Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards for they are subtle and quick to anger.

                                                                                                                        Tolkien: Lord of the Rings

            I will hold on.

            I will get through.

            I will not die

            Away from you.

            I don't know how,

            I don't know when,

            But I will see

            My home again.

            Hold on till then--

            Oh, wait for me!

            I will be free

            and home again...

                                    The Scarlet Pimpernel: Home Again

Once upon a time, there was an arrogant scion of a wealthy family who lived on an island fortress, its towers of glass and steel so high they pierced the sky. All his life the young man had known only wealth and pleasure. He had many friends who valued him, alas, for his fortune and position, but he also had one loyal friend who came from a poor family, and who idolized him.

One day, the poor friend sought his aid, not for money but to help him with a grievous problem, for he was under an evil curse not entirely of his own making, and he was not quite strong enough to face it alone. The rich young man denied him because it was the night of the Grand Ball and he could not spare the time. Without his aid, the friend ventured into a dangerous situation and died.

But even poor young men have families, and the poor young man's beloved uncle was a powerful sorcerer. Summoned to the city of towers, he learned of the wealthy young man's betrayal.

So he came to the wealthy young man and cursed him with an elaborate series of spells, and everyone but his own servants forgot his very existence.

And the years passed with none to mourn the wealthy young man, for his casual friends soon found others with money to claim them and his family never mentioned him again. He grew embittered and angry, and he had no hope.

Until one day, someone challenged the spell....

"And stay in bed," Winston Zeddemore instructed firmly, folding his arms across his chest as he frowned down at his supine comrade. "No sneaking off to the lab or I'm gonna be real pissed off. Peter will be home by six at the latest and he'll read you the riot act if he catches you working when you're supposed to be resting."

"Yeah, and I'll be mad at you too," Ray Stantz agreed sternly. "I know you want to finish up that modification for the ghost traps--I think it'd be cool, too, if we didn't have to attach them to the cables. We'd have a lot wider range to throw them out under ghosts if the miniature power grids worked on them. But Winston and I will be back from the con on Sunday afternoon and I can help you with it then. You'll probably feel a lot better."

"It's only the flu, Ray," Egon Spengler said rather hoarsely. The physicist was in bed at the other Ghostbusters's insistence, although he had propped himself up with pillows and furnished himself with a notebook, three physics tomes, his laptop computer, a calculator, and several number 2 pencils. True, he was weaker than he was prepared to admit and had a tendency to feel, as Peter had so eloquently phrased it, woozy as the dickens, when he got out of bed for a periodic trip to the bathroom, but he should be able to work quite well where he was, resting periodically and taking his medication at appropriate intervals. He appreciated his friends' concern, but he did not believe his health in serious jeopardy. People did not die of the flu in the nineteen-nineties, not unless they totally foolishly ignored medical advice or were unlucky enough to be alone with a worsening condition. He would only be alone for a few hours, and it was not actual solitude, for Janine Melnitz, eager to fuss over him, was only two floors down at her desk. "I plan to stay in bed."

"Why not?" Winston asked with a grin. "You have half the lab in there with you so there's no reason to head across the hall. Just remember, Janine's going to come up and check on you every fifteen minutes, and you know how she gets." Zeddemore gestured to the pitcher of water, the pills, the thermos containing orange juice, the heating pad, the thermometer on the bedside table. All those had been their secretary's contributions to Egon's wellbeing. In addition she came to check on him regularly, more than a little inclined to fuss. Spengler did indeed know how she got. He'd had to endure her concern at every slight illness or minor injury over the past ten years. If Egon didn't stay in bed, the fussing was certain to increase, and all of them knew it. Janine's ardent affection would cow a lesser man than Egon Spengler.

"Yeah, Egon," Ray said with an amused grin. "Besides," the team's occult expert added more seriously, "this is a pretty nasty version of the flu. Sometimes it goes into pneumonia, they say. So you keep taking those pills Dr. Labraccio prescribed and stay in bed. Peter can watch you over the weekend. He even canceled his date tonight to do it--and hasn't even complained about it. He should be home from the TV studio before dark. I just wish Winston and I didn't have to go away for the weekend."

"Yes, Mommy," Egon said with a wry grin. "I'll be fine, guys. There's really no need to fuss over me."

"Janine has her orders," Zeddemore stated firmly, exchanging a wicked smirk with Ray. "At the first sign you're any worse, she'll whip up your mom's magic cure-all and force-feed it to you. I set up the blender for her already."

Egon was certain he blanched. His mother's all-purpose remedy was one of the most foul-tasting concoctions known to man, and she and Janine had conspired against him more than once when he was under the weather.

"And if she says she'll do it, she'll do it," Ray concluded. "Maybe we shouldn't go to the con. It's not like it's in Manhattan, after all."

"Boston's not that far, Ray," Zeddemore reminded him. "And you are the fan guest of honor."

Ray's face lit up at the reminder. He loved going to science fiction conventions and had been thrilled at the invitation to be a guest at this one. "Yeah, isn't it neat? I can hardly wait. Stay in bed, Egon, and I mean it. Let Peter take care of you. You'll be fine."

When the two of them had departed to catch their shuttle flight, Egon set aside his calculator and relaxed against his pillows. Ghostbuster Central felt rather empty without them, but he suspected such thinking was due to the draining nature of his virus and not any sudden desire for solicitude from his teammates. Egon was perhaps the most independent of the team and could work quite happily on his own for hours and days when he was caught up in a project, although he was glad of his buddies' presence when they were with him. Working for hours and days wasn't in the cards now, though. Promising not to go to the lab had been no hardship. He doubted his rubbery legs would support him that far or hold him up once he arrived. Instead he would simply lie in his bed and rest. Take a nap. Peter, who was the guest on a local afternoon talk show, should be returning, gloating over his success, in time for dinner, and would regale Egon with his glory for hours. He loved doing talk shows, and the publicity was good for the business. Maybe by then Egon would feel well enough to leave his bed and eat or to spend a quiet evening stretched out on the couch in front of the television set. For once, Peter, comfort hound that he was, could wait on someone else for a change. Smiling, Egon shut off the laptop, then settled himself more comfortably against his pillows. In moments he was sleeping.

"Who did you say you were?" Janine Melnitz asked suspiciously into the telephone, settling her glasses on her nose with her free hand. Mysterious strangers who asked for Egon personally instead of requesting the services of the team were to be screened carefully. Egon was her own particular responsibility and she meant to protect him while he was sick, whether he wanted to be protected or not.

"Professor Austin Shelby," said the voice on the other end of the line. He sounded like a man in his fifties, possibly even older, and the name was vaguely familiar as if she had heard it in passing a long time ago. "As I said, I'm calling for Egon Spengler."

"Egon is sleeping," the red-haired woman explained protectively. She had just been up to check on him and he'd been fast asleep. Remembering the heat of his face under her light touch, and the way his eyelashes had lain against his cheek, she smiled. "He has the flu. Dr. Venkman will be back by six if you want to talk to a Ghostbuster. We're not taking any new jobs until Monday, not even emergencies."

"No, this is a personal call," Shelby replied, offering an explanation into her waiting silence. "I was Egon's undergraduate advisor at Columbia. I've recently moved back to New York after ten years at Stanford. I'm calling because I owe Egon an apology. When he got into Ghostbusting, I thought he'd sold out to a profitable scam and I told him so in no uncertain terms--far too mercilessly. I've recently done research and talked to people on the subject, and I've read Egon's textbook on ectoplasmic physics and I realize I was in error, limited by a narrow-minded perspective, just as he claimed. I owe Egon a considerable apology and I'd like to tell him so to his face. At our last meeting I was extremely vituperative, and I was totally unfair. I must tell Egon that."

"He'll be really glad to hear it," Janine said quickly, guessing without much doubt that the encounter with Shelby was one Egon had not shared with anyone, not even Peter. The psychologist had a knack for realizing when such things had happened and for worming the truth out of people, but he would have respected Egon's boundaries. She wouldn't be surprised if he didn't have an idea about what had happened, though. "But I can't wake him up. He needs his rest. I'll have to tell him to call you when he wakes up."

"I understand. Don't disturb him of course, if he's ill. But tell him to come to see me. I'd like to apologize to his face."

"You bet I will," Janine said, smiling delightedly at the thought of Egon's reaction. "He'll come as soon as he's well." She vaguely remembered references to a Dr. Shelby and suspected Egon had been badly hurt by a mentor's scorn. The worst insult he could imagine was to be called a bad scientist. "How can he reach you?"

Slimer popped up through the floor and dove at her as she grabbed her pencil to jot down the phone number. Tucking the phone against her ear and holding it in place with her shoulder, she batted at the little green ghost with her free hand as she wrote. "Beat it, Slimer, I'm busy. Okay, what did you say?"

"Six-twenty-seven Briarwood," said the voice in her ear just as the team's ghostly mascot dive-bombed her, wrapping an affectionate arm around her shoulders and giving her a sloppy smooch on her free ear.

Distracted by the ghost when she didn't really have a free hand to fend him off Janine wrote '672 Briarwood' on her notepad then stabbed at Slimer with her pencil, causing him to mutter a disappointed 'aw' and retreat just far enough to be out of range of her deadly weapon. "Take off, Slimer. I mean it. Got it, Dr. Shelby. Phone number?"

"It won't be installed until tomorrow," Shelby said doubtfully, probably wondering about her threats to the spud. "I've just moved in. He can drop by. I'll be home for the next two days unpacking, and after that, if he's still not well enough, I'll call back and leave my new number. Or I can come to see him there, but I would prefer to talk to him alone. I believe it would be easier for both of us."

"Right, I'll tell him."

After she'd hung up, driven off Slimer more thoroughly, and cleaned up from the sliming--if it weren't for the fringe benefits, like the blond physicist upstairs, the annoyances of this job would have driven her away long ago--she hurried up the stairs to the third floor and into the bedroom.

Egon lay sleeping, his face slightly flushed, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. He appeared so young and vulnerable Janine's heart clenched up. Tiptoeing quietly up to his bed, she removed the glasses, folded them, and set them on the table where he would find them when he awakened, then she laid her hand on his forehead. The fever was less. Good, he was resting, he was recovering. He needed the sleep too much for her to disturb him, even with good news. She bent and dropped a butterfly kiss on the tip of his nose, knowing it wouldn't rouse him from the fathoms-deep sleep. Then she took the pencil from behind her ear and wrote quickly on the sheet where she had jotted down the street address, "Your old advisor, Professor Shelby, called and wants to eat crow. He knows now that you're a responsible scientist and says he would like to apologize face to face. He's just moved into town. Address above. No phone yet but will have one in a day or two. I'm so happy for you." She signed her name with a flourish, then she propped the note against his glasses and stood gazing down at him with open affection for a long time before she tiptoed away.

