Chapter Two: Insanity Plea

"It's the ghoul, isn't it?"

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, quietly letting his head drop back against the bathroom door as he listened to his friends and cousin talk about him. Sometime after one in the afternoon they'd stopped trying to beckon him out of his sanctuary, for which he was grateful. Every time they came close, the famine hit hard, leaving far too little of Michael behind to reign it back in. It was progressing, he admitted to himself, opening his eyes and watching the odd, writhing shadows undulate over the backs of his hands. Progressing far more quickly than he'd hoped it would.

Stupid. Stupid to hope. It was going to eat him alive from the inside out, and eat his family alive from the outside in. There was nothing he could do about that.

Someone must have confirmed Peter's question, because he continued with a waver in his voice. "I knew it. This is all my fault."

Michael shook his head, clenching his fists until his claw-like nails bit into his skin, drawing blood, but it was Davy who spoke up.

"That's absolute crap, Peter. You did everything you could to protect us. You nearly got your damned self killed trying to protect us."

"Didn't do much good," Peter muttered, and Michael shook his head again, breath coming hard and fast as pointless rage bubbled up in his throat, tasting of bile and more harsh words. "If Michael's being affected by the ghoul bite, I don't…I don't-"

"It's okay, Pete," Micky reassured him, voice muffled oddly. Probably hugging Peter, Michael guessed idly, relaxing fractionally. "We'll figure it out."

"I don't think there's anything we can do," Peter finished, sounding wretchedly helpless.

Michael's breath hitched, the sudden silence in the next room buzzing in his ears.

"Of course there is," Davy argued, stubborn as ever. "Just because you don't know it doesn't mean there isn't a way to help Mike."

"I'm afraid Peter's right," Lucy put in. "There has never been a recorded case of a survivor of a ghoul attack leadin' a normal life afterwards."

"But…then why did you let him…you never even mentioned this might be a problem," Micky hissed, sounding angrier than Mike could ever remember him sounding. "If you thought he was gonna start turning into a ghoul or something, maybe you could have given us a heads up!"

"I'm sorry," the healer said quietly. "I thought…well, none of the recorded cases had access to healin' soon enough after the attack. Most of them had no healin' at all. It was stupid and prideful, I guess, but I thought that maybe, since Peter had gotten to him in time…and he'd come to me straight after…well, I thought maybe we had a chance. And it had seemed to work - I didn't feel anythin' discordant about his aura. He seemed fine."

"Well, he sure as hell isn't fine," Davy growled. "And there's no way we're leaving him like this. We have to help him, guys. It's Mike."

"Well, I'm gonna try," Lucy promised. "I'll see if I can't draw it out of his aura again. It'll hardly fix it, but it'll probably give us enough time to figure out somethin' more permanent."

"Right. Okay." Huffing a sigh, Micky clapped his hands together. "What do you need us to do?"

"Leave."

Nails scrabbling at the tile, Michael scrambled up off the floor, staring at the door incredulously.

"Not bloody likely," Davy declared.

"I'm not gettin' into an argument about this, Davy. "This is delicate and dangerous-"

"Exactly why we're not leaving."

"-and I will need Michael as calm as possible, which means not makin' him feel cornered or ganged up on."

There was a moment of contemplative silence, before Peter spoke up.

"No."

"Peter, of all people, you should-"

"No. I made this mess, Lucy," the shaman pointed out, "and I can't let you risk yourself trying to fix it alone."

There was a sharp, frustrated growl, and Mike could just see Lucy pinching the bridge of her nose. "Guys…"

"Look, I'm usually all for keeping my limbs intact and un-gnawed," Micky reasoned, "but this is Mike. He needs help. And if nothing else, Peter can probably tie him down with vines or something until you finish your heal-y thingy."

Another sigh, and Michael knew Lucy was going to give in. They were going to try to help him, which meant they were going to have to get close to him. They were putting themselves in danger.

He was putting them in danger.

Swallowing hard, Michael turned his back to the door again, helpless tears pricking at his eyes once more. He rubbed them away determinedly, and when he'd dropped his hands to the side, he spied the window.

It had never been opened - it had, in fact, been nailed shut by a previous tenant for some reason or other. Sometimes, when he'd get out of the shower, he'd see funny messages or childish pictures outlined against the steam on the windowpane - Micky's handwriting, usually.

His eyes, sharper than they'd ever been, could see streaks and smudges on it again, even though he'd just cleaned it yesterday - 'don't forget to scrub behind your ears'. Michael's heart clenched.

