Originally published in Of Dreams and Schemes 19

Peter Venkman yawned enormously and rubbed his eyes as the four Ghostbusters gathered in the third-floor lab. There ought to be a law against early mornings. He'd always been a sleep-late kind of guy, and when you shared a bunkroom with three other characters who got a major charge out of the sunrise, there were bound to be conflicts.

"Better watch out, Peter, you'll catch a lot of flies that way."

The sleepy man glared at Ray, who beamed at him so brightly they could use him for a flashlight. "There aren't any flies. Slimer eats them. Only thing he's good for. It's also the crack of dawn. I don't know why Egon always schedules staff meetings before the sun is up. Probably just to make my life miserable."

"The sun is up, Peter," Egon announced, with an amused gesture at the window. "It's eight o'clock. Not even at the winter solstice is it dark at eight in the morning, and it's the middle of summer. This is important."

Peter grimaced. "So, in other words, sit there nicely and shut up, Peter, right?"

"Well, if you choose to phrase it that way--" But only a brief spark of matching humor touched Egon's eyes and then faded quickly. Peter had an ugly feeling this would not be a happy staff meeting. Egon enjoyed riding him about sleeping late far too much. If he chose not to tease Peter, it meant something more serious was up. Considering the nastiness Ghostbusting could encompass, Peter wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Egon frowned and gave his sliding glasses an impatient shove with his forefinger, then he picked up a sheaf of notes. He always did that at staff meetings, but he rarely looked at them. Maybe just holding them reminded him of everything he meant to say, or maybe he timed sneaked looks at them when no one was watching. Nah. Knowing old Spengs, he already had every word memorized. "As you all are aware, there have been no ghosts to bust in the past ten days."

"Yeah, I noticed it was kick-back-and-relax time, all right," Peter said. So Egon was going to work up gradually to the new paranormal crisis. If this was about the sudden lack of ghosts, then it probably wasn't about a brilliant new invention that might blow up the lab. Time for a little tension-breaking. "Sleeping in is great--but not if it keeps us from getting a paycheck. You've figured out what's up, haven't you, you boy genius, you?" He angled a glance sideways at Ray. "Or is our ghost psychic who knows the thoughts of ghosts the one with the answer?"

"Gee, Peter, I think so. I've got some ideas, anyway." Ray looked out the window in a futile quest for lurking spirits. If anybody loved busting, it was Ray. He'd probably go through ghost withdrawal soon if they didn't get a new spook or specter to chase.

"He's got a few ideas," Peter muttered to Winston. "Does that mean it's time to batten down the hatches?" He paused. "What's 'batten', anyway?" He slanted a glance at Egon, who was always delighted to enlarge Peter's vocabulary.

Egon didn't play. Peter caught him actually looking at the notes, and frowning. Bad.

Ray grinned fleetingly--well, Ray would enjoy the challenge of whatever big meanie was about to strike. He always did. Sometimes he found ordinary class twos and threes boring. One of these days, Peter meant to sit him down and have a serious talk about his priorities. But not today. With a deliberate air of martyrdom he nodded at Ray to continue. It wouldn't do to mess with the Venkman image.

Ray's smile widened a bit as he accepted the invitation. While Egon flipped through the pages of his notes--and there were a lot of pages--Ray plunged on. "I kind of halfway wondered if they were hiding, but that wouldn't explain why they'd been gone for the last week and a half."

Winston sat up straighter. "Why do I have a nasty feeling I'm not gonna like this?" He caught Peter's eye and frowned. Winston could be as much of a doomsayer as Peter--until the chips were down. Then he turned into the kind of a guy who was always positive.

Ray bobbed his head. "I did think of a possible answer. Only I wasn't sure if there was anything to it until I talked to Egon."

Right on cue, Egon set aside his notes and displayed his P.K.E. meter. Old Spengs considered the ghost-detection device particularly important. He practically slept with a meter. Peter half suspected he took it in the shower with him. On the rare occasions when he went out on a date with Janine, the meter always went, too. Peter wasn't sure what to think about that. Egon measuring any potential psi energy as a result of nookie? If so, he'd never announce those readings at a staff meeting. Too bad. Peter stored away the deliberately annoying questions he could ask for a time when he could use them to distract Egon from negative thoughts.

As if he guessed the descent of Peter's thoughts into the gutter, Egon cast Peter a rather haughty glance over the top of his glasses--that was Egon; he knew Peter too well to let him get away with anything--then got right back to business. "My readings have been alarming, to say the least." He twirled the dials of the meter and it erupted into wild activity, beeping shrilly while the antennae shot to complete attention, little lights blinking on their tips. Peter, whose experience told him such a reaction indicated the immediate presence of a very powerful ghost, jerked to his feet and looked around wildly for a thrower. Winston did the same.

"No, sit down, gentlemen," Egon urged. He made patting motions with his free hand. "This is not a specific reading. There are no ghosts in the immediate vicinity, none whatsoever."

"Well, your gizmo doesn't exactly know that," Peter complained. He eased down warily and braced himself on the edge of his chair, ready to spring to his feet at the first sign of unworldly presences. With readings like that they were probably lurking just out of sight. Might be a good idea to fetch their proton packs.

"Do you remember when Gozer was coming, Peter?"

"Duh. No, Spengs, I totally forget." He grimaced. "Not only was that our first major case, it was the biggest one we ever had. Well, apart from Cthulhu, Nexa, Proteus.... Wait a minute. You got readings like this before each of those jolly guys decided to show up to trash the Big Apple. Tell me that's not what you're getting now, another big meanie?"

"I can't tell you that for certain, Peter, but these readings, while as powerful as that, are qualitatively different. The utter absence of other ghosts is what concerns me. In each of those instances, we had a plethora of other specters."

"Plethora, Egon? I'm sure that's a penalty word, one that no one short of a college professor would ever say." He frowned encouragingly at Egon--who for once failed to rise to the bait. Uh oh. That's bad.

Egon continued, "We know ghosts fled before Mee-Krah and were even willing to surrender voluntarily to the containment unit to escape that entity. This time, it's as if even the ghosts are afraid to come out at all. Or as if...." His voice trailed off thoughtfully. Peter suspected it was just as well he didn't finish the sentence.

"Yeah, I've been worrying about it for days," Ray agreed. His face scrunched up and turned his forehead into a washboard of wrinkles--and if he, the youngest of the Ghostbusters, were spouting wrinkles, what did that say for Peter, who was a year and a half Ray's senior? He brushed a surreptitious hand across his own forehead, just to be sure.

"Do I take it that we're having this meeting because you've solved it?" Winston asked. He looked prepared to put on his thrower so he'd be ready for the trouble the science half of the team was about to announce. That was Winston, always prepared.

"No, at least not yet," Ray said. Somehow, that was not encouraging. He dragged Tobin's Spirit Guide across the table and flipped a few pages. That weighty tome could produce answers for Ray as neatly if he'd trained it.

Peter made urging gestures in Ray's direction. "So tell us already, Tex. Is this like some weird mass turbulence of 1847 or 1912?"

Ray produced a smile. "Well, there are a couple of chapters on mass turbulence, and I went through them with a fine-toothed comb. I wasn't sure what was building, but from Egon's readings, I couldn't help wondering if this wasn't one of those crossroads moments."

"Whoa, back up." Winston jerked up his hand. "Time out. Crossroads moments?"

"You know, fate-of-the-world conflicts," Ray said vaguely. He turned another page. "Battles between the forces of light and darkness." He raised eyes shining with eager anticipation. "That would go along with the weird ambient energy readings Egon's detected the past couple of weeks. Then I found something that would match the absence of ghosts like this. I wasn't sure I was right, even though it seems like it's going to be nasty. But the Defender usually has a bad feeling."

"Ray, we all have a bad feeling by now, even Slimer and the bag lady who crashes in the alley," Peter complained. "Who's the Defender? And what is he supposed to defend us from? Whatever it takes to scare away all the New York ghosts? Why am I positive I'm not going to have any fun today?" It wasn't like Ray to milk a situation. He usually blurted out everything he knew without prompting. Peter had a world-class bad feeling himself. He fought to still an involuntary shiver. "

"Have you ever heard of The Book of Dark and Bright?" Ray asked.

Peter caught Winston's eye and the other man lifted his eyebrows. "Is this anything like that Nameless Book we ran into in Russia, a couple of years ago?"

"Or The Necronomicon?" Peter suggested reluctantly. Books of power usually spelled major trouble for the Ghostbusters. The absence of ghosts and Egon's meter's frantic dance signaled trouble with a capital "T" and that rhymed with "G" and that stood for "Ghosts".

Ray bobbed his head. "Yeah, it's like that, but different, too. Those books have spells and rituals, and well, I guess The Book of Dark and Bright does, too, but it's a little different. It only comes into existence--well, not existence, precisely, but into people's awareness--when the fate of Good and Evil hangs in the balance. The rest of the time, it's just a book, and nobody pays any attention to it. It can sit on a library shelf for twenty years without being checked out, or lay in somebody's attic, and it might as well be invisible, but when the time comes, then it makes itself known."

"Why, pray tell, does the fate of Good and Evil always have to come knocking at our door?" Peter groaned. "Isn't it past time for somebody else to save the world?"

Winston gave a resigned shrug and ignored Peter's rhetorical question. "So who's this Defender dude?"

Ray rocked on his toes. Egon just frowned as Ray answered. "The Defender is the person the book chooses to protect it against the Manipulator."

"He sounds bad." Winston's brow puckered. "Is the Manipulator a person or a ghost?"

"A person, generally," Ray explained. "But a person who can be allied with dark forces. It could be a nasty occultist who likes to mess around with the dark side of things. There are a few guys like that in New York, and I keep my ear to the ground to see what they're up to because they could make big trouble for us by summoning something too powerful and having it get out of hand. That's one of the reasons Egon checks his ambient energy readings every day, just to make sure a new threat hasn't snuck through."

"And it warns us of other dangers," Egon replied. "Even without the presence of ghosts, the energy levels are extremely high right now and that is very bad. Can you imagine a pressure cooker, Peter?"

"Welllll...maybe," he conceded. "We talking major paranormal explosions, Spengs?"

Egon fiddled with the meter. "Entirely possible."

"Let's get back to the Manipulator." That was Winston, a down-to-business kind of guy. "I don't like the sound of him. What is it he's supposed to do, anyway? Would he be here in New York?"

Ray's face scrunched up with concentration. "I think he'd be close at hand or we wouldn't get such powerful readings. Remember when Jeremy Whittingdon tried to bring about the end of the world? It's that kind of thing. With the book, he'd have the power to cause major destruction. Whittingdon nearly destroyed the whole planet. Remember, he had those blue entities helping him?"

"The ones the throwers didn't work on," groaned Winston. "So you're saying that if any ghosts or entities show up, we won't be able to stop them? Oh, man." He caught Peter's eye and they commiserated with each other without so much as a word spoken. Only Ray would know about something weird like this. Once Egon found out about it, he would be gung ho to save the world, even if it meant the four of them went out in a blaze of glory in the process. Egon's mother must have read him books like Robin Hood, The Sword of Roland, and The Three Musketeers in secret to turn him into a closet swashbuckler. Once old Spengs had even confessed a secret longing to swing from a chandelier and rescue a damsel in distress.