Egon awoke half an hour later feeling cautiously better. He knew, as he lay there stretching comfortably against the pillows, that he was not yet entirely well. He was weak as water, but he believed the worst of the flu had burned itself out. Content simply to lie quietly for a time, he allowed his mind to drift to the trap problem, delighted to discover he could think clearly again. Several modifications occurred to him and he pondered them, working out various solutions in his mind, opening his notebook to scrawl a couple of hasty formulae. Finally, prompted by a call of nature, he sat up slowly, relieved to find the motion was only mildly enervating and didn't make him dizzy.

That was when he discovered Janine's note and picked it up curiously. As he read it, a surge of sheer delight ran through his frame. Shelby, coming around after all these years. It had hurt, and hurt badly, to hear his advisor had believed he would abandon science in favor of dishonest practices, but the older man had not believed in Ghostbusting and had all but thrown Egon from his office.

Egon still remembered that last encounter vividly, both men angry, hurt, and saying things they would later regret, Shelby insisting that he had never been so disappointed in a student in his life. "You were the most gifted physicist I ever trained. You could have done anything. Now you throw it away! I've been concerned for months now over this parapsychology project. Too much influence from that Venkman. He's nothing but a scam artist."

"You don't know Peter. Don't presume to judge him," Egon had snarled, furious. Peter wasn't the issue, but that didn't mean Shelby had the right to fault him. "Peter is not a scam artist. He's--"

"You're throwing everything away," Shelby had cut in. "You're wasting your brain on pseudo-science. I can't believe you seriously mean to continue in such foolishness. I wash my hands of you. Get out of my office. Now!" He had actually pointed at the door like a character in a Victorian melodrama, his face tight with wrath and betrayal.

"I thought you'd trust my judgment," Egon had begun in a low voice. "You know I've done my research. I've always been thorough and meticulous. I know what I'm doing is valid. I can prove--"

"You can prove nothing. Go away. I'm sorry I wasted effort on you." He folded his arms against his chest as he turned his back on the younger man.

Egon had been given no choice but to leave; he could hardly deck his professor and it was beneath his dignity to plead for an extension of the audience. Hurt and betrayed himself, he had stormed out of the office in carefully-induced high dudgeon and buried himself in establishing a lab to his satisfaction in their new headquarters. He had never told Peter or Ray the full story of Shelby's repudiation, simply that Shelby had not approved of their plans to open a business dedicated to the trapping and containing of ghosts. Ray had been sympathetic and full of 'we'll show him,' comments, and Peter had regarded Egon knowingly but had chosen to say nothing, although Egon had suspected at the time that he had understood all too well what Egon felt about the incident.

Even when the business had become a success, even after the team of paranormal investigators and eliminators had defeated Gozer, the Sumerian demi-god who had threatened Manhattan, when Egon had telephoned Shelby in hopes of vindication, the older man had not returned any of his calls. Egon had finally given up. There had been nothing further to do.

That Shelby had finally come to see the value of Egon's job meant so much to the physicist he felt a surge of joy run through him, as good if not better than the medications Greg Labraccio had prescribed to treat the symptoms of his virus. He'd go see Shelby at once. He was well enough for that. After all, he'd be sitting down in the taxi the whole way.

Buoyed up by his adrenaline rush, he made it all the way to the bathroom without needing to stop and rest. The quick shower felt wonderful, and once he had shaved and returned to the bedroom, he was only mildly worn out. Sitting down to put on his shoes and socks helped. As a precaution, he took the regular dose of his medication and drank a glass of orange juice from the thermos Janine had left him. Then, clad in a suit and tie, he ventured downstairs clinging to the rail of the spiral staircase to the second floor, prepared to battle with Janine over his right to go. Crossing the second floor did not unduly drain him. He was definitely on the mend.

Not realizing the secretary had popped in to check on him only moments before he had awakened, he was surprised to find her desk empty and the answering machine on the phone, but it was two-thirty. She was probably on her afternoon break. Sometimes she took it on the second floor in front of the TV although she hadn't been there today, sometimes she went to the cafe down the block.

Egon decided her absence was a reprieve; it had been meant. She would have been sure to object to his plan to visit Shelby, insisting he should wait at least a day until he was better. But Egon could not bear to wait. The older man had been important to him when he was a student. Egon had always respected him for his intellect, his scholarship, his support of his students. Seeing Shelby and the proof that Shelby had come to respect Egon in return mattered more than his temporary weakness. He scribbled Janine a note, then he went out onto the street and flagged down a passing cab.

When Egon gave him the address, the cabby grumbled something about it being all the way up to The Cloisters, but Egon didn't care. He was too excited about the upcoming meeting, and too shaky not to be glad of the opportunity to sit down for the long trip north. The first ten minutes were spent recovering from the strenuous exertion of coming downstairs, slowing his breathing, feeling the thump of his heart returning to normal. But his mind was not on his physical state as he leaned against the leather seat, elbow against the window's edge, his hand supporting his head. He planned what he would say the whole way north.

Although not a vindictive man, a part of him would enjoy the sight of his former advisor eating crow. But that was only one small part. The rest of him was simply relieved that after so long, he would be justified in his mentor's eyes, accepted.

The cabby's, "You sure this is the place, Jack?" woke him from a near doze. Suddenly he realized he was exhausted from the trip even if he'd had nothing to do but sit. He'd probably been wrong to come today, because he was still shaky, and damp with perspiration. Even riding in the cab had stressed him, and only now did he realize it. Perhaps the virus had impaired his judgment. But he knew seeing Shelby would revitalize him. He could rest at the physicist's apartment before he called a cab to return home, or perhaps Peter or Janine could pick him up in Ecto-1 where he could stretch out in the back seat and sleep.

"Six seventy-two Briarwood?" Egon asked.

"Doesn't look like the place is even lived in," the cab driver objected, scratching his head. "Still, you're a Ghostbuster, aren't you, Jack? I saw you on TV a few times, and my kid's got a poster of the four of you. Just the kind of place you'd want to visit."

"My friend just moved in," Egon explained with a hasty glance at what appeared to be a huge, run-down mansion. "He doesn't even have the phone in yet." Egon reached for his wallet. Standing up took more effort than he wanted to think about, but he climbed out of the cab, mopping his face while he waited for his change, then tucking his wallet in his hip pocket. He didn't manage it very well. Odd how shaky and unsteady he felt.

"Well, talk about your classic fixer-upper," the cabby muttered and peeled away, leaving Egon standing unsteadily on the curb. The rest of the short street was given over to apartment buildings, but this house had never been converted to flats. An iron gate hung slightly ajar on rusted hinges, opening into a huge courtyard, with the house surrounding it on three sides as two wings came forward to abut the street. The structure was four stories high with arches and tall towers soaring as high as the ten story apartments on either side of it, creating a down-at-the-heels Disney fantasy castle effect. Once a formal garden with rose bushes and neat flower beds, the courtyard had been permitted to run wild with vines covering the brick walls and even intruding onto the gates themselves. The flagstone path that led across it to the front door was overgrown with weeds and grime, left untended for years. Shelby would have a real job making the house and grounds even remotely presentable.

Lifting his eyes to the building itself, Egon saw dirty windows that revealed nothing behind them, like blank eyes on the grey stone facade. Curious, he pulled out Janine's note and compared the jotted address to the number. He could see the elaborate 6-7-2 above the arch of the double front door, although the 2 had come undone at the top and hung in a tipsy fashion nearly upside down. Shelby must have gotten a rare bargain on the place.

His knees barely holding him up with the return of the virus's symptoms, Egon crossed the courtyard and struggled up the five steps to the front door, pulling himself up hand over hand by the filthy railing. He wasn't well enough to be here. This was foolish. But it was too late to return now. He'd come this far. Shelby would have to see him home.

Pressing the doorbell proved to him one thing. It was broken. No chime of sound rang inside, nothing happened at all. He knocked; hopefully Shelby would have a couch where he could stretch out until he felt stronger. Weary and aching, he leaned against the door for support.

It swung open at his touch, revealing a dusty, deserted entry hall, and nearly pitching him into it.

Clutching the door frame, Egon stepped into the entry out of the sun. "Professor Shelby?" he called, but his voice echoed hollowly through a dust-laden stillness, not even awakening echoes. Overhead, a Tiffany chandelier hung suspended in a mesh of cobwebs. The staircase that rose opposite the front door curved in a vast horseshoe in two directions, reuniting at a second floor balcony. No one was in sight. The house felt empty. Or did it? Were there subliminal voices?

"Someone is here."

"Is he the one?"

"Watch him. Watch him."

"Why is he here?"

"Look at him. He is an intruder."

"Why is he here?"

Or had he imagined them. He was certain he had heard nothing but the pounding of his blood in his veins. Perhaps he was delirious. Perhaps he was dreaming.

This was absurd. Had Janine made a mistake on the address? The empty house felt almost haunted, as if it were holding its breath, as if the half-imagined voices were spirits, long-dead inhabitants of the run-down castle. From the darkly paneled walls, paintings by the Old Masters created a brooding presence, so badly in need of restoration that the shadowy figures contained within the dusty gilt frames might not have been touched since the days of Rembrandt himself. An open doorway beneath the stairs was a menacing square of darkness. In Egon's confused mental state he imagined fanciful shapes bunching there just out of sight, waiting to spring upon him and rend him limb from limb. The house held its breath.

"Professor Shelby?" Egon called again, far more doubtfully than before, automatically lowering his voice half afraid a louder noise would disturb the echoes. Reaching into his inner pocket, he took out his ever-present P.K.E. meter and activated the ghost detection device. At once it stirred to life, quivering in reaction to a multitude of entities. The house was haunted after all--maybe that was why Shelby had come around, since it was hard to doubt the evidence of one's own eyes--but the readings were far from typical, not conventional ghosts. Egon frowned, squinting at the screen that blurred and sharpened before his eyes. Not ghosts? Physical entities? He couldn't see clearly. He was growing dizzy, confused. Was he imagining spirits, eyes upon him? Or were there shadows bunching in all the corners of the hallway, waiting for the moment when he became too weak to fight off their attack?

A sweep of movement faster than a man could run startled him, and the outer door slammed shut, sealing him inside. Whirling shakily, a hand on the newel post to balance himself, Egon found himself facing a tall, cloaked figure, a hood shading but not entirely concealing his savage features. Instead of a standard human face, a muzzle like a wolf's protruded from the hood, lips drawn back to reveal sharp, savage fangs. Eyes gleamed an unlikely blue in the hood's shadows, round like an animal's, although the creature walked upright like a man. Egon's meter went crazy, but the valence was negative. Whatever this creature was, it was physical, not a specter or spook. It was alive and breathing; Egon could hear the harsh rasp of its breath.

"What are you doing here?" it growled at him, the voice rough and grating. Maybe its vocal cords had not been designed for human speech or perhaps it spoke aloud very rarely.