Moving to the window, he pressed his too-long fingers to the words. Then he drew his fist back and swung.

:::

The shattering sound had everyone running for the bathroom.

"Mike? Mike!" Davy pounded on the door. "Mike, open up! What happened? Are you okay?"

There was no answer.

Shunting Davy to the side, Peter pressed his hands to the door. "Give me a second."

Micky rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of-…move, Peter." As he maneuvered around his best friend, Micky pulled two thin pieces of metal from his back pocket and knelt down to eye the lock. "No use destroying our bathroom door. Besides, whatever you do might hurt Mike."

Peter flinched a bit, but didn't argue as Micky worked at the lock. Davy, watching critically over the drummer's shoulder, snorted. "I guess that's how you've been getting into my trunk."

"In my defense," Micky argued as the lock clicked, "I wouldn't have to break into it if you'd just leave it unlocked."

The door was swung open with no trouble, and four faces peered into the room with concern.

"Mike," Peter called softly. "Mike?"

But the room was empty. The only trace of their friend was the scattering of glass on the windowsill and smears of blood on the frame.

Michael was gone.

"Again?" Micky sighed.

:::

By the time Michael thought to check the time, it was getting into evening. The city was bustling with people. Young people winding their way into hangouts, old people struggling under grocery bags, people in between hurrying home from work. People everywhere.

It was a Friday, Michael remembered as he trudged about in a daze. The Monkees were supposed to be playing at a club in a few hours. Ophelia Green, it was called. New place. Nice place. 'Good energy', Peter had said when they'd gone to audition. He'd said that about a lot of places, back before they'd found out he was a shaman, but they took it a bit more literally now.

The club owner paid well, better than the last steady gig they had. It wouldn't be good for them to miss their debut.

But Michael wandered on, tunneling deeper into his own mind, hardly aware of the folks who had to stumble out of his way as he passed. His legs ached oddly - groaning, dull throbs of pain that would spike suddenly, unbalancing him. It got worse with every step, but he couldn't stop, not until he was far, far away from home, from the friends who would so foolishly risk themselves for him.

A young woman bumped his shoulder, and Michael whirled on her with a snarl.

"Sorry, man, I…oh, my God."

Her eyes were wide, terrified, and very blue. She backed away slowly, then turned and ran. Michael tensed. A chase. A chase, and then a feast. Yes.

It rang so suddenly and so loudly that it vibrated behind his eyes, clattering his knife-like teeth together, and Michael gasped, jerking backwards and falling against a tall, worn wooden door. It rang out again, deeply, cutting through the chatter and hubbub of the crowd, cleaving through the overpowering urge to hunt and catch and tear and consume until Michael was able to struggle out, gasping and shaking and hugging himself as if afraid he would shake apart.

He blinked up at the door he was propped against, then down at the steps he hadn't been aware of climbing. He knew these steps, passed this place often on the way to the supermarket without so much as a glance. It was a church, an old Catholic church that had been around since Malibu's beginnings. When they went for groceries together, Peter would look at it, watching it pass by for as long as he could with a serene look on his face.

Michael had asked, long before they'd found out about his abilities, what he was looking at.

"It's a good place, Mike," Peter had said softly, smiling. "No matter what you believe, or what the people who go there believe, the person who laid the stones was good. It was built out of goodness, and it's still full of goodness. It's nice to see it. It makes me feel like, no matter how bad things get, it'll all turn out okay."

Michael ran his hand down the door to the handle. As soon as he grasped it, he gasped, thorns of burning pain stabbing at his palm.

Even Peter's place of goodness was rejecting him.

But as he turned to go, tugging his hat more firmly down around his ears and stuffing his abnormal hands into his pockets, the door swung open.

"Are you okay, young man?"

His instinct was to turn, but he had no way of knowing how hideous he might still look, so he only leaned slightly, peering at the speaker out of the corner of his eye. The priest beckoned at him, smiling kindly.

"Come in. Please."

Michael paused. "I'm…not Catholic," he hedged, voice low and harsh.

The priest smiled wider. "That's okay. You don't have to be Catholic to need a haven."

Slowly, keeping his face down, Michael turned and entered the church. Maybe Peter had been right, because there was a sense of quiet and calm within the walls that made it a bit easier to breathe. Pain still rippled up his legs, though, sharper with every step as he followed the priest through the vestibule and down to the first row of pews.

"You may sit here for as long as you need to," he said, pressing his hand briefly to Michael's shoulder.

"Thank you."