"So was this book involved in the Whittingdon thing?" Peter asked suspiciously. Did that make the Ghostbusters the Defenders, or had Whittingdon's weird little buddy DeTillio been the Defender? Did it even matter? If Ray's weird theory was right, one of them was probably meant to be the Defender, most likely Ray. That meant he'd need protection big time.

"Well, probably not," Ray said thoughtfully. "Jeremy didn't have the book--and neither did we, so I don't think that was anything to do with The Book of Dark and Bright." Ray shook his head. "No, the book wasn't involved then. We'd have seen it. DeTillio said Jeremy had a book, but it was destroyed in the process, and I don't think it would be that easy to destroy The Book of Dark and Bright. I think it affects the fate of mankind."

"Busy book," Winston muttered under his breath.

"It also appears when we are at a crossroads, at a time when Good and Evil are in conflict," Egon added. "It makes evil available to the world--"

"Hate to point it out, Spengs," Peter said, "but Evil's already available by the bucketful without this particular book. Or do you mean it can escalate things?"

Ray shook his head vehemently. "This is one of those major battles."

Peter pushed himself to his feet and paced up and down the lab. He felt too uncomfortable to keep sitting down. "I hate to ask, but what form is this one going to take?" He glanced from Ray to Egon and back. Talk about a question he didn't want the answer to.

"Well, we have to get the book before the Manipulator gets it," said Ray as if it were as easy as picking up groceries at the corner market.

"And you don't, pray chance, know where to find the book, do you, Ray?" Peter stopped his pacing in front of Ray. "Come on, Tex, we need answers.

Ray gulped. "Okay. Here's what I know. The book is waiting. The Defender and the Manipulator or their allies will be able to find it, but no one else will even be aware of what's going on, well, not unless they're psychic or something. We'll know but that's because we can take readings. The average man in the street won't have a clue--until it's too late."

"That sounds bad." Winston jumped up, too. "Come on, Ray, bottom line. We find this Defender guy and help him secure the book?"

"No, the Defender has to do that on his own. Once he's got it, we can bring it back to the firehall somehow, and put it in the containment unit, and it'll be safe. But if the Manipulator gets it, then we're in big trouble."

"If this is more wrath-of-God stuff like the coming of Gozer, I don't want to know about it." Peter shivered. A weird tension ran through him as if he'd taken a mild electrical charge. Power must already be building out there, just like Egon's meter said it was. "Rivers and seas boiling, all that crap?"

"Precisely, Peter." Egon held up a second meter. "I've configured this meter to detect the type of energy Ray claims the book would produce."

Peter sucked in his breath. "It's here? In Manhattan?" At Egon's nod of confirmation, Peter whirled to Ray. "I've got it! I've got it! You're the Defender, aren't you, Super Stantz? You know about it, you're figuring all this out. Hasta be you."

Ray ducked his head. "Well, maybe, Peter. Gosh, it's exciting."

"Exciting?" Peter blurted. "The fate of the whole world rests on you getting this book before some uber-villain and you're excited? Why am I not surprised?"

Ray grinned. "Well, gee, Peter, just think. It's gonna be fun. I've always wanted to see what the Overrealm is like."

"Whoa! Back up! Time out!" Winston raised his hands in a classic referee's signal. "You didn't mention this Overrealm before. What is it?"

"That's the best part of the whole thing, guys. Once the Defender has the book, he has to take it through the Overrealm to a place of safety. The Overrealm is a world that sort of exists outside of the real world, but right on top of it, like an overlay. You're still in New York, but it's New York with a difference. You exist in two worlds at once."

"It is a fascinating concept," Egon jumped in, and for once, he almost sounded as excited as Ray. "We know, from our constant readings and our exposure to ghosts and spirits, that there is a whole realm out there that we can't see, that most people are never aware of. The Overrealm is a means of accessing all that. It is the shadow realm between our world and that of, well, of Faerie, for want of a better term. Ghosts, of course, can transfer back and forth effortlessly. I theorize that the meter reacts to the proximity to the Overrealm. The barriers are thinned and energy is bleeding through. That is where we will most likely find our absent ghosts, lurking in the Overrealm since it's so accessible to our own world. Perhaps they wish to watch the conflict, or perhaps they are simply drawn there. But I believe they will stay there waiting until such time as the conflict is resolved."

"Yeah, it's great. You can walk down a street and see the shadows of the world of Faerie." Ray bounced excitedly. In another incarnation, he'd probably been Tigger. "Well, not really Faerie, not like you read in urban fantasies. And it's not the Netherworld, either. It's like moving through a sort of shadow version of reality. You see everything that's part of our reality: cars and buildings and people, traffic jams, tourists, street vendors. But you might see otherworld trees growing up in the middle of Times Square, or the undead waiting at a traffic light."

"Ray, if I go through my whole life without ever seeing the undead at a traffic light, I'll still feel fulfilled," Peter said. He understood the concept. It was as if horror films were coming to life and only the Defender could see it. Could give a guy nightmares once it was over--assuming they survived. "So tell me, you Pollyanna you, are the undead always out there and we just don't see 'em?"

"Well, we know about the other side already, Peter. We've been to the Netherworld and we've tracked down invisible ghosts." Ray beamed happily at Peter. "It's just like what we bust all the time, only the Overrealm sort of gets in your face about it."

"Most of the time, the creatures of the Overrealm don't pay any attention to our world," Egon joined the discussion. "I've been reading everything I could find on the subject. They mind their own business, which rarely involves interfering with humans. Those who do tend to become visible in the real world--and we bust them."

"But the majority of the creatures of the Overrealm don't pay any attention to us. They might walk right through somebody and not even care." Ray glanced out the window. If he were the Defender, maybe he had to have this weird book in his possession in order to see the Overrealm.

"Is that when you get the feeling that somebody walked over your grave?" Winston asked uneasily. "Oh, man, I don't like this." He looked over his shoulder.

Peter squinted around the lab. He hated the thought that there could be a whole realm of nasties who lived here at the same time they did. Nah. Egon's meter would be sure to pick them up. Wouldn't it?

"Neither do I," Egon agreed with Winston. The second P.K.E. meter's antennae tips flickered weakly. "We must go soon to find the book. I hadn't expected matters to progress so quickly."

Ray's gaze fastened on the meter. "Gosh, Egon, yeah. If we can get readings, then the Manipulator will know, too. I don't know if I'm the Defender or not, or if there's somebody else out there, but we better go and grab the book. We'll be able to see it until either the Defender or the Manipulator takes possession of it. I have a sneaky feeling I'll know the Manipulator when I see him."

"One of those Satanist types?" Winston asked. "Oh, man, I hate that kind of thing."

Peter always figured that was one of the reasons Winston had become a Ghostbuster. He believed in God, he believed in Good standing up against Evil, and busting ghosts was the way he lived his beliefs. You had to respect Winston for that.

Ray bobbed his head. "Well, there are a lot of people out there in the occult community who are into that. Most folks are decent, but there are a few that I don't trust at all. If any of them are tuned into this, we need to get to the book first. Can you track it, Egon?"

Peter shivered. This was coming together too fast. He could see the urgency in Ray's face, but he could feel it, too. All his Ghostbusting experience shouted at him that they couldn't hang around and wait. The sooner they left, the better. They had to get to wherever the book waited. Probably some obscure little bookshop, one of the occult kind that Ray liked to visit. The shops had names like "Wyrd" and "The Happy Medium".

"I believe the meter can pin down the location," Egon replied. "But once we find the book and secure it, we'll be exposed to the Overrealm. And I want to point out that if we are aware in the Overrealm of Faerie, the denizens there may be be aware of us as well. We will be closer to that realm than to ours."

Winston had taken two steps for the stairs, but that halted him in his tracks. "You mean all the baddies there will try to stop us?"

"Well, gee, they want Evil to win," Ray said as if it were a given. "They'll be able to sense the book." He closed Tobin and straightened it on the table. "We'd better hurry."

So he felt the urgency, too. Maybe that meant he was the Defender. Or maybe the whole team was. Winston seemed pretty edgy, too, and Peter had that itchy feeling that he got when there was something unfinished that was sure to be unpleasant. As for old Spengs, he'd accept Defendership and carry on against impossible odds, just like Don Quixote, tilting at vicious windmills that fought back.

"One other thing," Egon said, and his voice held major regret.

Peter stalked over to him and stood facing him. "What thing?" he asked. "Come on, Egon, what haven't you told us?"

Egon lifted his eyes to Peter's, and they held regret and apology. Peter knew the signs. Egon was about to tell them they would have to risk their lives, maybe even die, to save the world. He always gave them a choice, to approve his decision, even though it usually came down to a situation where they had to act anyway. Peter always felt he had to validate Egon at such times; the weight of the world could be awfully heavy for one man's shoulders. He'd always been willing to join in on the balancing act so Egon didn't stagger under the weight. They gazed at each other for a second, then Egon spoke, his voice tight.

"I don't believe our equipment will work in the Overrealm."

Winston slapped his hand against his forehead. "Oh, man, you had to say that, didn't you?"

Peter didn't take his eyes from Egon. "So this is the thing. The Defender grabs the book, then we trek to headquarters with it. Will Ecto work?"

"I doubt it," Egon replied. "Not in the Overrealm. We'll see cars driving up and down the streets, but we won't be able to drive with the book in our possession."

"So if Ray has the book, he'll have to walk to headquarters," Peter squawked. "Will we all be in the Overrealm, or just Ray? Will we be able to see him if he's there and we're not?"

Egon frowned. "I simply don't know, Peter."

"I don't either." Ray bounced. "Maybe you can follow me in Ecto. If there are baddies in both realms you can stop the ones in our world. Gosh, it's gonna be so great."

Peter whirled from Egon and grabbed Ray by the shoulders. "Ray. It is not gonna be great. It's gonna be dangerous, and you can't use your thrower over there. What will you do if the undead corner you?"

"Well, gee, Peter, I always thought I'd use a spell. They'd work over there, a lot better than here."

"A spell. He wants to use spells and magic." Peter raked frustrated hands through his hair. "I do not believe this."

"Then don't believe it en route," Egon said, and he steered Peter toward the stairs.

Ray hesitated, then he darted over and grabbed up the Ecto-scopes. He distributed a pair to each of them. "When I'm in the Overrealm, guys, you can wear these. Maybe they'll let you see what I see."

Ray was usually the team member who wore the specially configured goggles. Peter had worn them a few times when the ghosts they encountered didn't choose to be visible. But he'd never seen an overlay over everything when he'd worn them before. He took them and settled them on his forehead. When the time came, he'd wear them, but he knew he wasn't gonna like it.

"Now we're sure you're gonna be the Defender, right, Ray?"

Ray glanced up at Peter. "Gosh, Peter, I don't know. It might be some other person altogether. Or maybe all of us as a team. That'd be the best; then we could travel the Overrealm together."

Peter liked the idea of that a lot better than he liked the thought of Ray making his way through a nasty dimension at the same time as he wandered through New York. The proton pack might not work in the Overrealm, but at least it would fend off muggers--assuming people in Manhattan could still see him. What if he tried to cross a busy street and nobody could see him, not even motorists?