"I'm looking for Professor Shelby," Egon responded, his voice wobbling, his hand tightening on the newel post to keep him on his feet. The room had begun a stately dance around him, revolving slowly, twisting his stomach, confusing him. He didn't know if the man-beast was real or if the being were a figment of delirium. But the meter had reacted. The creature must be real.

"He is come," whispered the subliminal voices. "Maybe he is the one. Treat him gently, master."

"Do not hurt him."

"He is ill."

"There is no one here by that name," the creature growled. "You lie! You have invaded my domain and now you are my prisoner. You will never be free again." He lunged at Egon, grabbing him by the upper arms and shaking him lightly, in spite of the echoes' warnings to the contrary. Egon felt his wallet fall from his pocket and land with a plop on the dusty floor. He didn't think the creature noticed.

The abrupt motion was too much for Egon's depleted physical state. He sagged into a near faint, unable to support himself any longer. If the entity should suddenly let go, he would collapse on the dirty floor, unable to rise again, unable to defend himself.

"You fear me," snarled the beast, a hoarse animal pleasure threading through the savage thrum of his voice. "So be it."

"He may be the one," the subliminal voices chorused.

"Do not hurt him, Master."

"I will not hurt him," growled the entity. "But he perhaps he will serve a purpose here."

Slinging Egon over his shoulder like a dead weight, the beast raced up the stairs, reverting to all fours, although he had been standing upright a moment earlier. The meter slid from Egon's nerveless fingers and clunked down on the landing. "You will regret interfering with me," the harsh voice breathed in Egon's ear. The threat was the last thing he remembered as he sank down and down into the well of darkness.

Peter Venkman strolled into Ghostbuster Central around five-thirty feeling extremely pleased with himself. Although the talk show he'd guested on was a local program, sometimes the best interviews won time on the national news, and this afternoon Peter had been at the top of his form. He'd been witty, clever, holding the audience in the palm of his hand. Jessica Taylor, the hostess, had fallen for him; he had seen it in her eyes. A little effort and she would have been his for the evening, for the night. It would have been so easy.

But Egon was sick and the other two members of the team were up in Boston for that Science Fiction convention. Abandoning the promising romance without a qualm, although it would grow in the telling like a fish story, Peter took the subway home, preening himself whenever he was recognized, happily granting a couple of autographs to a few of his fans. He was on top of the world. A celebrity, the world at his feet. He had the greatest job in the world, and the three best friends known to man. Nothing could ruin his good mood. Egon was probably feeling a lot better by now. He'd love to hear about Peter's interview, and he knew just when to squash Peter's pretensions. Venkman knew he had a tendency to ego, just a tiny little one, but it was there. It wouldn't do to become too smug. The ladies might not like it. Egon was good at stopping him when he needed stopping. After all, what was a guy's best buddy for?

Although it was past her quitting time, Janine was waiting at her desk when Peter let himself into the converted firehall. The minute she saw the psychologist she launched herself at him like a rocket, grabbing his arm and shaking it to be certain she had his attention. "Peter, he's gone. Egon's gone."

Peter's heart dropped into his feet. "Gone? What the heck do you mean, gone?" he demanded. Gone might mean he'd popped out to buy a new tool for his lab, but it also had darker meanings, too. She was scaring him. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," she wailed, clutching him. "It's all my fault."

"What'd you do, come on to him too strong?" Peter asked, hoping the ire that question was sure to rouse in her would cut through her panic and make her think. He could irritate Janine with the best of them and this was probably the perfect time to do it.

His plan worked. She walloped him on the chest with her fist. "Stop it. He was asleep when I checked on him around 2:30. He looked good, like he was improving, so I went down to the coffee shop for my break. I was only gone about fifteen--okay, twenty-five minutes. I knew I couldn't stay longer because I've been checking him every half hour. But when I returned and went up there, he was gone. He'd taken a shower, and his nightshirt was hanging on the hook on the bathroom door. And the note was gone, too." She pushed at her glasses in a gesture she'd probably caught from Egon, whose red-rimmed spectacles had a tendency to slide, and stared up at Peter, fear in her blue eyes.

"Whoa, hold on, back up, old girl. What note?" Peter demanded. "If Egon had felt better, he might have gone out, but he surely wouldn't have done it without telling Janine, would he? He wouldn't sneak away, not unless he was confused because of the virus and didn't know what he was doing.

"Professor Shelby called and wanted to apologize to Egon--" Janine began.

"Shelby!" Peter stiffened, remembered anger flooding him, although he hadn't thought of the physics prof for years. "That jerk! When we left Columbia to start the business, he really got on Egon's case. Egon never would talk about it but I knew it bugged him. I think the creep really dumped on him. I tried to talk to Shelby without telling Egon right around the time we bought the firehouse and he said Egon was a bad scientist and had let him down. I can just imagine what he'd told Egon. I always used to think it might be fun to let a ghost loose in his apartment so he'd need to call us, but then he transferred out to California."

"He's here again. He moved back just recently. And now he's willing to apologize to Egon. He wanted Egon to come over." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Peter's story had obviously failed to endear Shelby to her.

"Did you call him to see if Egon was there?" Peter demanded. The thought of an apology from his former advisor might be reason enough to drag Egon out of a sickbed. But Egon was too sick to be smart. What if he'd arrived there and passed out? What if he'd passed out on the way? Surely he wouldn't have tried to take the subway.

"I can't, he won't have a phone until tomorrow," Janine wailed. "I've been waiting for you to come home and go after him. And to be near the phone in case I got a call."

"Then I'd better go fetch him home," Peter decided without a moment's hesitation. "What's the address, Janine, honey?"

Janine puckered up her nose in an attempt to remember, then snapped her fingers triumphantly. "Six twenty-seven Briarwood. I looked it up because I'd never heard of it before. It's way up by the Cloisters. Just a short little street. I'm coming with you. I'm really worried about him, Peter. I almost went after him myself, but then I thought maybe Shelby would call or something, so I waited."

"You'd better stay here," Peter decided. "Shelby might bring him back himself, and if he does or if Egon shows up on his own, you can call me, okay? I'd hate for him to come home and find nobody here, not if he's feeling worse." He paused then added, "You can even have overtime."

She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, worried enough about Egon not to jump on the overtime offer. "Okay. But bring him home, Peter, because I don't think he was well enough to go. I shouldn't have left the note but I thought it would make him happy."

"It did," Peter told him. "I know it did, Janine. But if he's given himself a relapse, I'm going to make him real unhappy." He opened the door of Ecto and climbed in.

"Hurry, Peter," she encouraged. "I'll call you on the mobile phone if I hear anything at all." She stood watching him back out of the garage, lifting one hand in a forlorn little wave.

Hurry, Peter, Venkman thought to himself as he fought his way through rush-hour traffic. He took the West Side Expressway and Henry Hudson Parkway, siren blaring all the way to clear the traffic from his path. "Egon, you'd better be okay, or I'm gonna tie you down with a strait jacket next time we have to leave you alone. You aren't fit to be out without a keeper!" He let himself imagine all sorts of terrible things; Egon passing out in the cab, or even in the street in front of Shelby's place, Egon in a hospital, only if he was in the hospital, why hadn't anybody phoned headquarters and alerted Janine? If Egon was simply sitting reminiscing with Shelby over old times, Peter meant to brain him, and Janine would probably want a shot at him too.

He cut the siren before he reached Briarwood in case Shelby had been up to funny business, or in case the message had been a phony in an attempt to lure Egon into trouble. The Ghostbusters' enemies were usually ectoplasmic, but a ghost was capable of making a telephone call. Peter still remembered the crisis when Slimer had discovered 900 numbers and had run up their phone bill one month before Ray could stop him. It might have been a trap. Such things didn't happen often, but once or twice over the years they'd been lured into trouble by vengeful ghosts. Usually they faced it as a team. In good health, Egon would be up to anything, but he'd hardly been able to make it to the bathroom when Peter had departed for his interview. He didn't have a proton pack either. All four of them rested in their rack behind Peter.

Six twenty-seven Briarwood proved to be a fairly modern apartment building in decent condition. The street was composed of rows of them except for one run-down old mansion that would have given Ray a big thrill because it was spooky enough to be Dracula's choice of New York abode. Peter couldn't care less about haunted houses, not when Egon might be in trouble, but there was a parking place right in front of it. He squeezed Ecto into the tight space with the skill of long practice and jogged down the block to the correct address, glad to be even that close, the way parking was in the City. "You better be here, Egon," he muttered under his breath as he went up the steps to Shelby's apartment. There was the professor's name on the list beside the buzzers--apartment 4B. Peter pushed the buzzer.

After a few seconds, Shelby's voice came over the speaker. "Who is it?" Peter wouldn't have known his voice out of context, but now, expecting it, he recognized the older man's rumbly bass.

"Peter Venkman. Is Egon still here?"

There was a startled pause. "No, he's not here, Venkman. Your secretary said he was ill, and I didn't expect him until tomorrow. What makes you think he's here?"

"Because he's gone and the note with your address is gone too," Peter explained, making no attempt to disguise his worry. "Buzz me in, I'm coming up there."

Shelby did, and Peter pushed open the door and glanced around for an elevator.

In the ten years since he'd last seen the physicist, Shelby's hair had gone from a deep brown to grey, a slate color that added an element of dignity and class to the man, making him able to pass for an elder statesman. Well over six feet tall and solidly built, his was a commanding presence that had always intimidated undergraduates and probably still did. The crows' feet at the corners of his eyes had deepened and multiplied, and a collection of new lines made a washboard of his forehead. The man was still as intimidating as hell and his eyes still narrowed in the old way at the sight of Peter, peering at the Ghostbuster over the top of a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. Sternly Peter repressed his ready temper. His past history with Egon's advisor didn't matter now, not when Egon was in trouble and needed help.

"Venkman," Shelby greeted. At least he didn't sound quite like he'd encountered a rotten fish in his path the way he had always done at Columbia when forced to encounter Peter at faculty meetings and in Egon's office. He girded himself for the effort and spoke hastily, afraid he would fail if he didn't rush the job. "I must say I believe I owe you an apology too. I had always considered you nothing but a con artist. Yet I just watched you on a talk show and I have to say I was impressed. You know your subject and you present it well. A little too much of a showman for my taste, but then my taste is hardly your motivating factor. I've read some of your published works in academic journals and even in Psychology Today. I'd like to acknowledge you as a legitimate scientist."

Peter felt vindicated, but he pushed that aside and said flippantly. "See a ghost, did you, prof?"

"As a matter of fact, I did, but that's not the issue here."

"No. Egon is." Where the hell was he? Peter's stomach tightened with worry. "Janine--our secretary--thinks he found the note she'd left him about your call and came here, even if he's not well enough to be out of bed yet. He would have wanted to see you--heck, he'd have jumped at the chance--and the flu's probably influenced his judgment. Or he might have felt better and figured he could handle it. So he never showed up?"

