the void it had occupied an instant before.

The white beam cut off, and with it the noise of the powering up. Peter stood stock-still, every nerve in his body attenuated, waiting. A minute passed. The demon did not reappear.

Peter slumped, exhaled a long sigh. "Actually," he remarked to the empty lab, "I've never cared for revenge. Too bitter. Leaves an aftertaste. And it doesn't reheat well." He let the quiescent proton pack slip from his trembling hands and fall to the floor, leaned heavily on the closest counter and grinned at the demon-less space before him. "Guess I should've mentioned that before you split town, huh?"

"All right." Winston grabbed Ulster by the collar and hauled him up, shaking him conscious to growl into his face, "Where'd the demon take Peter?"

The doctor blinked at him owlishly. They had fixed him to a chair with a few strips of duct-tape while he was coming to, and his head was still lolling. His swollen cheek was turning a beautiful dark lavender and he was slightly cross-eyed. Winston shook him again to rattle his brains back into some semblance of sense. Normally he might have had a little compassion for a man so clearly insane, but any shred of sympathy remaining had gone out the window when Egon had explained what had happened to Peter.

Winston's frustration was compounded by the terrible feeling that he had missed yet another crucial detail—mixing drugs was bad, of course he knew that. But the obvious result of both ghosts sliming Peter hadn't occurred to him...though Peter hadn't missed it, Winston was sure. Doped up half out of his head and he still had understood; no wonder he had been so gung-ho to put their plan into effect ASAP. But attacking a demon bare-handed and vanishing to lord knows where had definitely not figured into any part of that plan.

"Where did they go?" he demanded of Ulster again.

"The—the mirror," the doctor stuttered, still dazed.

"The mirror?"

"Hey, that could be—" Ray began, but got no further when the bank of detection equipment on the far side of the lab gave an excited chirp. Both he and Egon converged on the computer, muttering agitatedly.

Winston made sure Ulster remained securely fastened to the chair before calling over to them, "What's up?"

"Unclear," Egon answered, his focus on the monitor as Ray's fingers flew over the keyboard. "There was a surge of psychic energy—Ray, try triangulating from the radio tower refraction—"

"Trying," Ray responded. "It looks like it came from within the city limits—Egon, you recalibrated for stationary PKE concentration?"

"Only to test a hypothesis—I guessed we might be experiencing a reaction to a centralized spectral phenomenon, though I didn't associate that with the possibility of a demonic—"

"Guys," Winston said with growing impatience, "translate the important stuff, please? What's going down?"

Ray ran his fingers through his short auburn hair, an unconscious echo of one of Peter's nervous habits. "Well, judging by these readings, a bunch of psychic energy got released pretty close by. It might not mean anything, but I theorized that the demon might've had an artifact—a power source, kind of, a focus for its magic—"

"And these data are consistent with the destruction of such an object," Egon completed.

Winston frowned. "So you're saying...the demon's magic weapon might have just been blown up?"

"Not precisely a weapon, and not necessarily blown up," Egon replied, "but in essence, yes."

"Could Pete have done it?"

"If he did," Ray said slowly, "and if it really was destroyed—the demon would have lost a lot of power, probably wouldn't be able to do most of what he's been doing—"

"That's good, right?"

But Ray wasn't smiling. "Except he'd still be awfully strong."

Winston got it then, and winced. "And really pissed at the guy who did it..." Damn it, Peter, why are you so good at getting people mad? "We have to find him." He turned back to Ulster, grimly demanded, "Okay, doc, what's your price?"

"Price?" The doctor had recovered himself. His gray eyes glittered like flawed crystal as he drew himself up as well as he was able, taped as he was to the wooden chair. "You think I'd sell my compatriot to you?"

"The demon's not coming back," Ray said, fiercely. Winston felt a frisson run down his spine at the ice in his teammate's usually kind voice. "You heard us. Its artifact is destroyed; it won't be able to teleport back here."

"You're telling me it's powerless?" Ulster sneered. "Hardly. I've seen what that monster can do—it won't need any magic tricks to tear your friend limb from limb."

Ray went white, but didn't look away; Egon inhaled sharply, as if he had been punched in the gut. Winston felt his stomach roil. He didn't let the despair come, however. Instead he blanked his face and reached for his proton pack, stated evenly, "Where are they? "

Ulster's gaze flickered from the pack up to Winton's stony countenance. "No," he said after a moment, a hint of a smirk curling his lips. "My life won't buy you that. Even if you had the guts." The smile broke across his mouth, sadistically gleeful. "I'd rather see Venkman dead."