"We will be able to track the Defender," Egon pointed out. "We can, of course, detect the book, so we should be able to stay within range of it easily, even if, by some remote chance, we couldn't see Ray--or another Defender, if it falls that way."

Winston's hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel of Ecto. He hadn't said much on the short drive, taking directions from Egon as they went--they were still in rush hour, so they hadn't made rapid progress turning this way and that while Egon worked on the meter, even doubling back on their route. But from the set of Winston's mouth, he clearly didn't like the idea of this bust one little bit. "We getting close?" he asked now.

Ray craned his neck to see the meter screen from the "shotgun" seat next to Winston. "What about it, Egon? I was pretty sure from your readings that it wasn't very far away. I think we're heading for Ancient Ways. It's just in Union Square, and I know the owner, Ellyn Evenstar. She's Wiccan, and it caters to the pagan community. If the book is there, she'll let me have it."

Peter would have bet money Ellyn Evenstar hadn't been born with that name, but it didn't matter. If she were a friend of Ray's, she was sure to be all right. Weird, but all right. All Ray's friends were nice folks, but there was no denying some of them were strange.

"Will she know about this Overrealm and the confrontation?" Peter asked. "What about the Manipulator? Will he head over there, too?" He felt like he wanted to get out and push so they could beat the baddie to the book. They had to protect it. "We better hurry. I don't want Evil to take over. I've got a date Saturday night."

It wasn't far to Ancient Ways, but it dawned on Peter that, even though it wasn't quite two miles from home, it would prove a long way to Ghostbuster Central on foot for Ray, weighted down with a huge book and dogged by creatures from the other realms. He couldn't even use his proton pack and thrower. If the guys couldn't track him, it would prove a tough journey. They'd be able to see Ray, wouldn't they? Only that might be worse, to see him in danger and be unable to help him.

Peter decided he didn't like this bust very much.

Ancient Ways was a small shop tucked away in the upstairs of a building, reached by a steep stairway. Since it catered to the pagan community, Peter suspected non-pagan folks might be uncomfortable if they wandered in and saw representations of the goddess and pentagrams and the like. The trendy might enjoy buying Tarot decks, but they'd hesitate over things like valerian and wormroot and other esoteric herbs. Tourists probably wouldn't find the place, either.

Peter had been here before twice with Ray, who had wanted to check the available books. When the Ghostbusters, all armed with their proton packs reached the top of the stairs and entered the shop, he saw a couple of women and a tall black man gathered around a table with cups of tea to hand. Although small, the room held an amazing amount of merchandise. A glass-fronted counter displayed jewelry, pagan symbols prominent. Over in one corner stood a series of hand-created drums that Ray had once explained to Peter were used in drumming rituals. Jars on shelves contained herbs for use in rituals and maybe even for spell-casting. One whole wall was devoted to books. Peter had inspected them the last time he was here and discovered they were mostly about the Craft, but there were some on ancient astronauts, UFO's, interpreting dreams, astrology, the Tarot, and even a few on the paranormal. Colorful posters adorned the walls; the most prominent had a couple of wolves in a fantasy setting with an ancient castle rising behind them. The eyes of the wolves were intelligent, and it was only after a second glance that one realized the smaller of the two wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

From his previous visits, Peter recognized the younger of the two women, whose hair was as red as Janine's, as the proprietor. Their arrival interrupted the dealing out of the Tarot deck; she had been reading the fortune of the other woman, who was around thirty and not at all shabby looking. Peter gave her an ingratiating smile. She eyed him, took in the team's equipment, and arched an eyebrow, not particularly disturbed at the sight of the Ghostbusters in full regalia.

It was the redhead who responded, and not to Peter. "Hi, Ray," she greeted him. "I haven't seen a ghost all morning. Have you guys?"

"Not me," the black man agreed. "Hey, Ray. You guys on your way home from a bust?"

"No, Eric," Ray said with a grin. "To one, maybe. Ellyn, were you expecting me?"

The red-haired woman laid aside the card she'd been holding. Peter shivered when he noticed it was Death, even though Ray had explained that card didn't necessarily mean the person whose fortune was being read was going to die. It was symbolic, but it wasn't a symbolism Peter wanted to approach right now.

"Just a minute, Charlotte," the shop owner said and laid the rest of her cards down. Her brow crinkled, and she stared at Peter as if she'd noticed his reaction to the Death card. Then she picked upthe entire deck and shuffled it. "I'm sorry, Charlotte," she said. "We'll have to do this next time. Something's come up."

Charlotte shrugged. "Luck of the draw," she said in a delightful contralto. She caught Peter's eye and smiled regretfully, then she picked up a purse nearly as big as a suitcase that bulged with books, and slung it over her shoulder. He half expected it to make her lopsided, but she must have had lots of practice toting it.

An uneasy shiver traced its way up and down Peter's spine. Was the red-haired woman psychic, or had she just read Ray's expression from knowing him pretty well? It wasn't as if Ray had a secretive face.

"You kicking us out?" Eric asked, unconcerned. "Break's over anyway. I'll be back around noon, if you haven't been shifted to an evil parallel dimension or something." He arched an eyebrow at Ray.

"Well, we sure hope not," Ray said with an eager grin. His gaze darted here and there, seeking out the Book of Dark and Bright. Peter doubted they would find it over there on the bookshelf with the title visible on the spine. If Ellyn had it, she'd keep it behind the counter or in the store room.

Eric fell into step with Charlotte, and they let themselves out. Ellyn held up a hand and didn't speak until the sound of their footsteps faded. Then she said, "Something's up. I know it."

"Well, you could say that," Peter agreed. He turned to Egon, who had stopped near the doorway, his face intent with concentration. The P.K.E. meter in his hand beeped softly, but Peter suspected it made so little noise because he'd turned the sound down. The antennae stood at full attention, blinking so rapidly the lights almost seemed constantly on.

"That looks ominous," Ellyn said to Egon. "Ray didn't introduce me, but I'm Ellyn Evenstar. I know who you are, of course. I didn't make the connection until now, but I have a sneaky feeling you're here to pick something up."

"You've got it?" Ray burst out. "Right here?"

"I was in the storeroom this morning," the woman said. Her hair was thick and bushy, and she'd tried to subdue it in a long braid that ran halfway down her back. She had it braided with thin leather thongs in bright green. "And I found a package there that I'd forgotten about, a battered old book that I didn't think I could sell because it was in such bad condition."

She lifted a package bound in brown wrapping paper and deposited it on the counter, an action that caused the meter Egon had set to detect the book to throw a major hissy fit. He shut it off abruptly before it could explode--or implode, or whichever it felt like today. "It's overloading," he explained as he dropped it on the counter.

Ellyn's mouth tightened into a grimace. "I thought it was bad. I had someone come in just a little while ago asking for really old books, but he gave me such a bad feeling that I said I'd have to check in the storeroom and to come back in two hours. I didn't let him think I was upset or suspicious, but I had already found this and I was sure it was what he wanted." She didn't touch the package. "I didn't open it. I was even thinking of calling you, Ray. I probably would have before I let that man have it. He gave me the worst vibes I've felt in years."

"Boy, yeah," Ray agreed. "From the way the meter reacted, I think this is what we came to find."

She glanced at each of them in turn. When her eyes met Peter's, he felt a sudden unease, as if the green eyes could look past his barriers and see every fault and weakness he possessed. She moved on to study Winston, and Peter wanted to relax, but he couldn't. The book was right there on the counter, and in a few minutes, Ray would take it, and he'd find himself in the Overrealm. Even though Ray, with his vast knowledge of the occult, was probably better prepared to face it than the rest of them, Peter and Winston were better fighters, and Egon was a certified genius who came up with creative solutions at the last minute. Maybe all of them could enter the Overrealm together and carry the book to safety.

"What do you know about the guy who came in before?" It was Winston who asked the practical question.

"I don't know him at all, but Jenny Cranston was in here when he came, and she sort of blended into the wall at the sight of him. When he left, she said he was Richard Stark He's obsessed with the occult--especially the dark side."

"Stark!" Ray's eyes widened. "Guys, this is bad. I know who he is. He knows me, too. He'd recognize me, even in the Overrealm--assuming we wouldn't look different there. He's a dark occultist, and he's into power. I should have guessed he'd be the one."

"So, he'll know all about the book?" Peter frowned. "He'd want Evil to win, huh? Nice guy. I don't think I'll put him on my Christmas Card list."

Egon frowned. "Guys, I think power is building. Whatever is going to happen will happen soon. If Stark is definitely the Manipulator, his presence here earlier may have begun the process."

"What about Ray's presence here now?" asked Winston. "He figured it all out and knew he had to come here. I figure that makes him the Defender."

"Well, Egon and I both figured it out," Ray said. "And his meter led the way. Maybe it's Egon."

"I doubt that, Raymond." Egon pushed his sliding glasses into place and glanced around the shop. "I knew something was about to happen by my readings, but you were the one who determined what it was."

"Nice mutual admiration society, guys," Peter said. "But this is all going down soon, so let's not stand around and pat each other on the back. Let's do something before this Stark gets here. You know about him, Ray. Will he summon up demons or anything nasty like that?"

"Well, he might,"Ray admitted cautiously. "But he doesn't really have to. Once either the Defender or Manipulator touches the book, both of them will be transported to the Overrealm right away."

"He's not here yet, Ray. So go for it. Get a jump on the guy. Or isn't the Defender allowed to be proactive?"

"Well, sure, Peter. Okay, if you think I should...."

How could Ray manage to be so humble at a time like this? He'd figured this whole thing out, recruited Egon to help. All he had to do was pick up the book, and the side of Good would have a head start. The book hadn't done anything spectacular when Ellyn Evenstar had carried it out of the storeroom, but it was wrapped up in paper. Maybe you had to touch it directly.

Ray went over to the counter and worked on the paper. He didn't disappear or anything. Would that come when he touched the book itself? Or would he look just the same to the guys when he was in the Overrealm? Peter caught Winston's eye. Winston lifted his shoulders in a doubtful shrug.

When the paper fell away, Ray didn't touch the book immediately. He just looked at it, and the other three tried to see. Ellyn moved behind the counter and stared down at it, even though she must have seen it before. It wouldn't have popped into her storeroom out of the ether. Proof she wasn't the Defender, all right.

The book was big, about the size of a coffee-table book, but all resemblance ended there. Instead of a dramatic color cover, it was bound in ancient, cracked leather. It measured about an inch and a half thick, the edges of the pages irregular and discolored to suggest age. The title had been emblazoned in gilt on the cover in archaic lettering but, over the years, the brightness had gone and only popped up here and there in corners of letters. "'The Book of Darke and Bryghte,'" Peter read aloud. "Boy, no points for spelling here."

"Spelling used to be a lot more creative," Ray said with a grin, then he took a deep, steadying breath and stretched out his hand to touch the book.

Suddenly Peter's scalp tightened. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle to attention even before he heard the footsteps hurrying up the stairs. "Guys," he gritted out, his voice tight with warning. "Look out." Then, without even realizing why he did it, he lunged at Ray, knocked him to one side, and snatched the book, just as a loud retort echoed through the shop. Hot fire seared Peter's upper arm but the sensation faded in the jumble of confusion that filled him. His vision blurred. When it cleared everything had turned bright and fuzzy around the edges, even his friends, who stood with their throwers leveled at the guy with the gun who stood in the doorway. Only the stranger remained sharp and clear.