"Would you like to search the apartment?" Shelby said dryly. But Peter could see in the depths of his eyes regret for the way he'd treated Egon and a legitimate worry that his former student was in trouble.

Peter knew he didn't have to search. He could read people pretty well, and Shelby's apology had been bona fide. He'd wanted to make peace with Egon, and now he was genuinely concerned for him.

Peter shook his head. "No, what worries me is that he might have passed out in a cab on the way here. Only if that happened, why didn't somebody from he hospital call us?"

"People don't just disappear," Shelby began.

"In New York? They disappear all the time," Peter replied grimly, imagining one horrible scenario after another. "Look, doc, it's been real, but I've gotta find Egon." He started for the door.

"Will you let me know he's all right?" Shelby asked.

"Yeah, we'll tell you," Peter agreed.

"Venkman."

Peter halted in the doorway.

"You know I never liked you."

"Yeah, tell me a new one, Doc." Peter was impatient to be gone.

"Well, I must say that in your worry for Egon, I've seen a whole new side of you. You've grown into a man I can respect. The best of luck to you. Find him." He offered his hand to Peter.

Venkman took it without the hesitation he would once have felt. "I will," he promised as if he were swearing an oath on it in a court of law. "I will."

"Where are you, Egon?" Peter muttered as he walked slowly toward Ecto, glancing up and down the street in hopes of spotting a clue to Egon's disappearance. "You didn't make it this far. Where did you go?"

"Talking to yourself, mister?"

He glanced down and found two boys around ten or eleven years old sitting on the curb beside a fire hydrant, one black one white. They were dressed near-identically in cut off blue jeans, Nikes, and shirts with Michael Jordan's picture on them, although one shirt was blue and one green and the Bulls' star was posed differently on each. It was the blond boy who had spoken.

"He's a Ghostbuster, Thomas," the black boy said. "Just like the other one. You here for the haunted house too, Peter?"

For once, Peter didn't thrill to the proof that his name was a household word. "You saw another Ghostbuster?" he demanded eagerly.

"Yeah, the one with the funny blond hair, Egon," said Thomas. "We thought he was checking out the haunted house. He went right in." He gestured expansively in the direction of the abandoned structure.

"What's in there?" Peter asked, turning to study the moldering mansion through narrowed eyes. Had Egon been distracted by the old place, or had the meter he took with him everywhere given him unexpected readings that were strong enough to distract him from the much-anticipated reunion? He might investigate under those conditions, even without a thrower. And if he had passed out in a deserted house it would explain why no one had called headquarters about him.

"Don't know," said the black boy with a shrug a Frenchman would have envied, sublime unconcern upon his face. "Never been in. It's too weird in there for us."

He and the blond kid, Thomas, bounced to their feet and started down the block. "It's haunted," the blond called over his shoulder. "If you come and bust it, we want to know."

"Egon, what are you doing checking out rattletrap houses when you're supposed to be in bed?" Peter demanded under his breath. "Nobody's paying you for this." Without a second's hesitation, he went around to the back of Ecto, removed a proton pack, and slid his arms through the straps, setting it on his back and fastening the buckle across his stomach. It felt funny over the suit he'd worn on the talk show, but he didn't hesitate. Egon may have entered the house and passed out, but he might have encountered ghosts, and all four packs had hung untouched in their rack before Peter took his own. Egon had not gone armed to his meeting with Professor Shelby. Which would leave him helpless and weak against any paranormal threat he might find lurking within.

On the front steps Peter discovered the first clue to Egon's mysterious disappearance. A slip of paper lay there innocently enough, but Peter picked it up, recognizing Janine's writing, and skimmed it hastily. "Six seventy-two!" he blurted. Janine must have accidentally transposed the numbers when she jotted down the address. Egon had come here, expecting Shelby, when anybody who wasn't feverish would have been able to tell in an instant that the place was deserted and ought to be condemned. Last year.

Peter tried the doorknob, and the door swung open with a spooky creaking sound, proof it wasn't lived in. Nobody would put up with a chalk-on-the-blackboard sound like that on a daily basis. He pushed it all the way open and stepped inside, instinctively grabbing his thrower and powering up his proton pack to meet a paranormal threat. "EGON!"

No answer. Peter advanced into the shadowy hall, eyeing the elaborate staircase, the huge, gloomy paintings on the walls. Once this place had screamed money. Now it only whispered of faded glory as it stood decaying on the Upper West Side, luring in Ghostbusters.

Peter found Egon's wallet right away, lying in the middle of the entryway. He scooped it up uneasily, opening it to be sure it was really Egon's. Money and credit cards were intact, so it hadn't been a robbery. But where the heck was Egon? "Spengs! You in here?!"

A shape on the landing caught his attention and he hurried up to pounce on Egon's P.K.E. meter. "Egon, where are you?" he said sotto voce, a knot of alarm tightening behind his belt buckle. Egon wouldn't part with his meter if he had any choice in the matter. Standing there holding his breath, the brown-haired man listened for the faintest sound, then he turned on the meter. At once the antennae quivered with reaction, but the readings were really weird, like none he'd seen before. Peter's brow puckered as he pondered them. Egon might know what he was seeing but all Peter noticed was the persistent residuals and the negative valence. Casting his mind back he remembered the Bogeyman had possessed a negative valence, which meant whatever lingered here wasn't a normal ghost but a physical entity. Vampires and werewolves had negative valences, too, didn't they? All at once Peter felt like he had a huge bulls-eye painted on the middle of his back, or maybe even on his neck. He hated this.

"Another one."

"Maybe he's the one."

The voices barely fluttered the air, so faint he couldn't tell if they were real or the imagination of a worried Ghostbuster. Peter jerked and stared around wildly, not quite sure what he'd heard--or if he'd actually heard anything at all.

"This one isn't dying."

"Dying?" Peter bellowed and ran down the second-floor hall in the direction of the sounds. "Egon," he screamed, horrified at the eerie words. He could see marks in the dust were something--or someone--had been dragged along here. Were those heel marks? The trail led to a narrower flight of stairs and Peter pushed on upward, thrower gripped tightly in nerveless fingers. Up yet another flight to the top floor, Peter continued to follow the disturbances in the dust, grimly determined.

As he reached the top of the last flight of stairs, he heard a low moan.

Peter froze, trying to determine where the sound had come from. To his left, he decided, following it, following his own instincts as if he were connected to his best friend by invisible cords that pulled him closer and closer. They led him to a shadowy room lit only by a dirty skylight high overhead that was clogged with leaves and soot and general city dirt but admitted enough light to reveal a cot shoved against one wall with a figure sprawled restlessly upon it. A chain dangled down from the wall overhead, ending in a shackle that enclosed the unconscious man's wrist and held his arm aloft. As Peter watched, the man moaned again and tried to turn, his motion arrested by the pull of the shackle. But it brought the unconscious face into the light as a beam of dying sunshine reflected off something and slanted through a clear spot in the filthy glass overhead, falling upon him like a spotlight. His eyes were shut and his face was flushed and perspiring, his mouth slightly open. Breathing roughly, a rattle in his chest, the downed man was alive but far from healthy and at the sight of him, the knot in Peter's stomach spasmed tightly.

"Egon!"

His desperate shout didn't rouse his unconscious friend. With a cry of rage, Peter fired at the chain that bound the physicist, severing it, then he dropped his thrower when Egon's arm flopped down loosely, the trailing remnant of the chain hitting him across the cheekbone.

"God, Egon, I'm sorry," Peter cried, plunging across the room to drop beside Egon on the edge of the cot and gather his sick friend up into his arms. Egon's glasses, already knocked crooked by the chain, slid off and dropped to the floor.

"Omigod, Egon, look at you, you're really sick," Peter said, pressing a hand against Spengler's forehead. He was hot and sweating, his body quivering with chill at the same time. He seemed subliminally aware of Peter's presence because his head turned fractionally in the direction of Venkman's voice.

Supporting Egon against his shoulder, Peter bent and retrieved the glasses, settling them carefully on his friend's nose. "Egon, we're gonna blow this popstand," he declared, bowing his forehead against his friend's tangled, matted hair for an instant in a combination of worry and relief. "You're gonna be just fine." He slid his arms under Egon's shoulders and knees and braced his back and legs, preparing to stand with him, although Egon was heavier than he was. That didn't matter. Rescuing Egon from this crazy deathtrap did.

Egon moaned.

"Easy, easy, it's okay," Peter soothed. "It's Peter. I'm here. It's okay, I'm here. I'll get you out of here." He staggered to his feet, his friend's body a dead weight in his arms.

"He is the one. He must be the one."

"Yes, look at him. He is the one."

"Who's there?" Peter demanded hotly, ready to fry the bastard who had chained Egon to the wall, even if it proved to be a gang of drug dealers armed to the teeth or a horde of crazed street people who had taken up residence in the deserted house--or even a collection of ghosts hot for the blood of a Ghostbuster.

No one answered, but he felt presences around him, invisible beings who watched his every movement. Remembering the P.K.E. meter's reaction, he frowned, wondering if ghosts had chained Egon to the wall. That was crazy, but what else could it be? He cast a worried frown over his shoulder, but he still could see nothing.

"We're going, Egon," he said, his voice hard with determination. "Don't you dare die on me. You pull something like that, I'll kill you."

When his voice caught and quivered on the last few words, he told himself it was merely the strain of carrying Egon that did it, but he knew inside, all the way down to his toes how scared he was. Egon was seriously ill. He might die, and Peter couldn't live with that. While he'd been peacocking at the TV studio Egon had lain here in chains, growing worse and worse, and now Peter had a chance to save him. No one could come between Peter and saving Egon. No one. He tightened his grip, gazing down at the lax face that lay against his shoulder, and forced one foot ahead of the other as he crossed the vast room.

With a swirl of a huge, black cape, a towering figure abruptly blocked the doorway, filling it with his vast bulk. "Put him down." The voice was ten times as deep as Shelby's had been, with a faint rumble to it like an echo. It sounded the way a savage beast would sound if one tried to talk, and the image that ran through Peter's head at such a thought chilled him. But he held his ground, unwilling to yield. He had to save Egon. Somehow. In spite of the creature in the door.

"No," said Peter fiercely. "He's my friend and he's sick. I'm taking him out of here if I have to go through ten of you to do it. I won't let him die."

"P-peter?" quivered a faint voice against his shoulder.

Peter jerked then turned his attention to the man he held. Egon's eyes were open and he was blinking up at Peter in a daze. "Get...out of...here," he wheezed, too weak to hold his head up but fueled by the same determination that drove Peter. "Save your...self." His hand fumbled weakly for Peter's arm.

"No way, buddy. We're going, and we're going together." He knelt and lay Egon down at his feet long enough to pull his thrower, aiming it at the shadowy figure in the doorway.