When he was alone, Michael sat, hands folded in his lap, taking in the worship space. It was small, modest for the most part. In the middle of the raised platform, there was an altar, covered in white cloth, with a white pillar candle at each end. It was flanked by wrought iron candleholders. Behind it was a crucifix that reached the ceiling, and behind that, a stained glass window.

Michael's gaze wasn't drawn to the face of the figure on the cross, though. Instead, he found himself staring at a statue that stood beside a small door to the side of the platform. Stone, like the walls, she was about his height, her eyes blank, her expression one of maternal love.

It had been a long time since he'd been in a house of worship. He remembered the last time - he'd been thirteen, listening to the pastor delivery the eulogy at his father's memorial service. There had been a casket draped in a flag, guns being fired, and his mother stood at his side, trying so hard to be strong for him. He'd held her hand tightly, and she'd told him that his father was with the angels, that God had taken him into Heaven. He'd been comforted. He'd truly believed her words.

"I believed," Michael murmured, staring up at the serene countenance of the Virgin. "Even when I stopped goin' to church, I never stopped believin', not once. How…"

He ran his hands through his hair, cringing at the too-sharp nails that scratched at his scalp. Shivering, he let his arms drop, hands resting palm-up on his knees.

"How could you let this happen?" he gasped, throat tight with bitter betrayal. He stood on shaky legs, the ache in his joints seeming like distant echoes as selfish fury filled him. "How could you….how could you let this happen? I…I was good. I was…I was a good person. I wasn't much, but I was that. I always…I…how could you?" Face twisting as hot tears welled up and rolled down his cheeks, burning like acid, Michael turned his gaze to the small stained-glass window above the altar.

It was beautiful - simple, like the church itself - and depicted the resurrection of Christ. The poor and the wretched were prostrate at His feet, and His face bore an expression of such love and benevolence. A surge of hatred filled Michael, so disgusting, so sudden, that it almost made him vomit.

Almost automatically, Michael's clawed fingers closed around the hymnal closest to him, and he drew his arm back and hurled it at the window. The book tumbled end over end, past the crucifix, striking the window at Christ's feet, but it did not break it.

Howling like a wounded animal, Michael staggered up to the altar, sweeping his arms over it, sending the trappings upon it flying. He hurled the tall, heavy candleholders, the twisted iron prickling against his palms, feeding his fury. Whirling back around he flung himself at the statue of Mary and beat at her stone chest. Blood smeared over the hard folds of her dress as his skin split, and with a choked sob, Michael slid down to kneel at her feet, fingers scrabbling at her figure, nails scraping at her pleadingly as he fell, his legs no longer able to hold him up.

"Why?" he wailed. "I know I wasn't ever much. I know I wasn't ever important. I just…why? Why?! Why me?! How could you let this happen to me?!" Grasping at her cold feet, Michael gazed up at her lovely face, chin quivering as he drew in deep, hitched breaths. "Aren't I good? Aren't I worth savin'? I don't deserve this! I don't deserve any of this! Please! Please…"

He curled in on himself, pressing his forehead to her feet. "Please…help me," he breathed wretchedly.

His only answer was silence.

He didn't know how long he knelt there, hands stinging, bloody, and bruised, agonizing pain shooting down his legs. It wasn't until the pain receded that he lifted his head, eyes meeting the blank gaze of the statue, face stained with tears. He reached up, touching the streaks of blood that marred her dress.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, speaking clumsily past his freakish teeth. "I'm sorry."

Taking a deep breath, Michael squared his shoulders and made to stand. Something was wrong, though. Very wrong. Frowning, he grasped at the statue's folded hands and pulled himself up. As he did, his shoes slipped oddly over his feet, feet that didn't feel right at all.

Looking down, Michael froze.

His legs had warped, bending at odd angles, in places they shouldn't. And his feet…

Slipping out of his boots, Michael choked a bit.

They were hooves. Dark gray, like the hardened fingernails, and rounded like a donkey's…like a ghoul's…

"God, no…please…"

"Son? Are you okay?"

Jerking his head up, Michael's eyes latched onto those of the priest who had let him in. He heard the man's heartbeat, suddenly thundering like mad, and smelled the sour scent of fear that would make his flesh taste so good.

"You…you're…" Shaking, the priest held up a rosary. "You can't…be in here."

"No, no, I'm not…I'm not…" Michael trailed off. I'm not a demon, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Leave this place," the priest demanded, quivering head to toe but standing firm.

Michael shook his head. "You don't understand, I-"

"Leave!"

Shuddering, Michael tried to wrestle his fear and fury down. "Listen, man, you…you can't-"

"The power of Christ compels you!"