"Damn you to—" Winston's fingers tightened around the proton thrower, knowing he wouldn't pull the trigger, but never having had to fight the desire so strongly.

At first he thought it was his rage that made the flickering in the corner of his eyes. Then he heard another squeal from the computers, and Egon shouted, "Ray, get down!"

A second later, in the center of the lab, a black hole materialized, or at least a close cousin. The howling, shimmering void rent the air, creating a miniature gale which whipped the loose papers on the tables into a whirlwind and crackled bolts of energy like lightning strikes over the equipment.

"What the—" Winston cried, shielding his eyes with his arm. It was hard to look at, not because it was bright, almost the opposite, as if it sucked all light into its depths and would draw your soul in too. Except its spherical rim was not darkness but clearly defined, a pulsating curve in the air. The storm of its appearance died away, leaving an eerie silence as the hole hovered between the lab tables.

Egon's calm bass broke the vacuum. "So it worked."

"Looks like," Ray agreed. He stood up from where he had taken shelter behind the desk, staring at the phenomenon while he answered Winston, "It's our portal. We were setting it to lock onto any interdimensional breach and open a passage to the same destination—"

"Apparently something—or someone—within reasonably close proximity just crossed over to the Netherworld," Egon concluded.

Winston shook his head. "But didn't you say the demon couldn't teleport?"

"Even a relatively powerless demon can return to its dimension of origin without much effort," Egon began to explain. "The sympathetic resonance of matched phase shifts can induce a transplanar rift with a minimum of—"

Without time to be polite, Winston cut him off, "Could someone else have been brought back with it?" If it had brought Peter to the Netherworld...

He was about to suggest they scan through the portal for their teammate's biorhythms if that was possible, when a truly horrendous screech shattered his thoughts. He didn't even recognize the sound as coming from a human throat until he turned and saw Ulster's gaping mouth.

The doctor was writhing in his bonds, twisting frantically to free himself with his head flinging back and forth wildly. Froth flew from his lips as he screamed, "No! No! Won't—I will not—"

"With the demon gone," Egon remarked from behind Winston, with appalling calm, "its spell must be failing."

The magic holding Ulster's sanity was breaking. As Winston took a step toward the afflicted man, the doctor flung himself backwards, toppling the chair. Winston leapt to catch him, but too late; he slammed against the floor with a bone-jarring crack, the chair back splitting apart. Ulster tore free of the splintered wood, broken bars still fixed to his arms and legs. Panting, he stood unsteadily. His eyes were huge and bulging in their sockets, darting around the lab.

"Hey," Winston said, striving for a soothing tone as he raised his hands placatingly. He had seen altogether too much of that unbalanced bearing in the last twenty-four hours. The madness growing in Ulster's eyes was almost enough to drown the cruelty, but his menace was just as great in this state, if not more. Winston hadn't forgotten Peter's murderous strength. "Why don't you take it easy—"

"No!" Ulster howled, but not to Winston. If he was aware of any of them he gave no sign as he cried, "You can't—can't leave me! A deal—we planned—" Suddenly his twitching gaze found a focus, not any of the Ghostbusters but the hole's disturbing un-darkness. "You cannot flee me," he snarled, and dove toward the portal.

"No!" Egon shouted, "it's unstable—" He lurched to block Ulster. Winston lunged toward him, but missed. Ulster checked Egon like a pro hockey player, knocking him to the floor, and ran headlong into the portal.

Blinding, impossible black light flashed outward in a rippling wave. When Winston could see again, the lab was portal-free, and Ulster was gone.

"Damn it!" Ray swore, uncharacteristically. His fingers flew over the keyboard of the main computer as he stood hunched over it, not taking the time to pull over the stool beside him. "Oh, damn it all, no!"

Winston helped Egon to his feet, verified that he was winded but okay, and then they both went to Ray. Their teammate was almost in tears as he worked the computer, striving to elicit the results he desired. "What's wrong, homeboy?" Winston asked quietly, clasping his shoulder.

Ray shuddered. "The program wasn't ready. The portal wasn't fixed—when it collapsed, the destination coordinates were lost. We can't reopen it—we can't find where it was. If the demon took Peter—"

"If the demon did, then we will find him," Egon said firmly. "You found me in the Netherworld, after all, so it is not impossible."