Invisible shapes came out thin air around him and grabbed at him, disarming him in an instant. Something sharp severed the thrower's power cable, unseen fingers clutched the weapon and drew it from Peter's grabbing hand. "Give it back, you son of a bitch," Peter growled, falling silent when the shadow creatures disappeared as if they had never been there, taking his thrower with them. Realizing the guy in the doorway had allies, Peter abandoned the thrower as a bad job and instead gathered Egon up in his arms again, kneeling on the floor and lifting his eyes to the huge creature, or ghost, or whatever it was. "He's sick. I have to take him to a hospital," he pleaded. "He'll die."

"He is my prisoner," the man snarled. "He invaded my territory."

"In case you haven't noticed, Jack, we both did," Peter reminded him, then realized that might not have been the most felicitous thing he could have said. "Let him go," he pleaded. "He can't do anything to hurt you. Don't be a murderer." He pulled Egon tight against his shoulder, realizing Egon's breathing eased when he was not lying flat. "Come on, I think he might have pneumonia. He has to go to the hospital. Let him go and I'll do anything you say. Just give him a chance to live." He meant it with every fiber of his being. He wouldn't hesitate to trade his life for Egon's. It wasn't even something he had to think about.

"You would stay...in his place?" the voice asked skeptically, surprise coloring the savage tones. The shadowy figure stared at Peter in astonishment from within the depths of his concealing hood.

Peter nodded. "He'll die. If that's your deal, I have to."

"Why? No one makes you sacrifice yourself," the stranger persisted, sounding both curious and intrigued. "You are free. Go now and I will not try to stop you."

"Only if I take him with me," Peter said. "He's my friend. He's been my friend for over fifteen years. He was the one who taught me I could even have friends. Don't you get it? What's the point if he dies? I have to save him. I'll stay in his place if that's the only way it works."

"It is. I will keep a prisoner. If not he, it must be you. Do you agree?"

Peter hesitated, then he nodded quickly. "Yeah."

"And you give your word of honor you won't try to escape?"

Peter hesitated. "Why should I do that? It's a prisoner's duty to escape. Didn't you ever see The Great Escape?"

"Why should you do that? Because I will not free him otherwise. Give your word that you will stay in his place and not try to escape and I will free your friend. Fail to give it, and both of you will stay and you will have the privilege of watching him die." Something winced in the voice but it steadied before Peter could do anything but register surprise at the unexpected reaction.

There was a lot more going on here than Peter could make out. "But if I promise, then you'll take him to a hospital?" he persisted, trying to slant the deal to give Egon the best shot he could. "And you won't try to bring him back again when he's better?" He had to cover all the bases. If this was a paranormal deal, everything had to be spelled out. Leave any loopholes and Egon would be no better off than he had been before.

"My...allies will--leave him at the emergency room door. You understand why they cannot go inside," he said, a faint edge of humor momentarily coloring the dark tones. "You have my word of honor this will be done, should you take his place and promise to remain here as long as I wish it. And I will never seek out your friend again. He will be safe from me for all time."

Peter hesitated. It was a terrible request the man asked of him. Egon had been chained in the darkness. Peter imagined the feel of the shackle around his own wrist, imagined a life of imprisonment, denied the companionship of his friends, and it scared the hell out of him. This guy scared him, too. There was something wrong about him, something different. He didn't feel like a drug dealer or criminal. They didn't mess with bargains like this, they'd just blow away anyone who interfered with their deals. And after all, the P.K.E. meter had reacted. The cloaked dude was probably a nasty ghost or entity. Apparently hated Ghostbusters and would take tremendous pleasure in pulling out Peter's toenails one at a time, and torturing him slowly to death. Maybe he was even a demon, striking a bargain with Peter that would end in him losing his very soul.

But Egon's breath rasped hoarsely in his ear and his friend's body radiated heat even through the torn and dusty suit he was wearing. Egon would die, and Peter knew he couldn't live with himself if he let that happen, not if he had the power to change it. "Okay, yeah," he said. "I promise. But if you don't keep your word, I'll make you regret the day you were even born."

"You could not do a worse job of that than has already been done to me," the stranger growled, his head bowed. The shadows around them vibrated strangely.

"If Egon dies..." Peter began, casting an uneasy glance around the room.

"I will give him over to medical science. If they fail, it will not be my doing. You have my oath on that. A blood oath if you will believe it. He pushed back one of the sleeves of his robe, and Peter froze at the sight of a furry hand with talons instead of fingernails, the hand of a beast, even if it had four fingers and an opposable thumb. As Peter watched, he ran his claw across the palm of his other hand until blood sprang up in a beaded line. The palms were much less hairy than the backs, the fur thinner there. Then he knelt, grasped Peter's hand, and did the same to his hand. The slight cut stung, but Peter only stared at it in disbelief as the stranger pressed his bloody palm against Peter's. "Now we have shared blood. I cannot lie to you. I may not always answer you but any words I speak will be true."

"I sure as hell hope you don't have AIDS, buddy," Peter muttered instinctively, yanking his hand away and pulling out a Kleenex from his pocket to dab ineffectually at the blood before he once again encircled Egon with his arms.

The beast-man threw back his head and laughed, the motion causing the hood to fall away from his face. Peter recoiled in shock at the sight of the fanged muzzle, the thick brown hair that spouted all over the savage face, the round animal eyes. Was the guy a werewolf after all? Involuntarily Peter shifted to place himself between Egon and the creature. "What the hell are you?" he burst out.

"I cannot tell you that." The figure drew slightly back in acknowledgment of Peter's disgust and shock. He ducked his head to shield his animal face from Peter's sight to indicate he had expected revulsion but could still be hurt by it, pulling the hood into place to conceal the beastly features. Mentally Peter stored that information for later. He might have to stay here but he didn't mean to make it pleasant or easy for his jailer. Any weapon against him was worth it for what he'd done to Egon.

"No," the beast spoke. "You need not fear AIDS. It has been...far too long since--opportunity has come my way. And I do not use drugs. You and your...friend are the first humans I have spoken to in nearly ten years." His voice might be deep and animal-like, but he was fluent in English and his accent was American, not to mention rather high class. Peter stored that away too. He meant to solve this problem; it might be the only way he could go home. Although when Egon awakened in the hospital, he would remember and tell Ray and Winston and they would come for him. Peter hadn't promised not to be rescued, after all.

Abruptly the creature stood again, sweeping aside the cloak to reveal that, beneath it, he wore faded blue jeans that had been altered to fit the contour of a leg that angled backward like a dog's hind leg, and an ordinary knit shirt that stretched tight across his massive chest. He clapped his hands together and two shapes emerged from thin air, vaguely gargoyle-like with huge leathery wings folded against their shoulders. They stood clad, incongruously as the creature was, in blue jeans, but they wore no shirts for the wings would have gotten in the way. The skin of their chests was blue and tough. Mentally Peter granted himself the pleasure of imagining a proton stream impacting against their flesh, taking them down.

"Do you have a car?" the beast demanded.

Peter opened his mouth to lie and realized the blood-sharing prohibited it. "Yeah, Ecto," he said, though he fought to close his mouth before he gave away the presence of the venerable hearse and the weapons within. His hatred for the entity was growing by leaps and bounds.

"At full dark, you will take Spengler and put him in the Ecto," the beast instructed his minions. "Drive him to the nearest hospital and park the vehicle at the emergency room entrance where it will be quickly found. Return here immediately and do not permit yourselves to be seen." He stretched out an expectant paw to Peter. "The keys?"

Peter hesitated, then he produced them. He couldn't do anything at this stage to delay Egon's freedom.

The gargoyle-things bowed their heads in agreement and bent down, one of them accepting Ecto's keys, the other reaching for Egon.

Instinctively, Peter tightened his grip. "How do I know you'll keep your promise?" he demanded, glaring at the fanged face, his cheek pressed tight against Egon's hair.

"You know," the voice returned, gesturing at Peter's palm. "You know already." And Peter realized he did. The oath was binding in two directions. The beast-man had not lied to him. He could feel the truth of it all the way down to the soles of his feet. Could the entity feel Peter's hatred with the same certainty? Peter hoped so. He blasted it at the beast with all the strength of his mind and he thought the beast flinched. Good.

The last sunbeam faded, leaving the room in deep shadow. Peter straightened slowly, offering Egon to the lead gargoyle, settling him as comfortably as possible in the creature's arms. "Egon, it's okay, they're gonna take you to the hospital," he reassured his friend. "You'll be fine. You better be fine. I'll know if you're not." He stretched out his hand and pushed the tangled hair off the flushed face. Egon's eyes were open and he was staring at Peter with the vague realization that comes sometimes in the middle of delirium.

"Peter," he groaned desperately, his voice as thin as the wind and utterly strengthless. If Peter hadn't been straining to hear him, he would have missed most of it. "Don't. Please, don't. I think I am...dying. Don't...give your life...for me now."

"Egon, I hafta," Peter insisted. "I can't let you die, don't you see? I hafta. It's okay. You'll be all right. They'll fix you up at the hospital, give you antibiotics, oxygen, all that stuff. You'll get well. That's all that matters."

"He is the one," voices whispered in the air around them sounding like a Greek chorus. "He must be the one." Egon started wildly.

"I hear voices, Peter," he faltered as if an awakened, atavistic part of his mind expected angels to carry him away.

"Shh, I know, Spengs. It's okay, they're real. You're not delirious." He cast a quick glance at the skylight. Good, the light was fading fast; they'd take Egon to the doctor soon. "Egon," he said, steadying his voice with an effort. "Tell Ray and Winston I did it for you. Tell them I love them. And tell them I'll come home--if I can."

"You can not," the creature rumbled.

"No, Peter, don't do this, not for me," Egon pleaded, his voice fragile and shaking with the effort to speak. "Don't condemn yourself... I can't ask that of you."

"You're not asking me, I'm doing it because I have to. I can't let you die," Peter pleaded for understanding. "God, Egon, I couldn't live with that. You know I couldn't." He trailed his fingers down Egon's cheek. "I love all you guys," he whispered, knowing he might never have a chance to admit it again. "This is the way it has to be."

"No, Peter. Please." But the gargoyle bunched his shoulders and spread his wings. The other one flew ahead of him and opened the skylight while hovering in midair.

"Goodbye, Egon," Peter said, trying with all his heart to believe this was just for a day or two. Egon would recover in the hospital, and the beast would let him go. "See you on the other si--" No, he couldn't say that. Not when Egon might be dying. "I'll see you again someday," he promised. "Nobody keeps Pete Venkman down."

"Peter, no," Spengler moaned as the creature soared up through the skylight. Resisting the vast strength in the hand that gripped his arm, Peter stood watching until Egon had vanished from sight. Then he slumped, sitting back on his heels, his head bent. He had never felt so alone and miserable in his entire life. Yet he had no regrets. He had done what he'd had to do. He had saved Egon.

"Don't die, Spengs. God, Egon, be okay," he groaned.

