“I had imagined a very solitary Christmas,” he admitted, “and you have made it one of my best in years, so thank you. Also, thank you for thinking of me for the job. Hong Kong appears to suit me.”
Boxing Day. He awoke shivering, desperate to pee. He stumbled into the bathroom and relieved himself. He felt feverish, his whole body trembling. He glanced in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin a nasty yellow.
“Jesus,” he muttered. What a time to get sick! He climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over him. He fell into a deep, troubled sleep, haunted by nightmares, and when he woke, hours later, the room was dark, and his bladder was again full to bursting.
When Jing-Mai came that night, he told her regretfully that he was sick and that he could not make love. Jing-Mai cared for him tenderly until dawn. As she got up to leave, he clutched her hand. “Can you not stay, my love?”
She bent down and kissed him. “I’m sorry, dearest one, I have to go. I hope you feel better soon.”
Pal was disappointed but not surprised. Perhaps she could not risk being seen in sunlight, or … he didn’t know what else it could be. All bets were off now that he knew she was something different, something other.
His fever worsened, but on the second day after Boxing Day there was a faculty meeting scheduled and so he showered and dressed and called a cab to take him to the campus.
Ken greeted him as he entered the meeting room. “Jesus, you look terrible. What happened?”
“A virus, I think.” Pal groped for a chair and sat down. His side was hurting badly, and he bent double now, sucking in oxygen.
Ken looked alarmed. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here, man.”
“No, no, I’m okay, just took the stairs too quickly,” Pal insisted and even as he spoke, the pain abated, and he relaxed.
The meeting was one discussing the procedures for the next semester and the faculty head, a dreary gray man called Dennis, droned on and on for what seemed like hours. Luckily, Dennis didn’t appear to require any input from his audience, and so Pal’s mind wandered. Jing-Mai had been loving and caring for the few hours that she stayed with him both nights and he regretted the moment that she left. This morning before he’d left the apartment, he’d studied the painting, taking it from the wall and checking the back of it. It appeared just an ordinary painting.
On the cab ride into the university, the idea had come to him. He would call the realtor; see if he would tell him the names of some of the previous tenants—the ones that were still alive. He reasoned he could ask that much—a retroactive reference, so to speak. Pal would ask them about the apartment, the painting, ask if anything unusual had happened; see what other people’s experiences had been.
His stomach gave an ominous lurch, dragging him back to the present. He tasted bile and gagged.
“Pal, are you okay?” Ken looked at him as Pal shoved his chair backward and dashed to the door. Luckily, the bathrooms were close by and as Pal stumbled into a booth and threw up, his whole body shook and trembled. He heard the door open and Ken was there, patting him on the back.
“Okay, we’re going to the emergency room.”
Pal shook his head. “No need, really, it’s just a virus. I probably brought it with me from overseas. Honestly,” he paused, nausea threatening again, and then swallowed hard. “I’ll just go home and take the few days between now and the semester to get better. Really, thanks, Ken, but I’m okay.”
Ken wasn’t convinced. “Promise me you’ll call a doctor if it gets worse.”
“I promise.”
But he didn’t call a doctor, and by the next morning, the pain in his abdomen was so bad he was unable to move. Jing-Mai had again tended to him, but even she could not help the pain. “I think you will have to just get through this,” she said, and for the first time, he felt irritated with her.
He toyed with the idea of calling an ambulance but, after sleeping for the day, he woke up feeling a lot better. He got out of bed and drank two full pints of water, his mouth almost desiccated. He sat on the couch in the living room, staring at the painting. Tomorrow was an ordinary working day. He would call the realtor to start his investigation and try to find out about his enigmatic lover.
He dressed in the morning, noting his pants were much looser than before and that he had to hitch his belt along a couple of notches. He called the realtor and with much persuasion, got hold of a few numbers.
“But don’t call the families Chan Li or Simon Wong. They’re the two who died, and I wouldn’t want them upset after all this time.”