"But if Ulster made it safely—he would have gone to the same place—"

"You don't know if he did," Winston said. "You don't even know if Peter's there. Have some faith in our brother. I think first of all we should figure out just where the hell—"

At that moment a sharp trill sounded across the lab, and Egon grabbed for the telephone.

Thank God for speed-dial. With his hands shaking this badly Peter wasn't sure if he had even managed to hit that button on his celphone properly, but his call was answered after a single ring. He had to smile at the frantic voice on the other end, a far cry from its usual composure. "Hello? Yes? Is this—this is the Ghostbusters, may I help you, please, who is this?"

"Hey, Egon." Slow down before you sprain something, he wanted to add, but doubted he could manage it without slurring.

"Peter?" In the background he heard a couple eager voices responding, but Egon spoke over them, still rushed, "Are you all right, where are you, the demon is gone, correct?"

"Yup," Peter confirmed the last. "Zed take care of Ulster?"

"Yes, Ulster is...gone." Egon didn't give him a chance to remark on that hesitation, instead pressed, "Peter, are you well? Are you injured?"

"Guess so. Doesn't hurt yet but...I'm kinda messed up." Peter leaned against the wall at his back, wondering if he could manage enough equilibrium to walk across the room to the door. Probably not. Everything wavered and doubled; he blinked to restore his vision to the singular mode. "Wonder drugs wearing off."

"Where are you?" Egon's voice had slowed to a tone of deliberate patience, balanced against stronger emotion. "Peter, tell me where you are."

"Don't be mad, 'gon. Got rid of the demon. Scared it back home. Doin' good."

"Yes, you are, Peter. I am not angry." But Egon still sounded poised on the brink of something shattering. "We've been looking for you—if you're hurt, Peter, let us help you, please. Do you know where you are?"

In the background, he faintly but clearly heard Ray say, "Is he in the Netherworld?" and Winston reply, "Don't think they have cellular service there."

"Not the Netherworld," he said. "Ulster's lab. That's...lemme check." Ah ha, that was why he was by the wall. He remembered now. He could look out the windows, see what he could see. Probably not the Netherworld's wasteland, though Winston might be wrong; surely something unholy had spawned the phone companies...

It took some effort to lift the shades; they were nailed down, and he ended up tearing a long rip down the center to peer outside. It was still night, but the darkness was broken by a thousand lights, none of them stars. He stared at the glowing display for several moments before they shifted into recognizable patterns. Then he laughed aloud.

"Peter?" Egon asked anxiously.

"On the corner of Broadway and Franklin," he said into the phone. "A few stories up. They were right next door!"

Laughing left him breathless. He saw stars and his legs felt rubbery, so he sank to the floor, dropped his head between his knees. His chest was aching with a dull throbbing of which he was becoming steadily more aware.

After a moment he realized that the celphone dangling loosely in his hand was squawking his name. He raised it to his ear again, mumbled, "Sorry. Out of it. You gonna come get me?"

"We're on our way, Peter," Egon assured him. "We'll be right there." Over his bass Peter heard Winston calling, "Hang in there, Pete!" Both were out of breath, as if they were running.

"Egon," he asked.

"Yes, Peter?" Egon immediately replied.

"Ulster's really gone?"

"Yes." Now there was no hesitation, only certainty. "He won't return, Peter. We're safe."

How could wait for later. That they were was enough. "Good," Peter murmured, as the celphone slipped from his clumsy fingers. Unable to muster the will to pick it up, he leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and waited for his friends.

The vista was stone on stone for endless miles, a barren plain spreading as far as the Earth was wide, the distances so improbably immense that they hurt the eye. In the middle of the wasteland rose the castle, less a building than a crude pile of rock roughly hewn with teeth and talon.

Ulster stared at the misbegotten structure, the dead valley, and began to laugh. "Home sweet home?" he inquired ironically through chortles.

"Fool!" Snarling with rage, the demon lifted him bodily, claws digging into his shoulder, before heaving him to the gray dirt. "If you had but stayed, I might have found my way through you back to your world!"

"Stayed—in prison? Or the asylum?" Ulster picked himself up off the ground, red dripping from his lips, his grin wide. He slid one hand into the folds of his torn and stained labcoat as he asked, "How long would it have taken you? A decade? A century?"

"What would you care? Think you that your existence will be easier here? Shall I waste precious power to keep a sniveling, worthless worm whole in body or mind?"