"Come," said the beast-man roughly, dragging Peter to his feet with no more effort than Ray would have used to lift his Mr. Stay Puft doll. "I will show you where you are to sleep."

"Not in here with the chains?" Peter asked, surprised. He'd been positive he'd be bolted to the wall the minute Egon was gone.

"You may stay here if you wish it," the beast said with an edge of wry humor in his rumbly voice.

Peter leveled a steely eye at the cot and at the chain in the wall. "Well, no," he said frankly. "I don't." He wasn't sure where he was being taken instead; it might be the basement with the water beetles and the cockroaches. But he couldn't bear to stay in this room where he might have seen Egon for the last time.

"I thought not. Come." He strode from the room with a swirl of his cloak, tugging Peter in his wake. The creature's strides were so long Peter had to run to keep up.

"Hey, slow down," he protested. "We're not trying out for the Olympic track and field team." His 'host' ignored his complaint and didn't slow down.

They hurried down a long corridor to the narrow flight of stairs that had led Peter up to the top floor. On the third floor he turned left down a long passageway adorned with eerie statues that wouldn't have appeared out of place in Dracula's castle, shadowy forms that loomed out of the twilight, making him jump until he realized they were marble and plaster, instead of the near-invisible creatures that served the beast.

"You may travel about this wing of the house," the beast told him. "And in the central portion. But never go into the west wing. That is my private domain. If you go there, you will be very sorry."

Peter ignored the instruction, his mind on other things. "You're not a werewolf, are you, Jack?" Peter asked, remembering the mingling of blood.

"No." The answer was flat, uninformative. But it was true. Peter could tell that from the bloodlink.

"Why do you want a prisoner?" he persisted, determined to have answers. "Why did you lock him up and not me?"

"Why do you ask so many questions?"

"Because I don't want to be at a disadvantage." God, better not encourage him to ask questions. That was the last thing Peter had wanted to admit.

"We dine at eight-thirty," the stranger said, stopping in front of a door and opening it. "I will come for you then. Change your clothes. You are a little dusty. A nice suit. Armani."

"I'm not eating with you," Peter snapped, pretending to ignore the creature's fashion knowledge. Surely he wouldn't be expected to make polite conversation over dinner with the beast that had chained up a sick Egon and now held Peter captive.

"Then you may starve," snarled the beast. He pushed Peter into the room so hard he staggered and fell across a huge four-poster bed much bigger than his own at headquarters. As the memory of his own bed, his own home, his own friends, overwhelmed him, he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock and realized he was shut in.

For a moment, he lay sprawled across the bed, stunned and shaken, unable to think past the fact that he had surrendered his freedom voluntarily. He didn't regret it, not if it made Egon safe, but he was scared, and more alone than he'd ever felt in his entire life, even more than those early Christmases when his father hadn't come home, or the first semester at Columbia when he'd been friendless, trying to bullshit people into thinking he was a class act. That desperate solitude peopled with strangers had ended when he'd met Egon Spengler and come to know him, and Peter had found security and strength in the friendship the young physics student from Ohio had offered him. As the years passed, that friendship had deepened so strongly that Peter had realized many times how incredibly lucky he had been. He hadn't thought to find a new family in college, but he had, first Egon and then Ray. And later, Winston.

Now he had given them up, because he'd had to, because Egon needed medical treatment. He couldn't let Egon die, not even if it meant he'd never see him again. At least Egon would live. And maybe Peter could fast-talk his way out of this place once he knew what was going on, once he figured out the rules of this strange, new game. Besides, those kids had seen him come in here. Even if Egon were unconscious for a day or two, Janine would tell everybody where he'd gone and the police would come. The kids would explain he'd gone into the house, and maybe Janine would realize she'd transposed those numbers. He'd be found. He'd be rescued.

Maybe. The meter had gone off. There was something odd here, beyond the man-beast and the gargoyles. Peter was used to ghosts and strange creatures. But he had been around the paranormal enough to know that this was different. Those kids had never come in here--yet how could kids resist? The door hadn't even been locked, not even after Egon had been captured and the creature might reasonably be on his guard. Maybe there were other prisoners here. Maybe the kids wouldn't dare to mention where he'd come. Maybe the old house could protect itself.

Shivering, Peter removed his useless proton pack; thank goodness it hadn't gone into overload when the particle thrower was cut away. He stacked it in a corner out of the way and went over to the window.

The view from his prison looked down on the courtyard. He could see the street beyond, see that Ecto was gone--they had moved it like they had promised. He hoped they had moved it to a hospital, but he knew the beast meant that. He could feel the truth of that. Why, though? Why make such a bargain? What purpose would it serve?

The street beyond appeared oddly distant and distorted. Was there a curse on the house, a spell that held it in protection? A revulsion that kept the children out? Egon had come in because he'd believed Shelby was here, and because he was probably already confused enough not to realize no one--at least no one normal--could possibly live here. Peter had come desperately seeking Egon. But would anyone else come? Professor Shelby would tell people Egon had not arrived and that Peter had sought him and gone away when he hadn't found him. Ecto wasn't here. But Ecto and Egon were together, and Peter had started out in the converted hearse. Janine would have to know somehow, somewhere, their paths had crossed. She'd figure it out. She was one smart lady.

Peter left the window reluctantly. He could not try to escape. Egon was the bond for his word, Egon's safety and chance at recovery.

With a miserable sigh, Peter flung himself down on the bed and abandoned himself to his misery.

The sudden jangling of the telephone roused Janine from her dark contemplation. She'd been wondering if she should call Winston and Ray up in Boston and ask them to come back. First Egon had disappeared and now Peter. He had plenty of time to phone her, if not from Shelby's phoneless home then from the mobile phone in Ecto. What was going on? Where were they disappearing to? Was Shelby's call a hoax? Had it been a trap? Janine was furious and terrified at the same time. There had been plenty of time for Peter to check out Shelby and call her. It was dark out now. She had to do something. But what?

Jumping at the sound of the phone, Janine snatched up the receiver. "Ghostbuster Central. Peter, is that you?"

"This is the Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center," said a brisk female voice. "Dr. Egon Spengler has just been admitted here as a patient and we're trying to find a relative."

"Peter didn't bring him?" Janine asked in astonishment, her heart lurching. Egon in the hospital? He must have grown worse again. But where had he been for so long. Just admitted? What the hell was going on?

"No. He was found in your Ghostbusting vehicle at the door to the emergency room. He was alone in the car."

"I'm Janine Melnitz," Janine said. "Tell me how he is."

"Are you a relative?" the voice asked sternly, clearly unwilling to dispense information to anyone without a legitimate claim.

Janine took a deep breath and said flatly, "I'm his girlfriend. And I'm the only one here. His mother's his only relative and she's in California right now. I don't know why Peter isn't there with him. He and the other guys all have power of attorney to sign for medical care if need be, and so do I. So how is he?"

"The doctor will tell you that when you arrive."

"I'll be there right away," Janine vowed. She hung up and instantly picked up the phone again, calling the hotel in Boston where Ray and Winston were staying. As luck would have it, Winston was in the room when the call came through.

"Oh, Winston," Janine wailed, relieved beyond measure at the sound of a familiar voice. "You and Ray have to come home right away. Everything's wrong."

"Egon?" Winston asked, alarm springing to life in his voice.

"He's in the hospital. They won't tell me how bad it is until I get there but he's admitted. He sneaked out this afternoon to go see an old professor and didn't come back. I sent Peter after him in Ecto as soon as he returned from his interview, and now Egon's turned up at the hospital in Ecto--they found him in it alone outside the ER. And Peter's missing. He ran into Egon somewhere, because otherwise Egon wouldn't have the car. I don't know where he is. And you know he wouldn't leave a sick Egon alone in the car like that."

"You hang in there, lady," Winston urged, reassurance in his tones. "Ray and I will come back there as fast as we can. You better call the police and tell them Peter's missing. And have them check out this old prof while they're at it. Sounds like it was a scam."

"I know. If Egon was sick enough for the hospital to admit him, Peter would be right there. Unless he managed to get Egon out of trouble--and himself in."

"Call the police," Winston repeated. "We'll catch you at the hospital. Which one is it?"

"I'll call them as soon as I talk to Egon." She gave him the hospital name and hung up, grabbing her car keys out of her purse then shoving them in again. She'd probably have to bring Ecto home. She'd better take a cab. Turning on the answering machine, she looked around for Slimer, but the little ghost hadn't been around for awhile. At a time like this, even the spud might have been a comfort, although she couldn't have taken him to the hospital.

She hurried out to flag down a cab.

Talking to Egon proved easier said than done. When Janine finally completed what felt like enough paperwork to complete a novel as thick as War and Peace and was escorted to Egon's room by a nurse, the physicist was clearly unconscious. He was hooked up to oxygen and an IV dripped medication into the back of his hand. Pale and still, he appeared far worse than he had when she had last watched him sleeping. The difference between an ill-but-asleep Egon and the man who lay before her now was starkly vivid. She stopped as if she'd been struck and cried, "Oh, Egon!" before rushing to his side and snatching up his free hand in both of her own. His fingers didn't move in hers.

"It's a bad strain of the influenza virus," a male voice said behind her, and the doctor joined her at Egon's bedside, a guy in his thirties with a long face and big brown eyes rather like Ray's. "Plus he was starting to develop pneumonia--it's been one of the complications from the time this virus made its appearance. We have him on major antibiotics and oxygen, and I think he'll sleep the night through and possibly most of tomorrow. We got him in time, though, and if he follows medical advice and if there are no complications, he should make a complete recovery. I'm Dr. Greavy, incidentally."

Janine's knees nearly buckled, and a moment later she was surprised to find herself sitting in the visitor's chair with no clear memory of how she had ended up there. "You care about him very much," the doctor said quietly.

"I love him," she admitted. But that didn't help right now. "Doctor, was he conscious when he came in? Did he mention Peter?"

"He was delirious, Miss Melnitz. He was rambling, talking of monsters, and begging Peter not to do it. I don't know what it was Peter was doing because he wasn't here to explain. He didn't bring Egon into the hospital. An orderly found him right outside the ER door, semi-conscious in your vehicle. What's worse, and far more alarming, is that there was a shackle around his right wrist. We've removed it, but I hate to think what could have happened to him." His mouth traced a disapproving line. "I don't know what Peter did, but I don't think much of him right now."

Janine stiffened and came up out of the chair like a rocket. "He went to rescue Egon," she insisted hotly, glaring at the man. She didn't believe for a minute Peter would have abandoned Egon outside the hospital; there had to be another explanation. Nobody was allowed to pick on Peter but her anyway. She must have presented a threatening appearance because the man retreated an involuntary half step. "He sure wouldn't have chained him up. I bet he broke him out of wherever he was. Check the chain and see if the thrower melted it."

"Something did," Greavy replied, running a weary hand through his sparse thatch. "I saw it and couldn't help wondering what had done that. Perhaps you're right, but if so, why wasn't Peter with him?"