Peter wrapped both his arms around the book and clutched it against his chest. He could hear the guys yelling his name in alarm, but their voices had grown faint and distant. He knew he'd been hit when the man fired--was it Stark? He was tall and slender and elegant looking, with an aren't-I-wonderful stance. Women probably found the guy handsome with his smooth features and what they called bedroom eyes. His hair was blond, styled rather than just combed, and his jacket was Armani. Hazel eyes glittered with anger and a lot more understanding than Peter had. For an instant, the man blinked with the most minute expression of surprise, then it cleared away and he smiled triumphantly. He didn't aim the gun at Peter, but at the guys, then the smile tightened, and he tucked it away in his jacket pocket, but not as if the throwers intimidated him. What the heck was that about? Even without their throwers, the guys could overpower him and wrestle him down while they called the police.

They didn't even try. They just stared. Ray's mouth hung open in disbelief as he jumped up to his feet, and the guys moved closer to Peter. He could still hear them yelling his name, but their voices held a hollow, echoing quality, as if they were yelling down the wrong end of a long, narrow tube. Was he about to pass out? His arm burned with fire where the bullet had brushed him, but his mind was sharp, and he didn't feel dizzy--just strange.

"Go, Peter," Ray yelled. "We'll try to hold him here."

Go? Go where? Why did Ray want him to leave? And what the heck was that fuzzy thing floating up near the ceiling? As he watched in disbelief, it sharpened into vivid clarity, revealing itself to be a little figure with fluttering wings, a very human face, and pointy ears like Spock. Its expression was aloof until it looked at Peter, then it sharpened to fascinated interest. "Defender," it said in a voice of crystal clarity. Funny that the entity's tiny voice was clearer than the guys' urgent yells. Why weren't they picking up on the creature? Egon still held the other meter, the one that hadn't overloaded, and it was reacting, but not with the strength it would have displayed at the presence of a ghost. The guys didn't seem to notice the drifting fairy. Instead, they divided their attention between Peter and the gunman.

"I'm not the Defender," Peter blurted out. "Ray is." He waved his hand over at the too-bright-around-the-edges Ray who made shooing gestures at him.

"Go on, Peter. We'll try to stop him." It was like listening to the TV when the sound was turned too low.

"What?" he said. "Go where, Ray?"

"I can't hear him," Winston complained. "Pete, talk louder."

"I'm already yelling my head off," Peter griped. "What's going on?"

"All too easy," Stark muttered and he took two quick strides toward Peter and reached for the book. "This fool doesn't understand."

Peter yanked the book away from him. He couldn't let the Manipulator get his slimy hands on it and turn the world Evil. "Back off, bunky," he snarled and slid neatly between Ray and Egon, who leveled their throwers at the jerk.

Stark lifted his hands, not so much in a pacifying gesture, but simply to indicate he could wait. "Oh, no. It comes down to you and me. You're Venkman, right? Excellent. I couldn't ask for an easier opponent. I've seen you on television. A shallow egotist is the last person in the world who could ever hope to defend the book successfully."

"Shallow egotist?" Peter shot back. His muscles tightened, and he glared at the creep. "That proves what you know. A guy who takes things at face value is a heck of a Manipulator. You're Stark, right?"

Momentary surprise that he'd been identified flickered on Stark's face, then he glanced over at Ellyn and nodded as he realized she must have told them his name.

"At your service." The scorn in his voice must have been evident to Peter's teammates, even if they only heard him from a distance, because Peter saw Egon's face tighten. Weird to look at the guys. They glowed around the edges. When they stared at Peter, he saw encouragement in their faces.

How had he become the Defender? Just by touching the book? That was a crummy deal. He'd had to save Ray from the guy with the gun, but touching the book had been so completely instinctive that he couldn't have stopped. He hadn't even realized what he might be doing. It should have been Ray, or Egon, or even Winston, whose strength of character, faith, and determined practicality would have seen him through. What did Peter have going for him? The ability to fast-talk his way out of a situation? Having been quarterback of his college football team didn't set him up to make this kind of end run.

Was he a shallow egotist? Was that the way he came across to everyone, even to the guys? He didn't want to even consider that possibility.

On the other hand, this guy Stark was the Manipulator. Screwing with people's heads went with the job description. Stark might try to mess with him, scam him, trick him, but he was smarter than that. No one who had learned the fine art of the con at Charlie Venkman's knee had any right to fall for a line spun out by somebody like Stark. The guy might be smart, sophisticated, devious--and he looked like he was all of those things--but he wasn't as smart as Peter. He might summon up demons for fun and profit, but Peter had helped to defeat Gozer, and had taken on Nexa one on one. He could handle this. He had to.

"Keep him from leaving if you can," he yelled at the guys. Then he unzipped his jumpsuit just far enough to tuck the book inside before zipping it up over the book. It quivered faintly against his chest. His toolbelt would hold it in place.

Weapons wouldn't work in the Overrealm. So Peter shucked the ecto scopes, then he unfastened his proton pack, slid out of it, and dumped it on the counter beside the goggles. The moment he let go of the pack, it went shimmery around the edges, but Ray grabbed it before Stark could move, then crammed Peter's scopes in the front of his jumpsuit.

Winston leveled his thrower at Stark. "You might be in the Overrealm, buddy, but that makes you paranormal. I bet good money we could bust you if we wanted to. I've got a feeling you'd rather we didn't try. So stand there and don't try anything or I'll neutronize you at five paces and that'll send your atoms scattering at the speed of light."

Stark's mouth twisted. "You shouldn't be able to see me at all," he protested. "Perhaps your constant exposure to psi energy has enabled you to do so. I seriously doubt you would be able to blast me."

Why did he have to look so confident? Peter wondered. A ploy to intimidate him? The fact that he probably understood a lot better than Peter what they were up against?

"Peter." Egon's voice rang out, dead serious. He stood in front of Peter, thrower tucked under his arm. Peter had to squint a little at the sight of him, for his friend shimmered so brightly around the edges, but Peter could see the grave concern in Egon's eyes as they stared at each other. "We were foolish to assume automatically that Ray was the Defender. You need to return to the firehall now, on foot."

Peter imagined climbing into Ecto and falling right through the floor. Probably wouldn't happen because he wasn't falling through the floor of Ancient Ways, but you never knew. "Got it," he said.

"We'll hold him as long as we can," Egon instructed. "People outside won't see you. Be very careful. I believe you could still be injured if you were struck by a car--and your arm is bleeding. It looks like a flesh wound, but you should dress it as soon as you reach a safe place."

"Be really careful, Peter." Ray leveled his thrower at Stark, too. There was no time for anything but one final exchange of glances with his buddies. Glowing in the weird light, they looked like guardian angels. He knew the guys would follow him if they could, run interference, but they'd also have to watch Stark.

"Guys...." he began, and paused when he realized he couldn't find the words to say.

"One thing, Peter," Egon said, his voice suddenly firm. "You are not shallow and egotistical. We know this." That was the tone Egon used when he didn't want anyone to even think of disagreeing with him. He put out his hand to Peter.

Peter tried to clasp it, and while he could feel something, it felt insubstantial, wispy, ghostlike. He could tell from the way Egon's face tightened that his hand felt the same to Spengler. If Peter didn't make it to headquarters and the containment unit, he'd never again be able to touch his friends any better than Slimer could. Should he fail, he'd stay like this forever. It was hard not to shudder.

"See you soon," he said with forced brightness. Then he circled around Stark so as not to get between him and the throwers, and hurried down the steps to the street.

"Gosh," breathed Ray when Peter had disappeared. "I should have told you guys a lot more. I just assumed I was the Defender. Oh, no!" he yelled and gestured at Stark with his thrower. "We'll blast you if you move."

"What makes you think it would work?" the dark occultist demanded.

"The fact that you're still standing there," Egon responded. He leveled the P.K.E. meter at Stark and his brow wrinkled over the reading. Ray could see the antennae quivering, but they weren't fully extended. Egon had picked up something, but whether they could blast Stark in this state or not Ray wasn't sure. Egon's face gave nothing away. They had to stall as long as possible, to give Peter a running start.

Stark laughed. "You're fools, all of you. You assume Venkman has only to return to your headquarters."

A niggle of alarm shivered through Ray's stomach. He had made that assumption, that they could secure the book in the containment unit and keep it safe from the Manipulator. But there had to be more. The book existed for a purpose, and maybe that involved opening it, reading it, even following instructions. Ray could read a mage's language or two, and even Latin. Peter didn't know anything about mage's languages except that they existed. He'd studied Latin and had known it at one time, but could he read it now? Ray's thoughts whirled. Peter was out there, wounded, convinced all he had to do was make his way through a strange, enhanced New York for less than two miles, when in reality he might be required to perform certain tasks. Who knew if the creatures of the shadow realms would allow him safe passage? The book might even draw them--and some of them were sure to be allied with the Manipulator, or just nasty in their own right.

Ray tried to still his uneasy shudder. Peter was in trouble, and they had no way to warn him, not unless they could find him. Yes, they could see him, but Peter was sure to want to stay out of sight.

A smooth, nasty smile illuminated Stark's elegant features. "So I'm right. You didn't brief him. All too easy. I've seen Venkman on television. He might be hot stuff when it comes to zapping ghosts, but take away his thrower and what do you have? A man with no subtlety, a man who is accustomed to living on a smart mouth. Perhaps some occult lore has rubbed off on him, but hardly enough to survive the ordeal before him. I don't even need to hurry." He rubbed his hands together, then he turned abruptly and stalked toward the door.

Winston's thrower lashed out. When the energy struck Stark, he jerked, then he squared his shoulders and walked right out of it. Ray's eyes narrowed. The guy could feel it, but it didn't confine him.

"Venkman feels everything you do to me," Stark said as he let himself out the door. "Kill me and you kill him." The door swished shut behind him.

"That can't be possible," Egon insisted.

"No, I don't think it is." Ray hesitated. Could it be? Nah. Not possible. But it had made them hesitate. That statement went with the title of "Manipulator". "If only I'd realized...." Ray mourned.

"I knew the minute the four of you walked in the door that the book was meant for Venkman," Ellyn said. With a toss of her red hair, she came out from behind the counter. "It wasn't chance that put the book in his hands. He wouldn't have been selected if it were impossible for him to do the job. Remember that." She patted Ray on the arm, a quick, sympathetic touch. "Now go. Follow Stark if you can, though I think he will be harder to see outside this place."

"Not with the ecto-scopes," Ray said grimly, and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. "Come on, guys. We've gotta help Peter."

Was it possible? he wondered as he led the way down the stairs. Peter had been the one all along? Destined to it? There'd been a couple of times this morning when Ray had wondered at Peter's reactions. He'd seemed a lot more tense than usual; all that pacing in the lab had been more than just excess energy. Peter had been grim and edgy, not quite his normal self. He'd believed Ray was the one; they all had. But his grab for the book had been automatic, instinctive. Even after he'd grabbed it, he hadn't quite realized. He'd reacted almost before Stark could have made his move, and his reaction had saved Ray's life. The guys weren't the only ones who had assumed Ray was the Defender. Stark had assumed it, too. He'd shot at Ray--but then Ray was closest to the book.