"No!" Ulster began to laugh again. "You wouldn't. Any more than you would have kept me sane on Earth, once I was no longer useful to you. Which is why I had to come. We failed—you failed. I wouldn't suffer you to go unpunished." With that he attacked with the speed of a serpent's strike, springing toward the demon to ram his fist into the scaled thigh.

The monster bellowed, backhanding the human so that he tumbled back, smashing against the rocks. But it was too late; a dot of black ichor beaded on the green flesh. "What have you done?" snarled the demon.

"Just a gift." Ulster knelt in the gravel, spitting out bloody sand. "So I won't be alone in my travails." He held up the hypodermic, now empty, glittering in his hand, then threw it down to shatter on the stone. "It took long hours to verify what compounds were effective with your kind, but I believe the formula will be effective. This is the final test. Together we can explore the unknown thresholds."

His face twisted in a horrifying grimace as the demon cancelled the spell which bound his fractured mind. But even as the darkness returned, he heard a howl, and inhuman though it was he could still hear how it rang with that familiar, absolute terror. Through the madness he screamed with laughter as he listened to the nightmares come to devour them both.

Winston awoke at 6 AM to the unmistakable, urgent knowledge that something was wrong.

He really had to discuss this with Egon or Ray. Before he had taken this job, now so long ago, he hadn't shown one hint of a sixth sense. He had always trusted his intuition, but not like he did now. In the last couple years his instincts and internal urges had advanced to the point that he probably could find employment with the Psychic Friends Network.

Of course this morning it could just as well be nerves. He had been sleeping uneasily of late. It had only been a week, after all.

One week since they had grabbed the PKE meter and run to Ecto-1 parked a block away. While Egon had tried without success to get further response from Peter on the celphone, Winston drove them, sirens wailing, to the street corner he had named. One week since they had followed Ray's anxious commands to the under-construction research facility, set the alarm off when they fried the door's lock and raced up four flights of stairs.

Entering that lab was very high on the list of things that Winston never ever wanted to do again in his lifetime. Crowding through the door, their boots crunching on broken glass, and then seeing Peter, propped motionless against the wall below the windows, his head fallen to one side, the open celphone lying beside his limp hand and blood streaking his brown jumpsuit—of the entire hellish experience, that sight probably had been the worst. Unwilling to let Egon or Ray take that blow personally, Winston had been the one to kneel by their teammate, had reached out half-expecting Peter's bloodless skin to already be cool.

Instead it had been hot, and his pulse racing. Winston had scooped him into his arms and run, Egon and Ray right behind him. He hadn't had to say what they all were thinking, how exactly this mirrored last year, except this time he was the one in the backseat with Egon, cradling Peter against the bumps in the road while Ray rocketed Ecto to the hospital. It hadn't been any easier to bear from that position, feeling first-hand how totally still he lay. And again, once they got him into the doctors' hands, all they could do after that was hope and pray.

In the end it was better—they only kept Venkman for observation for thirty-six hours, and after spending most of that sleeping off the effects of Ulster's concoctions, he came home. Moving a little stiffly with the cracked ribs and swollen knee, but he acted like his old self, up to and including his whiny pleas of infirmity when they went out on the necessary clean-up busts. It seemed that with the demon gone, the peak spectral activity had fallen, and judging by yesterday's total lack of calls they were entering a dry spell. For once Winston looked forward to the boredom.

But he was anything but relaxed now. Nerves cranked to full alert, he scanned the dim bedroom, mentally cataloguing Ray's soft, steady breathing, Egon's rumbled snores, and Peter's—Peter's silence. Winston stared at his teammate's four-poster. Empty, but the rumpled blankets had been tossed aside, so he had come to bed—probably after midnight, per his usual habits. But up at 6 AM, practically with the sun? Something was wrong.

Winston got up, quietly to avoid waking his other two friends, slipped on his bathrobe and padded down the spiral staircase. The kitchen was vacant. He wouldn't put it past their psychologist to ward off insomnia watching morning cartoons, but the TV was blank and silent, the den deserted. Looking over the balcony to the garage he saw Peter's red convertible next to Ecto-1's white bulk.

As he was about to descend to the lobby, the side door opened and Peter entered the firehall, removing his jacket. Winston retreated back to the kitchen and sat at the table, waiting. When Peter reached the top step Winston cleared his throat and said, "Making hay while the sun shines?"

Peter started, then frowned. "'Morning, Zed. Thought you were gonna sleep in?"