"If he's not here, he's missing, and maybe Egon's 'monsters' were ghosts, didya ever think of that? If somebody chained up Egon, they might have Peter chained up right now instead. I'm gonna call the police. Something's funny here, and I want an answer." She went over to Egon again and grasped his hand. "Egon, listen to me. You have to tell me where Peter is. And what happened to you. And who chained you. Did they catch Peter while he was rescuing you? We'll find him, I promise. We'll stop them, Egon, whoever they were."

No response. He was too deeply under for that. "I'm calling the police," she repeated to Geary. "Something's haywire. You don't know Peter, but he loves Egon like a brother. He wouldn't hurt him for anything. If Egon's here and he's not, it's because he can't be. They must have grabbed Peter while he was helping Egon escape. He found Egon and he was in trouble--and now Peter is."

Dr. Greavy held up his hands defensively. "Easy, I believe you. And I'm told Egon has been calling for him, worrying about him. That's not an easy rest." He gestured at Egon, and Janine realized with horror he was right. Egon shifted uneasily against the pillow as if he were struggling to wake up--and failing. His right hand was on the other side of the bed, with the IV in it, but Janine could see a faint red mark around his wrist, evidence of the chain that had held him. She was scared to death that whoever had meant Egon so ill had Peter now. Just wait till she got her hands on whoever it was. They'd know the wrath of Melnitz. Nobody messed with either of them but her.

Janine bent and kissed the sleeping man's cheek. "Egon, I'll find Peter," she promised. "It'll be all right. You just get well. You do what the doctor says or I'll fire you! I mean it."

She snatched up the telephone on the bedside table beside Egon and punched in 911.

"But Egon wasn't here," Dr. Shelby insisted, spreading his hands in dismay. "Dr. Venkman came looking for him, but he hadn't been here. I offered to let him search the place and you can do the same if you'd like. I'm worried now. You don't need a warrant." He stood aside to let them enter, rubbing is slate-grey hair in perplexed concern.

"We'd like," Janine concurred, pushing past the two uniformed police officers who had accompanied her to Shelby's apartment. "Egon's in the hospital and he got there in Ecto-1--but Peter drove Ecto here to search for him. So somewhere along the way they ran into each other. And somebody had a chain on Egon's wrist. I want to know where it happened, and this is where both of them were coming. I only have your word you wanted to apologize to Egon. Maybe you wanted to hurt him!"

Shelby's expression was so shocked she was almost inclined to believe him, but then that's what he'd say if he were guilty, after all. Janine wasn't prepared to let him off the hook. "I'd never do that," he proclaimed self-righteously.

"The lady has a point," said the older officer, Macklin. He was a twenty-year veteran with hair as grey as Shelby's, but with a smooth, boyish face that would probably seem far younger than his years until the day he died. "This is all pretty suspicious and you're the one point of contact with both men. There's only your claim that you didn't see Spengler, after all."

"But where's the sense in it?" Shelby asked, opening a door to reveal a bedroom stacked with unpacked and partly unpacked boxes, most of them spilling out either clothes or books. They were too small to hold a man. "I didn't hurt Egon. You say he has the flu and pneumonia, nothing I could have done to him. He's in the hospital. Why in the name of heaven would I keep him here? I don't even own a pair of handcuffs. Or why would I let him go in Ecto and keep Venkman here? It's simply not logical."

"He's right about that," the younger cop, Kowalski, agreed. "And he's letting us check the place without a warrant, Miss Melnitz. I don't think he's got anything to hide."

"But then where's Peter and why did Egon show up in the hospital in Ecto?" Janine challenged him. Shelby's assumption that Egon had been chained by handcuffs might exonerate him. She'd seen the cuff and it was definitely from a shackle rather than standard-issue cuffs. But he might just be clever, trying to throw them off, though she couldn't imagine why he'd done it, not after ten years. The only good thing about the shackle was that it had provided clear-cut proof to the police there had been foul play, and she had been able to file a missing persons' report right away instead of waiting at least twenty-four hours to begin the search.

"The hospital is a good distance from here," Shelby pointed out. He'd learned that much from Janine's gabbled explanation when he'd opened the door. "The Jewish Memorial Hospital is much closer. Maybe Venkman found something that took him down toward Columbia."

"A message spray painted on the side of the building?" Janine asked skeptically, tapping an impatient toe. "Come on, give me a break."

Kowalski and Macklin made a thorough search of the apartment and even trailed down to the basement of the building to check out its storage room. There was no trace of Peter and no evidence that he had ever been there. But Janine knew something was wrong. She had discovered a proton pack was missing from Ecto, and it was the one Peter usually wore. She'd pointed out its absence when the police had come to the hospital. He'd used it to blast the chain that held Egon because it would have been the only tool available to him, and the ruined chain was melted as if it had been hit with a particle stream. That Dr. Venkman might still have the weapon gave Janine the most hope she had for his safety. You'd better be okay, Dr. V, she thought urgently. Because how can I tell Egon I let something happen to you?

"Perhaps a ghost intervened," Shelby offered. "After all, it is what they do for a living."

"Picked him up right off the street and nobody noticed?" Janine cried scornfully.

"We'll ask questions in the neighborhood," Macklin said. "None of these apartment buildings has a doorman, from the look of them. But we'll check."

Janine heaved a sigh as they finished the search of Shelby's apartment without a trace of Peter or any evidence he had ever been there. How could she go to Egon and tell him Peter was missing? It would hurt his recovery, make him sick with worry. Besides, somebody was messing with the Ghostbusters and Egon himself might still be in danger even now.

But questions up and down the street brought her no closer to an answer. No one they encountered had seen anything. If anyone really had, he wasn't admitting it. Janine felt frustration overwhelm her, as the cops dropped her at the hospital. She planned to stay there waiting, guarding Egon until Ray and Winston arrived.

Egon was still unconscious when she reached his doorway, and he didn't stir when she crept in and squeezed his hand. After ten minutes, a nurse came in and gently shooed her out to the waiting room, and she noticed with satisfaction that a uniformed officer had taken up a position outside Egon's door. He wouldn't be much good against the monsters of Egon's delirium, but then maybe they hadn't been monsters created by delirium. Maybe they really had been ghosts, although chains weren't spooks' and specters' usual style.

With a hasty explanation to the policeman Janine raced down to Ecto and grabbed a proton pack and thrower, returning to join the cop in a second chair on the other side of Egon's door. She didn't wear the pack; if she was going to be here for hours, it would be too uncomfortable. But she braced it against the leg of her chair and took out the thrower, laying it across her lap. Should trouble come, she planned to be ready.

Peter watched the police and Janine move up and down the street, stopping at the various apartments, hunting for him. They didn't enter the 'haunted house'. It was almost as if they didn't even see it or didn't consider it worth bothering with. They paused to look then moved on before he could unlock the window to try to open it so he could yell for help. Peter heaved a rueful sigh, feeling even more alone and abandoned than before when Janine climbed into the police car with the two officers and drove away. It had been good to see her. Even though he and the secretary got on each other's nerves and picked on each other like crazy, Peter would have given anything for her to return and find him.

With a second, heavier sigh, he returned to the door. He'd found a sheet of newspaper--last week's Sunday New York Times--on the table beside his bed, and he'd worked it out under the door beneath the keyhole. Not escaping from his prison was different from not escaping from his bedroom, after all. He planned to pop the key out of the lock, knock it onto the paper and draw it beneath the door--people in movies and books managed that all the time. There was a wide enough space for it. With the key, he could control his bedroom. He wanted to explore his prison.

Ten minutes of poking and prodding freed the key and it dropped neatly onto the paper. With aching carefulness, Peter drew the paper toward him, mindful not to move too fast and lose it. He held his breath as it slid neatly under the door, then snatched up the key in triumph. It worked! It had actually worked! "Damn, you're good, Venkman," he praised himself, in need of a morale booster. "The quickness of the hand deceives the eye."

Ten seconds later he let himself out into the dark hall.

The corridor stretched, dim and dusty, off toward the stairs, and statues loomed like living creatures waiting to pounce at intervals along the way, some in niches in the walls, some on marble pedestals. Peter imagined the glow of electricity or even candles in the windows would have made someone curious enough to investigate the house. Now Peter wished for even a candle or a cigarette lighter. He still had the contents of his pockets, but he didn't carry much in his suit pocket. He had his wallet and a handful of change, but he didn't even have the car keys because he'd given them to the gargoyle. No Swiss Army knife, no handy tools, just the fingernail clipper he'd used to work the key loose, and what good was that? Stab the creature with its nail file and he'd probably laugh, right before he clawed Peter to shreds. All he had was a proton pack with no thrower and a ghost trap--well, that might be handy. Quickly he darted back and snatched it off his pack. If Beastie Boy were a ghost, Peter might surprise him with it.

And if the chorus of voices were ghosts, well, they'd at least shut up about him being 'the one'.

The one, what? He paused at the top of the narrow stairs to ponder that. What was he, what did they think he was? "Who am I?" he said aloud. "The one what?"

No one answered him.

"Oh, great, now you're playing clam. You were all gung ho before. Let me tell you, whoever you are, it's not nice to mess with Dr. Venkman."

Silence.

"Well, I didn't want to talk to you either," Peter called.

In spite of his refusal to dine with his jailer, Peter was hungry, so when he reached the ground floor he prowled through dark corridors trying to discover the kitchen. When he finally found it, it was brighter than most of the rooms and corridors he'd passed through. A streetlight just outside illuminated a huge refrigerator, big enough to store supplies for a regiment. When he opened the door, he was surprised to find it worked; the light sprang on and he could feel its coolness drift out to him. This house had electricity.

With great daring, Peter glanced around, spotted the light switch, and flipped it on. The kitchen was completely clean, free of dust, just as his bedroom had been. And the refrigerator held milk with a sale date three days off, packages of ground beef, butter, cheese, eggs, leftovers in Tupperware dishes, everything a normal refrigerator would hold. Triumphant, Peter dug in cupboards for pots and pans and in no time at all, he'd whipped himself up an omelet with chunks of ham and green pepper and onions because it was easy and quick, and he didn't know how long he'd have before he was discovered. Pouring himself a large glass of milk to accompany his meal, and sticking a couple of slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster, he sat down to enjoy his makeshift dinner.

"So. You will not eat with me but you will eat my food."

Peter jumped. He hadn't heard the beast coming. "If you want a dead prisoner, fine, I'll put it back, but don't blame me when I keel over from starvation. I just didn't want to have to look at you while I ate. It'd spoil my appetite."

The beast had shed his cloak as if it no longer mattered if Peter saw him clearly. He stood frowning down at Peter--damn it, he was tall--then he turned and crossed to the window over the sink. "I shall not watch you."

