He stood up, padded across the floor, and checked the thermostat. It was off, as he knew it would be, but the thermometer itself registered eighty-five degrees. He put his hand over the forced-air grating, but it felt cool to the touch. No heat there.

Heat. It was just what Grove had complained about.

He reminded himself again that this was the twenty-first century and that Grove had been insane in the closing days of his sorry life. He walked over to the balcony, ran back the heavy curtains, unlocked and slid open the glass door. A welcome stream of cool October air washed over him, and the faint sounds of traffic rose from below. Cutforth breathed deeply and stepped out onto the balcony, feeling sanity return. There was New York: solid, modern, rational New York. The buildings of Midtown stood like glowing ramparts against the night sky, and Fifth Avenue was like a brilliant stripe of moving light, changing from white to red as it passed below his window. He breathed again and, feeling the sweat chill on his skin, stepped back inside. The heat within seemed worse than ever, and now he felt a prickling sensation beginning to creep over his scalp and face and move down his limbs. It was very odd, like nothing he'd ever felt before, this sensation of heat and cold at the same time.

He was getting sick. That's what was happening. An early case of the flu.

He put on his slippers and walked out the bedroom, across the living room, to the wet bar. He jerked open the cabinet doors, pulled out the bottle of Bombay Sapphire, some ice, and a jar of olives, and mixed himself another drink. A Xanax, three Tylenol capsules, five vitamin C tablets, two fish-liver-oil pills, a selenium tablet, and three tabs of coral calcium followed, each washed down with a generous gulp of gin. After finishing the glass, he mixed himself another and went to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. These windows looked east, past Madison and Park to the 59th Street Bridge and Roosevelt Island. Beyond lay the dark wasteland of Queens.

Cutforth was finding it hard to think. His skin was crawling with unpleasant sensations, as if he was covered with spiders that were scuttling around and nipping at him. Or bees, maybe: he felt like he was wearing one of those human bee cloaks, and the bees were moving around, not exactly stinging him, but prickling him with their dry hairy legs.

Grove had been crazy, he had to remind himself. Grove lost it completely, he'd succumbed to his own fantasies. Not surprising, given the kind of life he'd led. And then there was that other thing: the thing Cutforth never, ever wanted to think about again .

He shook this thought away furiously and took another slug of gin, feeling the liquor and the sedative starting to kick in. Under any other circumstance, it would be delightful, relaxing, a sensation of slowly drifting down. But it didn't seem to be doing anything about that itchy, hot, crawling sensation on his skin. He rubbed a hand on his arm. Dry and hot: his skin felt like sandpaper.

Grove had complained about a strange sensation of heat, too. That and the smell.

He tossed back the drink with a shaking hand. Don’t get paranoid, Nigel dear. He was getting sick, that was all. He hadn't had his flu shot, and it was hitting him early this year. Great timing, on the eve of his departure for Thailand.

"Fuck," he said out loud. The drink was gone. Should he mix himself yet another? Why the hell not? He reached for the bottle, grasped it, filled the glass, and set it back down on the bar.

I am coming.

Cutforth spun around. The apartment was empty.

Who the fuck had spoken? It was a low voice, lower than a whisper; more like a vibration, sensed rather than heard.

He swallowed, licked dry lips. "Who's there?" His tongue felt thick and foreign, and he could barely get out the words.

No answer.

He turned, his full drink slopping over the sides of the glass and running down his hand. He raised the glass and sucked at it greedily. It couldn't be. He'd never believed in anything and wasn't about to start now. God didn't exist, the devil didn't exist, life was just some random shitstorm, and when you were dead, you were dead.

Maledicat dominus.

He jerked his head up, drink sloshing wildly. What was that, Latin? Was this some kind of joke? Where was it coming from? One of his crazy rap clients, being an asshole? Or, more likely, former client? There was one Haitian rapper in particular who had threatened revenge. This was probably him or his boys, trying to goad him into a premature heart attack with some voodoo nonsense.

"All right!" he called out. "That's enough with the bullshit."

Silence.

His skin crawled, unnaturally hot and dry. Suddenly, it didn't feel like nonsense anymore. It felt real.

It was happening to him. It was happening, like Grove had said.

He raised the shaking glass to his lips, swallowing, tasting nothing.

But it couldn't really be happening, could it? This was the twenty-first century. Grove must have been crazy, he must have. But, oh dear Jesus, those things the newspapers had hinted at .     The cops weren't really saying much about how Grove had died, but the tabloids had been full of gossip about the body, burned from the inside, the marks of Lucifer on the walls.

Was it really possible, after all this time?

He let the half-finished drink fall to the floor and began casting desperately about. His late mother had given him a crucifix, which he'd kept around more as a memento than anything else. He'd seen it just last month. Where? He rushed back into his bedroom, to the walk-in closet, drew out a drawer with savage tugs, felt in the back. Cuff links, buttons, tiepins, coins rained to the floor.

No crucifix. Where was it?

He jerked open another drawer, then another, pawing roughly through watches, jewelry, gold. A sob escaped him.

The crucifix! He grasped it tightly, sobbing with relief, held it to his breast, crossing himself.

The sensation of being covered with crawling bees began to grow worse. Now it felt as if the bees were really stinging him, billions of agonizing little pricks.

"Go away! Get away!" He sobbed.” Our Father, who art in heaven-" God, how did it go?

The crucifix felt hot in his hands. Now his ears were buzzing. His throat felt as if it was caked with ash, as if he was choking on the hot air.

I am coming now.

He held out the crucifix in his shaking arms, this way and that, as if warding off something invisible. "Get thee behind me, Satan!" he shrieked.

The crucifix felt very hot now. It was burning his fingers. Everything was hot: his nightclothes, even his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms, felt as if they were crisping.

"Get away!"

He dropped the crucifix with a cry. To his utter terror, smoke began curling from it, burning a mark into the rug. He gasped for breath, hands scrabbling at his throat, gagging in the sulfurous air.

He had to get out. He had to find sanctuary. If he could get to a chapel, a church, anything, maybe he'd be safe .

He rushed for the door, but just before he put his hand on the doorknob, there came a knocking.

Cutforth froze, suspended between relief and fear. Who was it?

Maybe there was a fire? Yes, of course, that was it: the building was on fire, and an evacuation was under way. Something must have gone wrong with the sprinkler system. "I'm in here!" He sobbed, half in pain and half in relief. "In here!"

He grasped the doorknob, felt the searing pain of red-hot metal, jerked his hand away."  Fuck!"

He looked at his hand in disbelief. His palm was burned, smoking, and it cracked as he opened it, blood and clear matter welling from the fissure and running down his wrist. Left on the doorknob was a large piece of his skin, curling and frying in the heat like pork cracklings.