"I thought so, too." Winston studied his friend, looking for shadows in the bright green eyes and coming up empty. His face was still a little pale and the turtleneck didn't completely hide the healing scars down his throat, but his smile was genuine. And Winston noticed the knot in his stomach had dissolved with his teammate's arrival.

Still, it was preternaturally early for him to be up and about. "How are you?" Winston asked with quiet seriousness. "Any nightmares?"

"Nope. Well, unless you count the one where I'm dating Michelle Pfeiffer and she dumps me for Batman—"

"You on the level?"

"You think I'd lie about that? I mean, really, what does Batman have that I don't—except scads of money, but Catwoman doesn't—"

"Pete."

"It's gotta be the cape."

"Peter."

"On the level, Zed. That's the sum total of my bad dreams this week. Think I might actually be over them." He ambled to the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice. Winston fetched two glasses from the cabinet and Peter poured for both of them, remarking as he sat at the table, "That wasn't something I'd want to repeat anytime soon..."

"Amen to that," Winston murmured.

"And I don't just mean the withdrawal." He spoke evenly, calmly, and Winston knew it was deliberate, less for his sake than Winston's own. Showing he was all right by his willingness to discuss it. Early in the morning and the walls of Jericho were down, Peter baring his unguarded self to reassure his friend. "Under that particular influence—I can remember it all, clearly. I was still rational, but it wasn't me. I wasn't out of control but I wasn't exactly in control, either, and the thing is, I enjoyed it, while it lasted. I knew it was going to hurt later and I didn't care, not when I was getting the chance to fight back, finally. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline."

Peter took a gulp of juice, then a deep breath. "But even so—it helped, to have it happen again, but go differently. Like I redid the past. I'm not scared anymore. Maybe because I can remember it. Helps to have some idea what it feels like, what to expect if it happens again." He grinned. "Then again, maybe all I needed was the chance to beat the crap out of a not-so-innocent demon."

He took another swallow, and then the smirk dropped as his eyes went sharp. "What about your dreams, Zed?"

"Me?" Winston looked down at the orange liquid sloshing his glass. "Been okay."

"So why are you up so early?"

"I don't know, maybe you leaving woke me?"

"That would explain today, but not yesterday, or the day before."

Winston narrowed his eyes. "I thought you were sleeping well."

"I am." Peter laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "Egon told me you've been up before him every day. What's bugging you?"

"Gee, I wonder." Winston was almost surprised by the sarcasm in his own voice. "That's how many times now that you've nearly died? Or Ray? That this team almost failed?" For some reason something in Peter's exceedingly casual posture angered him as it never had before, that he could be so relaxed so soon after such disaster. "Maybe I'm just getting tired of watch—of jumping from the frying pan into yet another fire."

"Whoa." Peter tipped the chair forward so the front legs clattered onto the linoleum, his expression utterly serious. "What'd you nearly say—getting tired of watching? Watching us, you mean? Sick of babysitting, Winston?"

"Not that and you know it," Winston snapped. The anger flared up, white-hot, blasting out before he could consider the words. "I'm sick of just watching while you go through hell—I know I've been in a lot of tight spots right along with you guys, but in the end I'm always the one who's just standing there, waiting for Egon or Ray to tell me what to do, or for you to pull some damn-fool stunt to save everything—"

"Because you're the sensible one," Peter concluded. "We need a level head on this team, and it sure ain't our mad scientists, and since I'm the dashing hero that leaves you—"

"To be what? What the hell am I? If I'm the one with the level head, then what happened last week?" Winston slammed his fist down on the table, hard enough to rattle the glasses. "I was the only one of us Ulster didn't touch—he must've thought I wasn't important, and he was right! What did I do? Nothing! You guys were falling apart right before my eyes, and did I even notice?"

"Winston—" Peter reached out his hand.

Winston yanked back, his elbow inadvertently bowling over his glass. Orange juice splashed over the table and puddled on the floor. He stared at the mess, embarrassed, the anger snapped as what he had been saying began to register. Stupid, but there was reality to it...not one he wanted to acknowledge, or wanted Peter to acknowledge, that he was the least man on this team, but once spoken was it too late to ignore truth?

Before he could act, Peter grabbed his arm and pushed him back down into his chair. "Sit," he ordered. "Let me be the responsible one this once."

He tore a length of paper towels off the roll and began to mop up the spill. As he knelt on the floor, he said, "You figured it out."

"What?" Winston said softly.