None of that mattered now. What did was that Peter was out there without a clue.

Or was he? If he'd known inside, if he had been pushed to the book by whatever had made him Defender, his instincts might prompt him to do what was necessary. Gosh, I hope so. You can do it, Peter. I know you can.

I hope you can.

As they emerged into the square, the three of them stopped and looked up and down for traces of Peter and Stark. The ecto scopes didn't reveal either one of them, and Egon pushed his modified scopes up and just squinted through his glasses. "Nothing," he said.

Had there been time for Stark to vanish? No matter, because he had. Ignoring the stares of the pedestrians and motorists in Union Square, the guys raced for Ecto.

"We can cut over to Broadway, then down Canal Street," Winston began. He hesitated. "Pete won't take the easy way. He'll probably go for the sneaky way."

"Yes, Peter will be cautious." Egon's voice was tight, his teeth gritted. "Stark will take bold chances because he has to." He sucked in a harsh breath. "Peter is injured."

"Looked like the bullet barely grazed him," Winston threw in quickly as he jumped behind the wheel.

"True." Egon's taut muscles didn't ease at the reassurance. "But even a mild injury can lead to shock if untreated."

Ray slid Peter's proton pack into the back seat, glanced up and down the square in hopes of spotting Peter, then climbed in beside it.

Winston started the car. "Pete had a head start. He could stop and bandage himself."

"With what?" Egon countered. He slid into Ecto beside Winston and bent over the meter. "I'll configure this one to Peter's biorhythms. I am an utter fool not to have done that as soon as I realized he had slipped into the Overrealm. I could have taken exact readings that would guide us directly to him."

"Can you pick him up now?" Ray asked anxiously. As Winston pulled out into traffic, Ray leaned forward and half-hung over the back of Egon's seat so he could see the meter screen. It didn't look very promising.

Egon worked frantically on the dials, his mouth tight, his jaw hard. "No," he admitted reluctantly. "Whether that means I can't read him in the Overrealm or simply that he has already moved out of range, I cannot be certain." He dropped the meter in his lap and picked up the other one, the one they had used to locate the book. It had reacted strongly to its presence before, even from headquarters. Now it didn't react, at all. "Damn it." Egon's uncharacteristic profanity shocked Ray. "I can't detect it in the Overrealm, either. It may be burned out."

"Now we'll never find Peter," Ray mourned. The weight of responsibility on his shoulders was heavier than the Empire State Building.

"What kind of doomsaying is that?" Winston challenged. "Come on, guys, forget about the meters. We've got our smarts. We could see Peter up there in the shop. We could see Stark. We'll be able to see them out here, too. We'll just head toward the firehouse and make loops around. We're sure to intersect them."

"Possibly not in time," Egon said tightly. "Possibly not in time."

"We're gonna find him," Ray insisted. He refused to consider any other options. "I just know we're gonna find him."

But if Peter had preempted Ray's supposed role, Ray had fallen victim to Peter's pessimism. What if they didn't find him? What if Stark found him first?

Hang in there, Peter. You can do it. You have to.

The world Peter saw when he emerged into Union Square was so totally different that in spite of the urgency of his purpose he stopped and stood there, blinking in astonishment. He could see all the normal buildings and traffic, but they were all edged with glitter as if they'd been sprinkled with fairy dust. Even weirder, other objects spouted out of them at peculiar angles. Over there at Forbidden Planet, a whole forest of spreading trees with leaves of a peculiar blue-green like toothpaste blended with the familiar building, growing out of its roof. As Peter watched, a bus sailed right thought a giant figure with legs as thick as treetrunks. It bent down and watched the front of the bus emerge from its legs, its eyes wide, then it shrugged and strode off through the traffic--literally. No brakes squealed to announce panic at the sight, but to Peter the entity was as clear as his own hands. Overhead, strange creatures--were they gargoyles?--swooped and dove as they caught the downdrafts off the buildings--or off the forest that protruded into the "real" world everywhere Peter looked.

There were all the ghosts that had been missing in the real world for the past ten days or so, wraiths and spirits in many colors and shapes, drifting, whirling, soaring high and swooping low. If any of them recognized Peter as a Ghostbuster, none of them did anything about it. 'Course he didn't have his pack on. Maybe they figured they were safe from him here. Maybe they simply didn't care, any more than they did about the New York pedestrians that were so unaware of them. But one or two of them looked at Peter and then away again, and that made him uneasy.

He didn't feel safe from them.

Yet, when he put out his hand to touch a tree trunk that grew up beside the doorway to Ancient Ways, it was only slightly more solid than Egon had been. He couldn't quite penetrate it, but it gave springily under his fingers like a wet sponge. Nasty. Peter wasn't in the real world, but he wasn't entirely in this one, either, just closer to it than home. Or was that the way the Overrealm worked?

Okay, Venkman, can the sightseeing. You've got work to do.

Hastily Peter ducked into the nearest alley. The guys couldn't hold Stark long. If he wanted to make it safely to headquarters, he had to bandage his arm, although he wasn't sure what he'd use. There was a first-aid kit in Ecto, but he doubted he could get at it. If he couldn't quite touch Egon, how could he touch a first-aid kit, or even open the door to the team's antique hearse? No, he'd have to figure out another solution. The only solidity in his universe was Peter himself. Well, plus the book--and Stark. Okay. That gave him an idea. He'd just have to make bandages out of what he had on him.

He crouched behind a trash bin, trying to ignore the sensation of eyes upon him. It couldn't be Stark, not yet. When he darted his gaze around the alley, he spotted a woman standing half in and half out of the brick wall opposite him. She wore an elegant silken gown in glistening black, dotted with the sparkle of jewels. Long, jagged sleeves widened and trailed nearly to the ground, open at the top to expose dead white fingers with nails nearly as long as talons. Her face was as stark as her fingers, eyes huge and nearly black to provide a vivid contrast. When she realized Peter could see her, she drew back her lips in a smile that exposed a deadly pair of vampire fangs. Her gaze moved pointedly to Peter's arm and she ostentatiously licked her lips. Nothing sensuous about the gesture. It spoke instead of hunger, the hunger for blood.

Vampire. Oh, great.

Peter shrugged at her and stuck his finger into the nearest tree to prove to her that he wasn't quite solid here. That made her brows lift in twin arches. Her lips straightened out and the teeth were covered. "Traveler between realms," she said in a voice like distant chimes, "your status will not protect you from all that roam the shadowlands."

Peter unzipped his jumpsuit. He didn't want to reveal the book with her standing there, but he had to get the bleeding stopped or he wouldn't make it home. When she saw it, her eyes widened. She took a step backward and vanished into the building.

Nice talking to you, too. I just hope that doesn't mean you've gone for reinforcements.

He didn't want to set the book beside him while he worked. Anybody could grab it, even the swooping gargoyles. So he stroked the cover with gentle fingers. "No offense," he said. "Protection," and sat down on top of it. He could feel a weird tingle of energy against his bottom, but nothing dire happened.

Quickly, he worked his arms free of his jumpsuit and craned his neck to see the injury. Under the jumpsuit he wore a tee shirt, and the wound was just below the end of the sleeve, a shallow cut about two inches long that still bled sluggishly and stung like crazy. At least he didn't have a bullet imbedded in his arm. Peter dug in the pocket of his jeans for his pocket knife, and used it to slice a strip off the bottom of his tee shirt. He moistened the strip with saliva and mopped at the wound. It stung. Didn't animals lick their wounds? He didn't know if it worked the same way for humans, but the last thing he wanted to do was lick his arm. The saliva would have to do the trick, because he didn't carry any handy iodine or disinfectant in his pocket.

When he had cleaned the wound as best he could, it was still oozing slightly, but it had nearly stopped bleeding. He wrapped the strip of tee shirt around it three times, and tied it, using his free hand and his teeth to pull it tight. Not exactly a masterpiece--Marcus Welby would laugh his handiwork to scorn--but it would have to do. He worked his arms into the jumpsuit, careful with the injured one. At least he could use it, even if it hurt a little to move it. Then he retrieved the book and settled it against his chest.

It quivered and jiggled as if it were alive.

Peter stopped before he could zip it into place, then he popped up long enough to survey the transformed alley. A couple of fairy creatures like the one he had seen in Ancient Ways flitted about the leaves of one of the trailing trees, but they paid no attention to Peter. Opposite him, curled up beside another dumpster, an old wino with a five-days growth of beard sat wrapped around a sterno bottle. Eyes wide, he stared directly at Peter. When he realized Peter was watching him, he shuddered.

"You a ghost?"

"You can see me?" Peter blurted. He wasn't sure people would be able to.

"C'n see right through ya." The old man gulped. "They told me I'd go nuts if I sucked up too much o' this cheap stuff. Guess they was right." He pushed himself to his feet and tottered uneasily down the alley, casting nervous glances over his shoulder to make sure Peter didn't follow him.

"Nice talking to you, too," Peter called after him. He stood for a moment, one hand on the book, then he sat down cross-legged pulled the book out, opening it in his lap.

The pages were old and brittle, but they didn't crumble y at his touch. Probably trapped between worlds like this he couldn't affect solid matter. Scary thought. If he failed, would he be trapped here forever--between the worlds?

The thought froze him. He couldn't think of a worse fate than to be lost here forever, alone, unable to touch anything, unable to be with his friends. Loneliness had always been one of Peter's bêtes noires. He needed people around him; most of all, he needed his friends and the tried-and-true companionship they gave him. If he failed, not only would Evil rise into ascendancy but he would lose everything he valued most.

I'm not gonna fail. I can't let the guys down.

The resolution was so strong that if Stark had blocked his way right then, Peter would have gone right through him. Peter had an uneasy feeling the guy knew more about the book than Ray did. Ray had only pulled together the concept, just in time to prevent Stark from getting his grubby paws on it, but not in time to really coach them. He'd expected to do it himself, and that had been a valid assumption. But that meant all the occult lore in his head was still there, where it couldn't help Peter. It wasn't as if he were linked with Ray so he could read his mind and grab the answers from him.

Maybe the book itself could help. Peter glanced down at the title page.

"Welcome, Peter Venkman," it read in ancient writing, so brown and faded that it must have said that forever. Only it couldn't have. Could it?

"Uh, hi," Peter said in reply. "I don't suppose you know what I'm supposed to do next, do you?" He turned the page.

"Your route is clear," the book told him. "It is not to seal me away, but to accomplish the tasks that have been set forward for you. Courage is essential. The coward must surrender at this point."

Peter frowned. If challenged, he would admit that he considered himself brave. Didn't mean there weren't times when he was scared shitless by some of the nasty stuff they faced on a bust, times when he wanted nothing more to run like hell and never look back. But when the chips were down, there was no way he would run out on his buddies. Sometimes they all ran, but that was only sensible. Dying stupidly when a little regrouping would save the day was hardly the smart thing to do. Peter had learned early on that being afraid didn't mean a man was a coward. There were times he wondered whether he were afraid of looking bad and that was why he stood up to powerful entities. Once he and Egon had talked about it, and Egon had instantly scorned the idea.