"Don't-"

"Be gone, unclean spirit!"

Snarling, Michael lunged, shoving the priest down to the floor. He bared his teeth, leaning down to close them around the man's throat. Just a quick, clean slice and he could feed, could finally sate the hunger, even if only for a moment…

"Killing me won't save you. The torment of the damned is eternal."

Michael sat back slowly, feeling as though he was moving through molasses. His claws were dug into the priest's shoulders, blood welling up from the punctures.

Just a taste…just one taste.

"No." Wrenching himself away, Michael stumbled up and tripped back until there were several feet between them, his hooves clattering jarringly as he moved. "No."

Blinking, the priest struggled up, as well, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "You…"

"No." Shoving past the priest, knocking him bodily into a pew, Michael pelted from the church, slamming out the door and running blindly away.

He'd nearly killed someone. For all the anger, all the disgusting desires, he'd never actually attacked someone like that. He'd made the man bleed. He'd intended to kill him. He'd intended to eat him.

He was a danger to everyone around him. He had to get away, away from everyone, before he was too far gone…before he forgot himself entirely.

He could feel it, chilled and ravenous, sinking deeper into his mind with every passing moment. The line that separated them was too thin, and was blurring even as he kept trying to trace over it, trying to maintain it. He was losing to it, had always been losing to it. There was no way for him to win. All that was left was making sure he couldn't hurt anyone.

He had to get far, far away.

But somehow, in his terror and anger, Michael found himself back at the Pad. The others were gone - looking for him, no doubt. He would pack up his things, take off before they got back, run and run until he was where no innocent person would stumble across him.

He didn't move, though. He stared up at the Pad, fresh tears already tracing across his cheeks. The Pad, his home, the first place he'd really felt like somebody - the first place he'd really felt like himself. He'd worked so hard for so long to make it out here. They all had. And now that things were finally turning around for them, he had to go and screw everything up.

The others would surely return soon, but Michael still couldn't make himself go inside. Instead, he fell to his knees and crawled between the side of the house and the line of young shrubs Peter had undoubtedly been responsible for. He curled up, folding his strange new legs as tight as he could and leaning against the wall.

Just a little longer, he told himself as he stared out at the shoreline. Just a little longer, and then I'll go.

But as the dim light of twilight faded, he heard soft footsteps coming up along the house. Squeezing himself into as tight a ball and he could manage, Michael hugged himself, claws digging into his biceps. If he was lucky, it would be Davy or Micky - they had no way of sensing him, and he'd just have to stay quiet until they went inside before he made his getaway.

He wasn't lucky, though, because Peter peered into the space expectantly, no doubt having felt Michael out from wherever he'd been.

"I set up a barrier," Peter explained as he crawled closer, heedless of Michael's sudden shuddering. "I felt it as soon as you came home and ran straight back. We've been really worried about you, Mike, you've been gone all aftern-" Peter stopped, sitting back on his heels as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he saw Michael's new look for the first time.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, Michael. I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Michael snapped, pressing his face against his…knees, he supposed, hoping it would muffle Peter's scent. Lord, he was so hungry, so very hungry. "Don't, Pete, I can't…I can't-"

"It's okay, Michael." Shifting so that he wasn't looming over his half-ghoul friend, Peter gazed at him, face twisted in empathic agony. "We'll find a way to fix this."

"I don't think there is any fixing this," Michael replied.

"Don't say that." Peter moved, looking as though he was about to take Michael's hand, but thought better of it when Michael flinched away.

"I wanted to kill a man, Peter."

The blonde was silent for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he inched closer. "Did you?"

"What?"

"Kill the man."

"No!" Looking up at Peter, Michael growled. "I didn't, but I wanted to. I was so close, Peter. So close to just tearin' him open and eatin' him alive. I'm so hungry, Peter," he finished in a whine.

"I know." Reaching out again, slowly, Peter carded his fingers through Michael's hair. "I know. It's gonna be okay, Mike. I'm gonna make sure of it."

Fatigue rippled through him, so softly he hardly noticed it at first. It continued, wave after wave, rolling through him in time to Peter's petting, until he couldn't keep his eyes open. "Peter…Peter please…you have to…let me go," he whispered.

"Not ever," Peter promised stubbornly. "You're my brother, Michael, and I'm going to take care of you."

Michael wanted to argue, to fight it, but he was just so tired, and everything was soft and fuzzy and slipping away…

:::

A/N - Welp, here it is, in all its glory! Hardly worth the wait, I'm sure, but it is what it is so…meh. I just hope I haven't deathly offended anyone. ^_^;;;