"You figured out what was wrong with us," Peter expanded. "And how Ulster was doing it. You got me out of jail. You snuck in and brought down Ulster before he could wreak havoc in the lab. Not to mention you took out not one but two devilfish on your own." He stood and tossed the sodden towels into the trash, dismissively wiping his hands on his jeans. "If that's nothing then I'm even lazier than I thought, because I haven't done a damn thing in my entire life."

Peter leaned across the table and cuffed Winston on the head before he could duck. "Wise up, Zeddemore," he ordered, then squeezed his shoulder and sat down again. "Not to mention, you forced me to deal. You believed in me, you gave me a reason to believe in myself, a way to fight back, when I was out of options. That might be nothing to you, but not me."

"Pete, I—"

"No, listen. I'm winding up for the grand finale. You want the real reason I'm not having nightmares? It's because of you—you, and Egon, and Ray. And me, too. All of us. We handled it. We were together this time; Kenny couldn't split us up, even with a demon's help. He couldn't divide us, and we beat him and everything he did. That's twice now and I don't need a third time for proof. The way it happened this time, I know we can handle it if it ever happens again. And that's because of all of us. With you being an irreplaceable and absolutely indispensable part of that 'us'."

Winston ducked his head, glad his blush wouldn't show. Peter didn't state that loyalty often or openly, but run into it headlong and it was stronger than six-inch titanium, so powerful it could be humbling. He hadn't intentionally invoked it, but the assurance was what he had needed, consciously or not.

When he raised his head he caught Peter's eye, and realized that even if he hadn't been aware, Peter had. Dr. Venkman, always on the job—but it wasn't the psychologist watching him now. This was his teammate, and one of his best friends. His brother.

Only one thing marred the strength of that realization. "Pete—about that third time..."

"He's gone, Winston." Peter's face and voice were soberly straightforward. "From what we've learned, I believe it. Ulster's not coming back. And I'm not shedding a single tear for his fate."

"Don't look at me for mourning," Winston said. "He dug his own pit to lie in." With that he cast off his last doubts, and looked his teammate dead in the eye. "All right—if you're really sure of that, and you really have been sleeping soundly..."

"Yeah?"

"Why am I talking to you before 6:30 AM?"

"We're all waiting to hear that," remarked a low voice behind them.

Winston looked over his shoulder as Egon entered the kitchen, followed by Ray, who offered a cheerful "Good morning!" to both of them.

Peter cocked his head at his other two teammates. "So how long have you guys been eavesdropping?"

"Long enough." Egon frowned at Winston. "I believe you understand Peter spoke for all of us, at least judging from what I heard?" Ray didn't say anything, but he too watched Winston's expression, and smiled when their friend nodded.

"So," Winston said, after Ray had poured himself a glass of juice and Egon had claimed a cup of caffeine from the coffee maker. They took seats around the table and let him speak for all of them. "We're waiting, Pete."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I was hoping you'd forget..."

"Peter," Egon said reprovingly, "it would take more than coffee to cause such an Earth-shattering event as you willingly out of bed before noon to slip my mind."

"Why are you?" Ray asked bluntly.

"Well, it was meant to be a surprise..." Peter sighed and stuck his hand into his pocket, withdrawing four slim envelopes marked with an airline's stripes. "The travel agency opens early Tuesday morning and I wanted to pick these up without you noticing."

Winston took one of the envelopes, opened it and studied the ticket inside. Then he whistled. "These are for real?"

"After the last month's busts we had enough cash, and since there seems to be a slow spot in the ghost biz right now, I figured it was about time we went on a vacation."

"Janine is going to kill us," Winston remarked. "Going on a two week trip right after she gets back..."

"We're already dead for not telling her what was going on," Ray said cheerfully. "It's probably good that we will be out of the country."

"Peter," Egon said slowly, gaping at the ticket in his hand. "Is this—"

"Yeah, I figured while Zed and I bake on the beaches, you and Ray can check out that new radio telescope array they've set up there. Fun for all." Peter grinned. "And I know Janine's going to be put out, but I think we need this to be just us four. To tell us all 'job well done'."

"And make sure the team's still solid?" Winston asked.

But Peter shook his head. "Don't need to make sure of that." His smile was smaller but more sincere, that expression reserved for they three and no others. "On a bust or on the beach, no matter where, or what, or when, or who the hell is after us. That's what Kenny proved." He looked at his teammates, holding them in his eyes. "This is the one thing that's never in doubt."