"If that were the case, Peter, why would you take down a dangerous entity when no one was watching you? You risk your life for us every day and never think the price too high. Whenever it has been necessary to risk our lives to save others or to save the world, you have never hesitated."

Peter had frowned. "Sometimes I did, Egon. When heights were involved. When we had to get down from the top of Tummell's building, you guys all rappeled down, and I stayed at the top--"

"And picked the lock on the stairwell and made it down as quickly as we did," Egon replied. "On the whole, your solution was the wiser, Peter."

"Yeah, but you guys could've been hurt before I got there. Those ghosts nearly took Ray's head off before we even got inside. We knew it was dangerous."

"And you were there beside us, Peter. We all face our fears in our own ways. Holding back and finding an alternate solution was wiser than my own attempt to conceal my fear when I fell from the top of the World Trade Center. My fear exposed the world to the Boogieman, as you'll recall. I hope we learn from our mistakes, Peter. I don't expect perfection from you, just as I hope you don't expect it from me. But I know all the way to my soul that you would not leave me in the lurch if I were in jeopardy. And that is what matters."

Remembering Egon's words now, Peter felt a rare surge of humility. He couldn't let Egon down, couldn't let any of his friends down. Couldn't let the world down.

"I'm not turning back," he said to the book. "I'm not surrendering. So do your worst. What tasks?"

He flipped one of the huge pages. Arcane symbols decorated the corners of the page. In the center more words appeared in the ancient text. "You must save a life at great risk to yourself. You will know when the time comes."

"What happens to you if I bite the big one in the process?" he asked.

The words, "That is not for you to know," formed beneath the previous ones.

Nifty. Peter shivered. "Okay. Any more advice or instructions?"

"Not until you finish this task."

Okay. Peter closed the book and zipped it into the front of his jumpsuit. He might need his hands free, and he didn't want to carry the book out in the open in case Stark tried to snatch it. He might appear smooth and elegant, even effete, but he'd also looked tough and strong in spite of the sophistication. It overlay his true nature like a velvet carpet over a concrete floor. Better be ready. Should he carry the knife? Could he stab Stark to get away from him? The thought of sticking the knife into another person--even a person who had shot him--twisted his stomach, but Peter knew the fate of the world was more important than his modern sensibilities.

Or was that twisted thinking? Shouldn't he be able to do this without hurting anyone else? Would he lose points if he had to resort to violence? He wasn't sure. He needed Winston for the ethics of the situation. Winston's basic beliefs were rock-solid, and when it came to right and wrong, Winston always had answers.

Peter smiled. His friends were helping him, just not in person. Knowing their personalities, their knowledge, their beliefs, ought to be enough. Maybe he carried a little bit of each of them inside his soul. He might not have Ray's occult knowledge or Egon's scientific brilliance or Winston's down-to-earth practicality and ethics, but he had his knowledge of them, of the way they thought, of the way they acted. Maybe enough of their wisdom and lore adhered to him for him to use that in his tasks. And he possessed his own street smarts, his knowledge of people and their motivations. Surely the creatures of the Overrealm had motivations that weren't too different.

Don't get too confident, Peter. Just move. Do it. Head for the firehouse and hope for the best. It wasn't about racing home to dump the book in the containment unit now. The book had a mind of its own, and Peter was pretty certain the containment unit wasn't in its future plans. Okay. He'd follow the guidance of the book. Would it put different tasks in Stark's path? It wouldn't be enough for the guy to snatch it. He'd still have to do what it told him to. Maybe it would ask him to kill an innocent. Peter shivered.

He went out the other end of the alley. No trace of Stark, but the overlapping city was too weird. The denizens of the Overrealm might have jumped right out of the pages of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Trolls and ogres and elves walked up and down Manhattan's streets, sometimes passing right through New Yorkers. Maybe one in twenty would glance up and shiver at the passing. Could that be what caused the eerie sensation that someone had walked over a person's grave, that eerie chill that unexpectedly raised the hairs on the back of a guy's neck? Peter didn't like that idea one little bit.

In addition to the buildings that were a part of Manhattan, Peter could see the outlines of other buildings, just as shimmery as those of the city he knew so well. Whoever had designed the Overrealm had OD'd on fairy tales. There were cottages and castles just like you'd expect if you were reading one of the old tales. Rapunzel could lurk in the castle tower over there on Broadway. That house sunk deep in a cluster of trees might be the one in which Hansel and Gretel encountered the witch and pushed her into her own oven.

Or did he have it backward? Had certain people been granted glimpses of the Overrealm and turned what they saw into cautionary tales? The guys would get a kick out of that theory, especially Ray. He could hardly wait to tell them.

But first, he had to find them, and he had a nasty feeling that, out here, it would be harder for them to see him than it was in Ancient Ways. Maybe with the ecto-scopes...Peter had worn them many times and didn't remember ever seeing anything like this, though. This wasn't what they were designed for.

No trace of Stark. Peter edged along down the street until he reached Broadway. He turned left toward Headquarters. He didn't know what life he had to save, and he didn't spot anyone in dire need of rescue, so he could only go in the direction of the firehall and see what he encountered. It wasn't that far, maybe about a mile and a half, and he could probably make better time on foot. Not that he could hop a bus--or could he? Well, never mind if he could. He wasn't sure how to save a life when he couldn't touch anybody. Push someone out of the way of a car? Not when he'd fall right through them.

"I wish you'd told me how to pull this off," he muttered to the book.

"Talking to yourself, are you?"

He blinked in surprise. The speaker looked like a traditional fairy-tale dwarf, the top of his head no taller than Peter's armpit. A sturdy, barrel-chested character, he carried an axe in one hand and a cloth bag in the other slung over his shoulder. Leather armor covered his chest and upper arms, but his forearms were bare, thick and hairy, knotted with muscles. Swinging an axe probably gave him a lot of strength.

"Not really," Peter said.

"One would almost think you were an elf, the way you avoid a direct answer. Can't be. Ears are round. I think you come from the mortal realm, for there is a glitter about you, tho' not as strong as that of yon mortals." He waved a dismissive hand at the New Yorkers who walked up and down the street without so much as a glance at him. One of them even walked through his hand.

"No," said Peter. "I'm not an elf. Who are you?"

"Gregor Grimstaff," said the dwarf. "But you can call me Greg. That's like enough to human names, is it not? I will walk with you. Where are you going?"

"Home," said Peter honestly. He could admit that much without revealing that he carried The Book of Dark and Bright. He had a pretty good feeling that the axe could do a number on him. It didn't glitter the way old Greg did. Maybe that meant it could interact with Peter, who didn't glitter, either. Nasty thought. Was that a fleck of dried blood on the axe blade?

"I will walk along with you," Greg said, and fell into step. In spite of his shorter stature, he had no trouble keeping up. "We don't see many mortals walking the Shadowlands." He took in Peter's jumpsuit. "You're one of those Ghostbusters, I see. We know of you here. Not that you are a threat to my kind, but there are others who walk here who hate you and would kill you if they knew you were here."

"Ghosts?" Peter hazarded. Would they be more solid here?

"And demons, and monsters. They walk both worlds at times, and when they cross into yours, they are in danger from you. Now I have no bone to pick with ghosts; they generally mind their own business here, and when they don't, there are others who will stop them. Shadowlands Ghostbusters, if you will." He chuckled richly. "Demons, now, I don't care for them at all. It takes a number of us to fight off a vengeful demon. I know you 'bust' them in your realm. So for that, I will ally you while our ways parallel."

"Thanks," said Peter. He tried to keep the wryness out of his tone. How could he tell if Greg were on the level or if he sensed the book and wanted to snatch it for himself?

The dwarf's mouth curled. "Not much of a truster, are you, Ghostbuster? I gave you my name. You won't do the same?"

"Venkman. Peter Venkman," he said in his best James Bond manner, and sketched a bow. Hard to bow with a big book tight against his chest. He felt a sense of warmth from it, and he got the sudden feeling the book was laughing at him. Crazy, but it had rapidly become more than a book to him. It was almost a person, an identity, a consciousness in its own right. At the moment, it was working with him, but he suspected it was impartial. If Stark snatched it away from him, it would probably cooperate as readily with him, and it would spell out messages to him in its ancient brown script.

Peter's stomach twisted at the thought. It wasn't that he felt an unrealistic possessiveness toward the book. It didn't encourage such an attitude. But the thought that it would help the guy destroy the world proved that it wasn't exactly the most trustworthy of companions. While he held it, it would give him answers, although probably not thorough answers.

"It is good to be granted your name, Venkman-Peter-Venkman." The dwarf's eyes sparkled. "Although my knowledge of the human realm convinces me it would be best to call you Peter."

"Yeah, that'll work." Peter's eyes never stopped moving. All the weird creatures that intermingled with the denizens of Manhattan sent uneasy tingles up and down his spine. What was that over there? It looked like a giant spider as big as a Buick dangling from a strand of spider silk as thick as Peter's wrist. Its bright red eyes glinted in the strange sunlight. Peter edged to his left to give it a wide berth. He wasn't fond of bugs.

Yeah, Egon, I know. It's not a bug, it's an arachnid, eight legs, not six. Yadda yadda. It's still nasty.

It was certainly big enough to trap him in its web. There was the web behind it, thick with ropy branches. The spider spun it bigger as Peter watched. God, he hated the sight of the creature. Black and hairy, with a savage intelligence burning in those glowing red eyes like hot coals, it ignored the world around it.

"Beware of Anarcha," Greg muttered at Peter's side. "Even my axe blade will not easily cut the strands of her web."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that," Peter said. He wouldn't mind crossing the street altogether, but there was a lot of traffic on Broadway, traffic that might not notice one invisible Ghostbuster. He had been able to feel Egon's hand. Did that mean he'd feel the weight of a city bus if it slammed into him? Humans in the real world and Overrealm creatures could pass right through each other, but Peter was of both and neither right now. Maybe getting hit by a bus wouldn't kill him, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't exactly feel good. And he was half a block from a traffic light.

The scream that shredded the morning was high, shrill, and full of terror. Peter jumped involuntarily, fingers tight around his knife hilt, as he glanced around to see who had cried out. Greg paid little attention to the sound except to hunch his shoulders against it.

There. Right in Anarcha's web twisted the desperate body of one of the little fairy creatures he'd been seeing all along. It looked a lot like the one he'd noticed in Ancient Ways, but they all looked alike to Peter, and he couldn't tell if it were the same one or not. Its left wing tangled in the ropy strands of the spider web, the fabric between the ridges of wing torn and shredded. When Peter turned, it looked him right in the eye.

It was male, not female, so it wasn't the one in the shop, not that it mattered. What did was the stark dread in its limpid eyes the same color as Peter's. Tiny fingers grasped at the strands but they must have been sticky because he couldn't quite manage to yank his miniature hand free.

"Come on, laddie," Greg urged. "Yon's not a sight I want to see."