Pal reassured the realtor that he would respect the families and sat down, strong coffee in his hand. The first three names were three women—and he got little out of them except that they thought the place was creepy, that they felt was haunted. One of the women came right out and called it “evil.” Pal just rolled his eyes.
He called a few more people, losing hope that he would get any more out of them. Another ex-tenant was dead, kidney cancer, his widow told Pal. Pal expressed his sympathies. “Did you notice anything strange about the apartment?” he asked her carefully.
“I never lived there or spent any significant time there. We … we had separated a few weeks before his diagnosis, and when he got too sick, he came home so I could look after him. He said he didn’t want me to be in that apartment, that he was sure it had made him sick.”
“How could an apartment have given him cancer?”
The woman sighed. “I don’t know. He was barely lucid in his last days. He rambled on about a painting, a woman, how she had infected him. All the workings of a diseased mind, I’m afraid.”
Pal ended the call, his entire body cold. No. There was no way that the man’s cancer had been caused by Jing-Mai, but the fact that he knew about her made jealousy and rage ran through Pal’s fragile heart. So he wasn’t her only lover? He asked himself—did he really think he had been? He had no idea about anything in Jing-Mai’s life or history or even—and he laughed out loud now—what she was. Was she human? The softness of her skin, the damp warmth of her cunt, of her lips—how could she be anything else?
He resolved to ask her that night but when she came, she hushed him with her lips, and they made love tenderly, Jing-Mai so respectful of his recovering body that he forgot all the questions he wanted to ask her. He laid his head between her pillowy breasts and slept until morning.
The day before New Year’s Eve, he awoke to find himself sick again, and this time, there was blood in his vomit. He called Ken, who came immediately and took him to the emergency room. X-rays, scans, blood tests, urine tests. A young Chinese doctor came to see him.
“Mr. Magnussen, I’m sorry to have to tell you that it’s not good news. Your urine and blood tests tell us that your kidneys are shutting down. Tell me, do you drink alcohol to excess?”
Pal shook his head. “I have maybe two, three, drinks a week, if that. More this week because of the holidays, of course.”
The doctor was making notes. “And you’ve not experienced these symptoms before?”
“No.”
The doctor sighed. “We’ll keep you in, run some more tests, see if we can stop the deterioration. The way it’s going now, I’m afraid we’re looking at a possible transplant scenario.”
Pal just nodded quietly. Ken looked appalled. “Dear God, Pal … I’m so sorry.”
Pal laughed quietly. “Not your fault, just one of those things.”
But he couldn’t stop thinking about Jing-Mai and what the widow of the previous tenant had said. There could not possibly be a link, could there? From what he had learned, the other two tenants who had died—well, one had committed suicide; the other had leaped from the top of the building … something clicked in his memory, and he turned to Ken.
“Ken, that economics professor you told me about, the one who had lived in my building, who jumped … what was his name?”
“Simon Wong, I think. Why?”
“Could you do me a favor? Could
you check out his story? Was he married, separated … did he have mental health problems?”
Ken looked unhappy. “Why? Look, I think he used to work with Glenn at a university in Japan so I can ask him, but why do you need to know?”
Pal shivered, a chill settling on him. “Because I want to know if it’s … if the infection, the viruses, have originated in the apartment. I don’t know, Ken, I’m just looking for answers.”
“Why?”
Pal fixed his friend with a steady gaze. “Because I had a full medical six weeks ago, Ken, and there was no sign of any kidney disease, of any kind of problem. So …”
“Understood.” Ken nodded and stood. “You stay here, rest, and I’ll try and find out what I can.”
Pal thought he might not sleep that night. Although he was in a private room— thanks to the university’s excellent health insurance—the noises from the rest of the hospital were really annoying. Thankfully, they gave him a sleeping tablet, and he sank into a dreamless sleep.