Fair enough, if surprising. Peter applied himself to his meal. "What's in this for you anyway?" he queried around a mouthful of eggs. "You're not a ghost. You said you weren't a werewolf. But you've gotta be something weird because the meter went off."

"And with no complaint from the neighborhood, you thought to 'bust' me for free? Is that it, Dr. Venkman?"

"I didn't come here to bust you, I came in search of Egon. Our secretary made a mistake on the address. He was looking up his old professor who just moved in down the street and he came to the wrong house. Guess they don't teach hospitality in monster school."

"Hospitality when both of you entered without an invitation? Perhaps they don't teach manners in Ghostbusting school either."

"You've got me there," Peter said. He didn't want to smile. He didn't want anything the creature said to be amusing. He preferred to keep his hatred for his captor pure and undiluted, and that was easy. He just had to remember the sight of Egon chained to the bed. All desire to smile vanished, leaving him cold and hard inside, and he glowered at the broad back.

"No. I have you here." The beast gestured comprehensively, including the whole house.

"Don't suppose you want to tell me why you want me, Jack?"

"No." A beat. "And I am not Jack."

"So what do I call you then? Monster-face? The beast that time forgot? And who's your tailor anyway? You can't buy jeans like that off the rack, even if I can see from here you have a designer label."

The beast's shoulders went rigid. "You will call me 'sir'," he said.

"Think I'll leave off names altogether in that case." Peter applied himself to the omelet. "'Sir' is for people I respect, and I don't respect anybody who's into chaining up my friends."

"Why did you stay for him?" the huge manbeast demanded turning his head slightly in Peter's direction.

"Because he was going to die if I didn't," Peter said without hesitation. He didn't want to give the creature answers, but he should have thought that one was obvious.

"And now you are going to be a prisoner and may die here."

"My choice," said Peter, still positive he could have made no other decision. "He's my friend."

"You would risk death...for a friend?"

"Wouldn't anybody?" Peter asked in surprise. He'd have done the same thing for Ray or Winston, after all. And for Janine. "Heck, I've seen people risk their lives, even die, for total strangers. We've nearly bought it, all of us, trying to save the world."

"Instinct," the beast said.

"Yeah, the best part of human nature. Because it is an instinct to save a life. I always liked that."

"But what you chose to do for Dr. Spengler was not instinct. It was a reasoned choice," the beast pointed out, sounding desperate to understand Peter's reasoning.

"Yeah. He's my friend."

A savage growl was the answer. "I do not believe you. I think there is more to it than that. What do you get out of it?"

"I get a chance to save Egon's life," Peter insisted. "God, I love that guy. He's the first friend I ever had and the best. You think I'd take my freedom at the sake of his? I couldn't look myself in the mirror again if I bopped out and left him here."

"I do not understand," the beast said, perplexed.

"Well, hey, Jack, nobody's asking you to. Oh, that's right, sorry, I mean sir," he concluded with the heaviest sarcasm he could produce. "I told you. Egon is my friend and that's the bottom line."

"I understand your words. But I don't understand your actions. You could die yourself. I could kill you as you sit there. I might enjoy it. Aren't you afraid to die? Don't you value yourself more than your friend?"

"Look, Jack, nobody gave you the right to play around with my feelings," Peter snapped. "Back off. Yeah, I want to survive. No, I don't want to die. Nobody does. But sometimes there are things more important."

"More important than survival? More important than your own needs?"

"Yeah. So you never had a buddy, right? You ever have a mom or a sister or a kid? Never cared enough to take a risk for somebody you loved? Then you really are a monster, even if you were a dead ringer for Mel Gibson." He took a swallow of milk, knowing he had to be crazy to keep pushing like this, but unable to stop. He might have to stay here but he didn't have to be a model prisoner. That was no part of the deal. And he didn't have to like this strange jailer of his. The manbeast hadn't bought anything but Peter's presence. If he had to listen to a few home truths, so much the better. Peter was just living for the chance to ride roughshod over him, pay him back for keeping Egon a prisoner as he steadily grew worse and worse. If Egon died....

The beast turned and stalked out of the room without looking back.

"What's the matter, beastie," Peter called after him tantalizingly. "Am I hitting too close to home?" He grabbed the trap he'd forgotten and started to trigger it then, realizing the beast was out of range, he set it down again and picked up his fork.

"He is the one," the voices spoke around him in a sudden, excited chorus. "He is truly the one."

"What one?" Peter yelled, frustrated. "What the heck are you talking about, whoever you are?"

No one answered.

Reluctantly Peter finished eating and stood up. He left the dishes on the table, the frying pan on the stove. No way did he mean to clean up after himself. That wasn't part of the deal. Let the beast find it and clean it himself. Let the invisible Halleluia Chorus materialize and wash the dishes, because Peter sure wouldn't.

Finished eating, he returned to the main hallway and crossed to the front door. Before he could open it and test the limits of his freedom, the beast appeared out of the shadows. "Breaking your promise so soon?"

"You have something against fresh air?" Peter challenged, putting his hand on the knob. The beast swarmed closer, down on all fours, more like an animal than ever. His eyes glowed hot in the darkness.

Peter opened the door. He knew he was pushing his luck, knew he couldn't leave, couldn't risk Egon like that. But neither could he give ground. So he stood in the open doorway and drew long deep breaths of the air of freedom.

"Enough fresh air," snarled his jailer, rising to his hind legs and stretching out an arm across Peter's chest, pushing him into the entry hall. Slamming the door after him, he locked it ostentatiously, turning the button, then slid bolts into place near the top of the door and another at the bottom.

Peter glared at him, seething with impotent rage. Then he flung down the trap at the creature's feet and stomped on the trigger, and waited. Brilliant light limned them both, but beyond that, nothing else happened. The beast tilted his head. "As you see, Dr. Venkman, I am not a ghost," he said wryly. He kicked Peter's foot off the trigger and the trap doors swished shut. For a long moment they stood facing each other, eyes holding each other's, the useless trap between them on the floor. Then the beast turned, dropped down again, and loped away.

"Damn it," muttered Peter savagely, then he shrugged and turned for the staircase, the useless trap tucked under his arm.

He stared this way and that as he headed up the stairs. If he was lucky he could find Egon's P.K.E. meter and take readings with it. Maybe he could figure out what he was up against and how to break out of here, why the trap hadn't worked on his captor.

When he turned on the light in his room it sprang to brightness, revealing a new and clean bedspread in blue and green covering the bed. The meter was sitting in the middle of the patterned spread with Egon's wallet next to it.

Peter stared at the two items in blank disbelief. Who had placed them there? Beastie? The invisible voices? Why? There was no note with them to explain their presence. Peter set the wallet on the bedside table, only then noticing the radio that hadn't been there earlier. He turned it on. Music poured out at him. Grimacing, he dumped the trap on the table next to the wallet. Not much point in hauling it around with him after this.

So the captive was to be treated well. He hadn't been chastised for sneaking out of his room and raiding the refrigerator and had barely been restrained at the door. If he'd broken free and run like crazy, he'd probably have made the safety of the street, but it would have invalidated his promise and endangered Egon. He had the meter again and Egon's wallet. He could listen to the news. But he couldn't leave. Curiously he opened the closet door and found clothes and shoes. A quick check revealed most of them were new, with tags still attached, and they were all his size. Some of them weren't bad at all. But he slammed the door shut on them. The beast couldn't buy him, not even with the finest threads money could buy.

Damn it, a gilded cage was still a cage. It wasn't home.

Turning the radio dial he found a news channel and listened for news of Egon. He didn't have long to wait. Egon was at a hospital, in a poor state but expected to survive. Peter was reported missing. There were no clues to his disappearance. The police must not have released information about the chain around Egon's wrist--either that or the gargoyle thingies had taken it off before leaving him. Winston and Ray, were returning from a trip out of town. There was a strong indication the trouble had been caused by ghosts because no other explanation made sense. One proton pack was missing from Ecto-1. Listeners were urged to report anything that would give clues to the disappearance.

The little boys! Peter remembered them suddenly and realized he still had an out. They'd hear the news. They'd remember. They'd tell their folks. Or would they even notice? Did kids that age pay any attention to the news? And even if they did, would they be in trouble with the beast for doing it? And what would happen when Egon revived? Would he remember what had happened? Would he send a rescue party after Peter? Or would those periods of semi-consciousness fade into confusion? The last thing Peter wanted was to risk Egon's safety after he'd given up his freedom to save him. He would never have left downstairs. That had been a power struggle, pure and simple, and his adversary had known it.

Switching off the radio savagely, he realized he'd never sleep. He was too keyed up for that. So he shed his suit jacket and took off his tie, then he left the room, turning on lights left and right. Surely somebody at the power company noticed, or did the beast's Con Ed bills go elsewhere? Maybe he stole energy from a nearby building. Never mind, Peter hadn't promised to conserve electricity. He'd explore. He'd explore the west wing, the forbidden one, and try to learn what was going on. Maybe there was a mad scientist's laboratory. Maybe the beast was Mr. Hyde to a crazed Dr. Jekyll. But whatever the answer to the puzzle was, it had to be in the west wing.

Peter crept along, passing the staircase that led to the ground floor. Edging along the corridor toward the bend that led to the west wing, he saw light ahead of him, dim and flickering that might have come from candles rather than electricity. Cautiously Peter tiptoed closer.

The west wing was in worse shape than the rest of the house. Wallpaper had been shredded, maybe by the creature's powerful claws. Curtains hung in tatters and the odd statue had been flung from its pedestal to lie in ruins on the floor. He'd been right about the candles; they stood in wall sconces, providing an eerie radiance that made Peter uneasy. The light caught one such wreck, the marble face of a demon leering up in the dancing glow, making Peter jump before he realized it was simply a large fragment of a ruined statue. His host must have a heck of a temper to go through the place tearing it up like that. So why was the kitchen so clean when this part of the house could have been hit by a portable tornado?

Most of the doors he passed were closed, but one stood open, leading into what had once been an elegantly appointed sitting room, even if its splendor had faded. It was cleaner than the rest of the west wing, and it felt lived in.

Opposite the door stood a gigantic stone fireplace, dancing flames producing light and heat without adding a shred of coziness to the atmosphere. Over the mantle hung a huge painting. Like the curtains and wallpaper, the canvas had been shredded, but Peter could see part of a face and one blue eye gazing out of the tatters at him, someone in a suit, a formal portrait, maybe even a graduation picture; the age was about right. Beyond it, on a table, lay a collection of books, some tossed face down in a way that would have upset Ray, who tended to fuss over bent corners of books, even cheap, modern novels like these. Next to them stood a small framed portrait of a young man about eighteen, of an age with the one in the painting. He was not the same man in the tattered portrait though; he was too dark. Although the photo was black and white, Peter could tell his eyes were brown. The frame held no glass and time and moisture had damaged the small photo. It was puckered and carefully smoothed, and a strip of Scotch tape held one corner in place.

Curious, Peter advanced into the room and picked it up.