Peter stared at the struggling fairy creature. The realization of impending death bled from his eyes. Alerted to the cries of her victim, Anarcha stopped her spinning and her eyes protruded on stalks to consider the prey. Maybe she liked to devour it living. Or did she save it for later? Peter's eyes tracked the web. There were a couple of bundles, wrapped up in webbing. One of them, large enough to contain a human, still moved feebly, but the other one looked ominously still.

Anarcha wasn't a ghost, but she was a nasty creature who preyed on others, and the urge to protect was strong in Peter. With a cry of rage, he lunged at the fairy, knife outthrust to cut the web. Would it even work?

The spider was coming. It was so bulky it wasn't quick, but then it didn't need to hurry. It might not consider Peter a threat, a walker in the Shadowlands. What could he do, if he weren't even solid? Could he save the fairy? He only knew he couldn't turn his back on any creature in such torment.

Conscious of the web shifting under the weight of the approaching spider, he put out one cautious finger and touched a strand of the web.

It felt like touching SuperGlue. With a horrified yell, he threw himself backward with every ounce of strength he possessed. At first, he didn't think it would work, but then with a cold, sucky pop, his finger came loose. He glanced down at his fingertip and shivered. He'd lost a whole layer of skin there. It wasn't bleeding, but it was reddened and sore. The knife might not even cut the web. If he tried and the blade stuck to it, he'd be weaponless.

Okay, think, Peter. Instead of touching the web a second time, he put out his hand to the creature, who still had one hand free. Closing his grip over the tiny fingers he yanked as hard as he could.

He might as well have tried to yank the Statue of Liberty. The web bowed with the force of his pull, but the fairy didn't come free. The caught wing tore still further, and pain flared like a beacon in the huge green eyes. "It will not work," he said in a voice that rang like wind-chimes. "I am forfeit."

The book tingled against Peter's chest? Was that a warning that this was the life he had to save? Encouragement to give up on an impossible task and find another? Peter hadn't even thought of the task laid upon him when he'd jumped to save the fairy. He'd only known he couldn't let the creature die in torment if he could prevent it.

Suppose he couldn't? What would happen if he failed? Would the book desert him? Would Evil triumph?

NO! Peter squeezed the hand encouragingly before he let go. There had to be another way. If he couldn't touch the web, how could he get the fairy free?

Maybe touching the web wasn't the answer. There was Anarcha, swinging ponderously at him. Maybe he had to stop her and then he could cut the web.

Yeah, right, Venkman. Kill it with a pocket knife when it's nearly as big as Ecto.

Short of walking away, Peter couldn't think what else to do. With the knife thrust before him like a fencing sword, he made a slash at the approaching mega-spider.

She growled, a sullen mutter that thrummed in Peter's ears and even made the pavement/earth vibrate beneath his feet. New Yorkers walked past unheeding--one of them, a black teenager in jeans and gang colors even went right through Anarcha and didn't even slow down. Peter could imagine the kid's horrified reaction if he'd seen what he'd done. Anarcha didn't notice the teen, either. Her glowing eyes fixed on Peter, she dragged herself along the web, her pendulous body sagging behind. She wasn't designed for speed, even here on her own web. But maybe speed was relative. Maybe she was the Richard Petty of spiders. Maybe she was holding back to lure him in.

Peter squared his shoulders and lunged at her with the knife.

The spider actually paused in her determined stalking of the fairy and considered Peter. Whether she could think beyond prey or not, she must have registered Peter a threat because she growled again, a bone-chilling sound that made Peter's knees turn to water. He willed resolution into himself and lashed once more. The tip of his blade caught one of the eight legs across the first joint. Pale green ichor squirted free and nearly hit Peter. The fairy ducked his head and closed his eyes. Bad sign. That green stuff was probably poisonous.

The spider swung out wildly with another appendage and the tip of it caught Peter across the forehead right at the hairline. Sharp as a blade, it sliced a shallow cut, and he felt bleeding begin. Great. A scalp cut would bleed like crazy, and it would be hard to fight with his eyes full of blood.

No time. No time. He'd have to go in fast or he'd lose this fight. With a wild yell, he ducked between the thrashing arms, shutting his ears against the insidious thrum of her growls. Blood oozed down his forehead toward his left eye. No time. Peter drew back his arm that held the knife, then he thrust, using his whole body to power him. Anarcha ducked, and he missed by less than an inch.

The book suddenly pulsed against his chest, hot and urgent. Arms waving wildly to regain his balance and keep from pitching face first into the web, Peter felt the heat and pressure of the huge book. As he righted himself, a sudden certainty flowed through him. From the book? He wasn't sure, but he pedaled backward long enough to loosen the zipper of his jumpsuit. Still clutching the knife, he thrust his left hand into the coverall and curled his fingers around the edge of the book. Okay, book, do your stuff.

Energy flowed through him, energy and knowledge. He balanced on his toes, prepared to move. Steady. Ready. Now! With the skill he'd honed as a quarterback years ago, he dove through the flailing limbs right up close and personal with Anarcha, and drove the blade directly between its eyes. I hate this. I hate this.

In a desperate attempt to yank free, the creature jerked once, twice. The deadly legs flailed in a fierce spasm, beating against the web. Then it sagged, its weight nearly dragging Peter down with it. He jerked the knife blade free, and green ichor squirted all over his hand.

It was like being doused with acid. An agonized cry tore from his mouth and he staggered backward away from the dying creature. There was no more blood after that first gush. As Peter watched, shivering with pain, blood running into his left eye, Anarcha's spasms slowed, stilled. The red eyes paled, their glow fading away until it was gone altogether.

Peter dropped the knife on the ground. He wasn't sure he could continue to hold it, his hand throbbed so badly. Reluctantly, he released the book and used that hand to scrub at his eye. No, better use his sleeve.

Vision restored, he studied the web. It sagged, but it still held the fairy captive. Peter hesitated, uncertain. How could he possibly cut it? Then he knew. With a cry, he grabbed the web with the ichor-coated hand and yanked with all his strength.

For the first second, it resisted him then, abruptly, he felt it liquefy beneath his touch. As he stared in disbelief, the web melted away, the effect expanding outward along each strand. The strands that held the fairy went first, but gradually the liquefaction spread. While Peter gaped at it, burning hand still outstretched, the other arm pressed against his forehead, the web melted away like hoarfrost in sunlight. The bundle that had been still stirring bled free to drop a shivering woman to the ground. She looked human, but her clothing, brown homespun, suggested she belonged in the Overrealm.

The other bundle revealed a decaying corpse. Peter shivered and averted his eyes.

The fairy tried to fly, failed, as the shredded wing could not support him. Peter reached out to him, only to yank back his burning hand before he could hurt the fairy further. The savage throbbing gradually numbed away, but when Peter looked at his hand, he could see raw places oozing blood where the ichor had burned deep. When he tried to flex his fingers, agony pulsed through him so savagely that he nearly pitched over onto his face. His scalp tightened, and he shivered violently.

The book had helped him, but it wasn't healing him.

He dropped to his knees and sagged on his heels. With an effort, he collected himself and lifted his head. It weighed a thousand pounds. If Stark had suddenly appeared and snatched the book, Peter couldn't have done a thing to stop him.

Careful to avoid the green stuff, the fairy grabbed Peter's wrist. "You sustained this pain on my behalf," he said.

"At least you're free." It took a considerable effort to form words. Against his chest, the book grew warm with approval.

"And so shall you be." The fairy bent his head over Peter's hand, opened his mouth, and poured out a substance that was thick and white. It vaguely reminded Peter of the "ectoplasm" that mediums used to extrude in old-time séances. He didn't exactly like the idea of a fairy barfing on his hand, but when the white stuff touched his burning fingers, the pain eased immediately. A shiver of strength ran through him at the cessation of the pain, and he blinked, mouth hanging open, as the white stuff flowed over each finger and over the palm. When his hand was totally covered, the fairy raised his head, then he slid his tiny fingers down and massaged the stuff into Peter's hand. He paid special attention to the fingertip that had touched the web.

"If that's pixie dust, sign me up for the distribution rights in my world," Peter said brightly.

"It will not work in the mortal realm," the fairy returned with a twinkle in his eyes that suggested he understood Peter's words and appreciated them in the spirit they'd been made. "In another few hours your hand will be whole."

"Instant healing. I love it."

"Bend down your head."

Peter obeyed, and the fairy traced one white-coated finger along the cut that still bled. As he felt it, Peter realized it had instantly stopped the bleeding.

"It will not scar," the fairy said. "I owe you far more than that, but that is all I will be allowed for a walker in the Shadowlands. Tell me your name, and it shall be celebrated in song and legend."

"Peter Venkman." Maybe it wasn't very smart to offer his name here. Hadn't Ray once said something about names holding power? But he'd already told Greg so what was the harm?

Where was Greg anyway? Had the dwarf taken off when Peter battled the spider? No, he looked around and saw the dwarf standing there, using a rag to clean the ichor from Peter's knife blade. When he saw Peter looking at him, he raised the knife as if in homage and inclined his head.

Peter grinned.

"'The Battle of Peter and Anarcha'. It will make a fine tale," said the fairy. "I am Pinno of the Union. My people will always celebrate your courage." A rousing cheer in piping tones startled Peter, and he glanced up to see a whole troop of fairies hovering over them, their wings stirring as fast as that of hummingbirds.

"Can that magic cure-all do its thing for your wing?" Peter asked.

"My kin will heal me. I will be well."

Greg stalked up and offered the pocket knife to Peter. "Your blade, Sir Hero."

Peter ducked his head. "I'm not a hero. I just don't like to see bullies get away with things. Is that lady okay?" He pushed himself to his feet and approached the woman in brown, who sat cross-legged on a rock. A businessman with a briefcase walked through her shoulder, unaware. "Are you all right, sweetheart?" Peter asked.

She lifted eyes as blue as Egon's. "You saved me." She flung herself into his arms and kissed him resoundingly on both cheeks like a French General giving medals. "This night I return home to my babes, when I thought I would be spider food." She hugged Peter hard then let him go and ran off up Broadway through a grove of trees.

Peter put up one hand and touched his cheek, a smile spreading across his face. Greg, at his side, offered the knife a second time, and Peter took it. Already the white stuff had been absorbed into his flesh and the redness of the burns began to fade. He snapped the blade shut and tucked it away in his pocket.

"You fought bravely," Greg told him. "I did not know humans could be so brave for the sake of those they didn't know."

Peter hesitated. He didn't feel like bragging about what he'd done. It had just been necessary. Look at Pinno over there, surrounded by his people. They hadn't tried to save him, so somebody had to. It was as simple as that. He shrugged. "I'm a Ghostbuster."

"But not a spider-buster. Still, your friends would have helped you, if they could." He gestured.

Peter whirled. There, not two yards away, stood the other three Ghostbusters, throwers in hand, faces strained and anxious. Except for Ray, they weren't wearing the ecto-scopes, but Egon and Winston could obviously see him. How much more had Ray seen?

Peter bounded to meet them, grinning a mile wide. "Hey, guys."

"Peter!" They sounded so far away they could have been yelling their heads off in the middle of the battle and he wouldn't have heard them. He had scarcely noticed the shouts of the Overrealm inhabitants as they watched his fight. Now, he noticed the fading anguish in his friends' faces and realized they had witnessed at least a part of it--maybe only his part. No, Egon and Winston had the scopes on their foreheads. Would they have been able to see Anarcha?