Pal. Pal? My darling, I am here … He opened his eyes and there she was. She seemed to be hovering above him, her black hair hanging down over one shoulder, an ebony curtain. He reached his arms up and she went into them. God, the scent of her skin, so sweet, so heady. Her lips were against his. “Pal, love me, say those sweet things you always say to me, Pal, say them …”
Oh, her delicious voice, curling around his brain, the sweetest seduction. He murmured her name over and over as their limbs tangled and their skin joined as one. Jing-Mai stroked his cock into a throbbing hard tower and guided him inside as he moaned gently.
“You are my love, my only love …” he told her again and again as they made love and he realized that even if he was dying, he would still have had the love of this incredible woman.
“Say sweet things …” her lisp had become more pronounced and he loved it, the sensual purr of it vibrating through his body. At the point of climax, white sparks exploded in his brain, and he didn’t care if he woke again in the morning or not. He belonged to her, for now, and all time …
“Mr. Magnussen? Good morning. I have good news. Your vitals have picked up since I last checked on you. Looks like you’ll see in the New Year with us after all.”
The doctor’s false jollity didn’t fool Pal one bit, despite the fact that he did feel better this morning, and he knew one thing for damn sure—he wasn’t staying in this place another night.
They tried to stop him, of course, tried to calm him, but he refused and walked out of the hospital just after midday. The pain was bad, but at least he didn’t feel sick anymore. That’s what he told himself. At least I don’t feel sick.
He didn’t go home straight away; instead, he took a cab to Ken’s place. His friend was shocked to see him.
“Goddamn, Pal, do you have a death wish? Come in; sit down before you fall down.”
Ken fussed around him, and Pal had to admit, it was a comfort. Ken made him sit down on the couch, brought him water and hot soup, a blanket to wrap around him. He eventually sat down, nodding at the soup. “Eat, Pal. I’m not telling you anything until you finish that bowl.”
The soup, wonton, sweet and sour, was good and Pal surprised himself by finishing it. He sat back as Ken cleared his bowl. “Now, Ken, what have you found out about Simon Wong?”
Ken sighed, rubbed his eyes. “It’s pretty messed up, Pal. Simon Wong was a respected economics lecturer—he was shortlisted for the Nobel a few times. He came to teach at the School of Economics and Finance, and a colleague told him about the apartment.”
Pal smiled weakly. “Just like you did for me.”
Ken laughed without humor. “Just like I did for you. He took the apartment, obviously, but after a few weeks, his colleagues reported that he kept missing classes without reason, and his appearance change dramatically. He became almost emaciated, almost cadaverous, they said. They staged an intervention, thinking he was on drugs, but he assured them he was well, he had just had the flu. As he was leaving the room, one colleague thought he heard him mumble I have her, that’s all I need.’ The colleague asked him to repeat it, but Simon just smiled. The next day he threw himself from the top of your apartment building. Every bone in his body was broken, most of his flesh pulped, but the worst thing they found was that all of his major organs were rotting away anyway. He would not have survived the day.”
Ken looked sick, and Pal felt vomit rise in his throat. “He spoke about Jing-Mai?”
Ken nodded. “I think it can only have been her. Apparently, the police found no trace of the woman he spoke of, but given the similarity in your condition …”
“You think my organs are rotting?”
Ken gazed at his friend with bottomless sorrow in his eyes. “I see before me half the man who came to this city a week ago. A week, Pal. What other conclusion can be reached?”
Pal closed his eyes, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion. However much he wanted to deny it, he could feel it happening. Every nerve ending in his body screamed with pain, every time his heart beat, it resonated with agony. He could not pee without burning, searing torture, but his bladder was constantly full.
I’m liquefying. The thought came unbidden and yet Pal knew it was true. He looked at Ken. “I must go home.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“I have to. If I am not long for this world, then I will at least leave it knowing why this is happening to me.”
As he rode in the cab home, after saying his goodbyes to a worried Ken, he wondered if he would see his friend again.