"I'm okay, guys. My friend Pinno over there had the greatest magic cure-all I've ever seen. Instant healing." He stretched out his hand to display its rapidly improving state.

"Gosh, Peter." Ray must have been yelling because the other pedestrians paused and stared at him. "I saw that horrible spider. That was nasty. It bled on you, didn't it?"

"Well, yeah. And then I bled on me." Peter touched his forehead. The cut had stopped bleeding. "I'm okay, though. I feel good, even if I look a mess."

"Stark said that if we blasted him, you'd feel it," Ray said urgently. "He said that after we tried, but the streams didn't affect him. Did you feel it?" The worry that they'd accidentally hurt Peter was written all over his face.

Peter stared at him in astonishment. "No, I never felt like I was being neutronized, Ray. I don't think your throwers work in the Overrealm. He was trying to con you."

"You wouldn't mislead us?" Egon sounded stern.

Peter felt himself grin. "Well, maybe sometimes--for your own good, of course. But not over this. Seriously, guys, I never felt like I was blasted. I felt the spider's blood, but that's different." He shivered .

"Peter, what you did was very brave," Egon said. From the tightness of his mouth, Peter realized it must have just killed him--all of them--to stand and watch the battle, unable to help.

"We couldn't get a reading on the spider," Winston said. "We couldn't risk blasting; too many people around and we might have hit you. Ray did try for one corner of the web, but the streams didn't have any effect." He reached out to grab Peter by the shoulders. His hands felt vague and insubstantial.

Peter reached up and patted Winston's hand. It gave beneath his touch, and he yanked his hand back. He'd never get used to that.

Egon crowded in next. He rested his hand on Peter's shoulder, holding it carefully so it stayed there. Peter felt it, less than solid. If he failed, he knew it would always be like this. He would stay in the Overrealm forever.

"God, guys, I hate this," he blurted out. "Can we go home now?"

"Come to headquarters. We'll walk with you." Egon's face was grave, but his eyes were full of a combination of respect and anguish.

"I'd like that, Egon, but I can't come to headquarters yet."

"But you have to, Peter," Ray cried. "We have to put the book in the containment unit."

Peter shook his head. "Nope, doesn't work that way. I have to perform certain tasks. The book doesn't want to be shut up. It's got its own agenda. What good would it do to stick it away?"

Ray shoved up the ecto-scopes so he could look Peter in the eye. "Gosh, Stark said something like that, but I didn't know. I just thought of keeping it safe from Evil."

"I hate to break it to you, Ray, but the containment unit is already full of Evil. Sticking the book in there might even be the same as handing it over to Stark." Peter glanced around. "I haven't seen the guy. Have you?"

"Not a trace of him." Egon lifted his hand from Peter's shoulder as if he didn't want to let go--Peter sure didn't want him to--and took out his P.K.E. meter. He adjusted its settings and aimed it at Peter. "Hmm."

"What's it telling you? That I'm a ghost?" Peter felt like a ghost. He wondered if this was how Egon had felt when he'd been destabilized. "Can you reverse the polarity of the atomic destabilizer and bring me back?"

Ray's eyes widened at the suggestion, and Egon went into that pensive state that meant he was thinking very hard. Then he shook his head. "No, Peter. You're not destabilized. You're just not quite present in our realm. It's as if you were out of phase with us. There's some overlap, but your biorhythms are...almost normal."

"You saying I'm abnormal, big guy?" God, it felt good to stand here with his friends. What should have been utterly natural, a chance to banter with his buddies, felt like a gift, a rare treasure, a blessing to cling to against all adversity.

Egon's mouth twitched in an abortive smile. "I see no point in stating the obvious."

"You only say that because you know I can't retaliate," Peter joshed. He glanced around the Overrealm. Now that the fight had ended, the denizens of the Shadowlands had gone about their business. Even the ghosts, who should recognize the Ghostbusters, hadn't lingered. Maybe they thought they could be busted if they hung around. Greg still stood, stolid and determined, at Peter's side as if he had assigned himself the post of Peter's armsman, and the fairies clustered around Pinno, a cloud of that white stuff coating his shredded wing. Down there on the corner, halfway through the pole of a stoplight, a unicorn idly chewed on the branches of a tree that thrust trailing branches out of the window of a mom-and-pop grocery store. The shimmer around the edges had become normal to Peter and he scarcely noticed it now--except for the way it made his friends shine like angels.

"I fully expect retaliation when you return home," Egon said. "What I am saying is that I can set the meter for normal human biorhythms and add the Overrealm shading I'm picking up for you--and we should be able to track Stark. I did take his readings at Ancient Ways, so I can be exact. He won't give up. If he isn't here, he's arranging trouble for you down the road. Or he may be lurking outside the firehall, awaiting your return. It was he who told us your task would not simply be to return home, but we were not certain you understood that."

"I do now." No time to wait. He couldn't stand to stay like this one second longer than he had to. "If you guys watch my back, I'll see what I need to do next."

"I will watch your back in the Shadowlands, Peter, and your friends may use their devices to assist me." Greg took a firm grip on his axe. "I want to see anything try to take on a dwarf. I'll fight them for you."

"Thanks, Greg. I'll owe you big for this."

Ray yanked his goggles down and spotted the dwarf. "Wow," he blurted. That made Winston copy him. Conscious of their sudden augmented gaze, Greg made a few martial arts passes with the axe, then he arched one thick, bushy eyebrow at Peter and winked at him.

"Showoff," Peter kidded. He turned to Egon.

"Do what you must, Peter."

Peter sat cross-legged and drew out the book. As he did it, Pinno and the fairies drifted closer and formed a ring around him big enough to enclose Peter, Greg, and the three Ghostbusters. There were nearly a hundred of them.

My army, Peter thought with a grin, then he opened the book. Down at the corner, the unicorn's head came up, and huge, violet eyes met Peter's. It bowed its head to Peter and trotted up to watch.

Peter turned the page.

"You have saved a life at risk to yourself. You have done well."

"Thanks. What's next?"

"It will be harder than this task."

Oh, great. "I kinda figured that much."

"Who's he talking to?" Winston asked faintly in the distance.

"The book," Ray cried. "It's assigning him tasks. Wow! I wish I could see it." He circled around behind Peter and peered over his shoulder. The unicorn trotted up and looked over the other shoulder. Peter felt the tickle of its beard against his ear, and the warmth of its breath stirred his hair.

As he squinted at the page, the ancient letters spelled out. "You must face your greatest fear."

"Omigosh," Ray gasped. "I can see it. I can read it. Oh, gee, Peter."

"Gee, yourself, Ray." He glanced down at the pages. "That's it?"

"That is your final task. When you succeed--if you succeed--the book will be safe from Evil--until the next time."

"When will the next time be?"

"Long after your life is ended. You would deny me my peace, my rest?" Almost, the book laughed at him.

Peter traced a gentle finger down the page. Even with the nasty task the book had thrown at him, he felt a weird affection for it. He knew he couldn't have killed Anarcha if he hadn't been holding the book. Maybe that would work when he faced his greatest fear.

It better. Greatest fear? I already faced a giant bug. Heights? I have to climb a cliff or something? Icewater pulsed through his veins at the very thought of such an undertaking.

"Okay," said Peter in a flat, level voice. It wasn't cold in the shadowlands, but Peter felt like he'd been walking through a snowstorm. He knew he was shivering, knew the guys could see it, would realize how scared he was. His greatest fear? God, this would be even harder than fighting Anarcha. That had been halfway like a bust, just with a different weapon. Adrenaline pitched in when he had to fight a nasty entity. It had helped him fight Anarcha. But his greatest fear.... "Anything else you need to tell me?"

He squinted at the page, waiting for the letters to form. Was that all the book had to tell him? At first, nothing happened, then, slowly, letters formed.

"It is not my place to tell you this, for I am neither Good nor Evil, merely a tool to achieve either, reliant upon the will of the bearer. Peter Venkman, you are a brave man. I wish you luck."

"Oh, wow," Ray exulted behind him. The unicorn nickered in his ear, and Greg, who stood at his other shoulder, gave Peter a clap on the back that went right through Ray's middle.

"It likes him," Ray told the other guys. "Peter impressed the book. That's so great." He caught himself. "Of course he'll be insufferable now. When this is all over, I'm gonna have to short sheet his bed or something to cut him down to size."

Peter seized on Ray's words with gratitude. "Oh yeah, Stantz? Well, I know all the best ways to get even." He slid his finger over the words in the book. "Thanks," he said to it in an undertone before he closed the book and tucked it into place in the front of his jumpsuit. Greg gave him a hand up, and the unicorn stood planted at his side, nuzzling his shoulder.

"Arnya would offer you transportation," Greg said with a smile.

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Ride a unicorn? But I thought you had to be a vir--" He chopped that off abruptly when Winston and Ray snickered.

"I seem to remember you riding one at the Cloisters, Zeddemore, so I'd be less quick to laugh," Peter challenged. He curled his fingers through Arnya's mane. The strands felt warm and animated between his fingers.

Egon's face grew serious. "Peter." When he had Peter's attention, he held the gaze. "Facing your greatest fear does not mean falling to it. It does not mean that what you fear will happen. It merely means you have the courage to confront it. Remember that, when the time comes, because I know you are brave enough for anything."

Peter remembered how he had refused to rappel down the side of Tummel's building. Brave enough for anything? Or had that been common sense? What good would common sense have done him if his friends had died before he could reach them? Am I brave enough for anything? Brave enough for my greatest fear? he asked himself.

Egon thought he was. He stood there now, radiating utter confidence in Peter. Ray and Winston fell in one on either side of him, and they looked at him with that same expectation. God, it was too much. He was just one guy, a guy who liked to take the easy way out. Shallow and egotistical, that was what Stark had named him. There was enough truth to that allegation for Peter to entertain major doubts.

On the other hand, he trusted his friends' judgment more than he trusted Stark, whose entire purpose would be to undermine Peter's confidence, to ensure that he failed. I can't believe a word he said.

Okay, no shortcuts this time. No taking the easy way. No fast talking. This is me, Peter. Basic. One-on-one with myself. It isn't about me and Stark confronting each other. It's about me proving that Good can triumph.

'Course Stark will try to make me fail....

He straightened up. No easy task to face his friends with a look of confidence, not when, any second now, his greatest fear would pop up and slap him across the face. Conscious of Greg, stalwart at his side, Arnya ready to be ridden, and a ring of fairies flittering overhead, he realized he had allies in both realms. They didn't share his doubts. Maybe they knew something he didn't. Maybe they were a collection of incurable optimists.

Even Egon?

He looked his oldest friend in the eye. Egon returned the gaze, unflinching. Confidence in Peter was his primary expression, but it warred with worry, not for the possibility of failure, never that, but for Peter's safety. Stark was still out there. If Peter had found allies in the Overrealm, Stark would have found his own, and they were sure to be nasty. Maybe some of them could even cross over. Demons could, and Stark was just the kind of guy to have demons for buddies.

Peter liked his own buddies better. A zillion times better.

"I'd better move," he said and gestured southward. "It's weird, but I know I need to go that way." He c