He sat up and waited for her. He watched as she stepped from the painting and smiled. “You look well, my love,” she purred. Actually, as he listened now, it wasn’t a purr, more of a hum, a vibration, almost …
“Darling love, I can see you are distracted tonight. Perhaps I can soothe you?” She sat down and curled herself into his side, her lips against his neck. Pal wanted to push her away but the feel of her skin against his …
“My darling Jing-Mai, I must talk to you before we can be together.”
She pulled away, and her dark gold eyes burned. “Of course.”
He studied her. God, she was so lovely, so precious. “I am sick, my love. Really sick. Docs don’t think I’ll last much longer.”
An expression came into her eyes that he couldn’t read. “I can make you feel better.”
He smiled. “Did you make Simon Wong feel better?”
Her expression didn’t change. “Simon was a dear friend, but he was deeply unhappy.”
“And sick?”
She looked away. “I do not know, he never told me.”
She’s lying. Pal looked at the clock. “You’re early tonight; it’s not even midnight.”
“It’s a special night, my love.”
Pal Magnussen closed his eyes and felt her hands on his body. He felt her mouth on his cock, sucking and sucking, and it felt like he was being sucked dry. Maybe I am, he thought, his mind swirling as if her touch was making him high. What did it matter now? Wouldn’t it be better to go like this?
He heard the sound she was making and finally understood what she was and yet, now, he didn’t care. At least I was loved, he thought, at least I felt loved …
Ken Woo spoke to the police and then went to work, not wanting to be alone. The remnants of Christmas and the Millennium decorations hung forlornly around the faculty building, echoing the desolation he felt. He was greeted by a couple of colleagues who, seeing his face, sat him down and made him drink some scotch.
When Pal hadn’t answered any of his phone calls, he’d called the realtor, and they’d gone to the apartment together. He didn’t think the realtor would stop throwing up ever again. They’d found Pal on his couch, every organ liquefied and drained from him. They’d called the emergency services. Ken would never forget his friend’s desiccated face. He looked for the painting that Pal said was of Jing-Mai, for something to give to the police, but even he could tell that nothi
ng human had done this to his friend.
Nothing human.
Laurence Hardacre tried not to stare at the realtor’s pale face as he showed him around the penthouse. The dude looked sick as a dog and had barely even stepped inside the living room.
Laurence smirked. Who cared? This place was a steal. He moved around the apartment, admiring the view, then turned and saw the painting. He whistled.
“Gee, man, what a painting. That’s beautiful, man.” He looked at the realtor. “I’ll take the place. Hell, yes, I’ll take this goddamned palace, and that painting.”
As he followed his client from the apartment, the realtor shook his head. He’d never seen what everyone saw in that painting. They acted as it was the damn Mona Lisa.
All he saw was a painting of an Asian hornet. A huge, vicious, predatory wasp. Vespa velutina. Nasty, dangerous thing.
He shut the door and didn’t hear the buzzing from within.
The End
Ways to Be Wicked Book 3
Newlyweds Rebekah and Flynn travel to a luxurious mansion in the Louisiana bayou for their honeymoon amidst an unexpected Christmas snowstorm. When they get there, however, they find a mystery which could end their happy time together forever …
Louisiana, 1899 …
Way down deep, near the Louisiana swamplands, just outside New Orleans, was a magnificent mansion. The owner of this mansion was a very rich man who, despite his wealth, was also a kind and generous man. When his nephew became betrothed to his sweetheart, the kind millionaire offered the use of the mansion to them for their honeymoon. “I have just one warning,” he said. “There is a boathouse at the far end of the property—whatever you do, don’t go there after dark!’
The newlyweds, Rebekah and Flynn, set off for the mansion on Christmas Eve through an unprecedented snowstorm that covered most of the southern States in several feet of snow. A journey that should have taken them less than a day now took them until just before midnight. Luckily, the fires in the house had been lit, and a huge tree was covered in decorations.
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