Chapter 2: Hospital Chaos
The fluorescent lights of the maternity ward hummed like angry insects, casting a sterile, shadowless glow over everything. Mike Williamson thought he might vibrate out of his own skin. He stood frozen just inside the doorway of the delivery room, one hand still gripping the doorframe, as a nurse with kind eyes and a steady demeanor helped Casey shuffle from the wheelchair to the bed.
Casey moved with the slow, deliberate care of a bomb disposal expert. Every shift of weight, every grunt of effort, was a seismic event. She’d gone silent during the final leg of the car ride, a focused, inward-turning quiet that scared Mike more than the yelling had.
“Alright, mama, let’s get you settled,” the nurse, whose nametag read ‘LISA,’ said, her voice a model of practiced calm. “Doctor Cho will be in shortly. Just need to get the monitors on.”
Casey nodded, easing back onto the propped-up pillows. She reached out a hand, and Mike finally jolted into motion, crossing the room to take it. Her palm was clammy, her grip iron-tight.
“You’re here,” she breathed, her dark eyes finding his. “Okay. We’re here.”
“We’re here,” he echoed, the words feeling stupid and small. He brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from her forehead. “You’re incredible.”
“I’m a water balloon that’s about to pop. Don’t… don’t let my mom bring her crystals in here. Or your mom recite the rosary over my cervix.”
“I’ll form a human shield,” he promised, a ghost of his usual goofy grin flickering.
The door swung open again, and Stacy Steinberg slipped in. She looked like she’d run the whole way—her dark hair was wind-tousled, her cheeks flushed against her sun-kissed skin, her athletic jacket unzipped over a simple tank top. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the room, cataloguing Casey’s condition, Mike’s anxiety, the nurse’s movements. They settled on Mike.
“Coach,” he said, his voice thick with a relief he didn’t fully understand.
“Mike. Casey.” Stacy nodded, her presence immediately anchoring the chaotic energy in the room. She didn’t offer platitudes. She moved to the other side of the bed and took Casey’s free hand. Her grip was strong, grounding. “Jan’s handling the gatekeepers. She said you need an insider. What’s the status?”
Before Casey could answer, another contraction took her. Her body arched, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The monitor Lisa was attaching beeped frantically, tracing a sharp peak on the graph. Mike watched, helpless, as Casey rode the wave, her face a mask of primal effort. Stacy just held her hand tighter, her jaw set, her gaze fixed on Casey’s face with an intensity that was both fierce and tender.
The wave passed. Casey slumped back, panting.
“Status is… imminent,” Lisa said, her professional calm faltering for a microsecond as she glanced at the monitor. “Dilation is advanced. This baby isn’t waiting for anyone’s playlist or aromatherapy.” She finished securing the fetal monitor belt around Casey’s belly. The steady, rapid thump-thump-thump of a tiny heartbeat filled the room, a counterpoint to the tense silence.
Just then, the door burst open, revealing Irene and Mona in a temporary, stunned truce of shared panic. They both started talking at once.
“—brought your lavender essential oil, sweetie, for the—”
“—prayed the entire drive, Michael, I called Father Donnelly and he’s adding his—”
They stopped dead, their eyes landing on Stacy. A stranger, muscular and confident, holding their grandson's mother's hand.
“Who is this?” Irene asked, her voice cooling several degrees.
“This is Stacy,” Mike said, jumping in. “She’s… family. She’s here to help.”
“There are too many people in this room,” Lisa the nurse said, her authority finally surfacing. “We need space for the doctor. Immediate family only, please.”
Mona opened her mouth to protest, but Stacy was already moving. She released Casey’s hand and gently but firmly herded both women back toward the door. “Ladies, let’s let the professionals work. We can wait right outside. I’m sure you have lots of… tips to share with me.” Her voice left no room for argument. She caught Mike’s eye over Irene’s shoulder and gave a tiny, firm nod. I’ve got them.
As the door shut, Jan slid into the room. She looked flushed, a wild light in her green eyes. “Okay, we’ve got about thirty seconds of calm. Listen.” She marched up to Lisa. “Where’s Doctor Cho?”
“On her way, she was finishing a—”
“She’s about to have a problem.” Jan’s words were rapid-fire. “There’s something going around. A… contaminant. It makes people act out. Sexual. Compulsively. If you see anyone offering fancy gold-wrapped candy, do not eat it. Do not let anyone in this room eat it. If your doctor comes in acting like she wants to fuck the stirrups, you let me know.”
Lisa stared at her, the veneer of professional calm cracking completely. “What on earth are you—”
A commotion erupted in the hallway—a shout, then a high, giddy giggle. Then another. Through the narrow window in the door, Mike saw a flash of naked skin. A nurse, her scrubs gone, her breasts bouncing as she skipped past, chased by an orderly whose hospital pants were around his ankles, his erect cock bobbing ahead of him. They vanished around a corner, trailing laughter.
Lisa’s hand flew to her mouth.
“That,” Jan said flatly. “That’s the problem.”
The door swung open again, and Doctor Cho entered. She was a small, serious-faced woman in her forties, her glasses perched on her nose. Or rather, she started to enter. Her step hitched. She blinked rapidly, her hands coming up to her own chest, plucking at the collar of her white coat.
“Oh,” Doctor Cho said, her voice suddenly dreamy. “It’s so warm in here.” She shrugged out of her coat, letting it fall to the floor. Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse.
“Jan,” Mike whispered, horrified.
Jan was already moving. “Lisa, look at me.” The nurse, paralyzed, turned her head. Jan snapped her fingers in front of her face, a tiny spark of green-gold flaring. “You just saw Doctor Cho leave to consult on another case. You’re going to assist me. Got it?”
Lisa’s eyes glazed over for a second, then cleared. She nodded, her training reasserting itself in the face of this impossible, new protocol. “Yes. Of course.”
Doctor Cho had her blouse open, her sensible bra unfastened. She sighed, cupping her own breasts, her thumbs circling her nipples. “Much better.”
“Doctor Cho,” Jan said, stepping directly into her line of sight. She placed her hands on the doctor’s shoulders. “You’re going to feel a little pinch.”
Jan’s hands erupted in light. Not the warm gold of desire-magic, but a vibrant, piercing green, shot through with filaments of defiant gold. It sank into the doctor’s skin. Cho gasped, her back arching. Her eyes, which had been hazy with candy-induced lust, went wide with shock. Mike could see it—a tangible, sticky swirl of gold resistance fighting against Jan’s green invasive light. Jan gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her forehead. She pushed.
The doctor convulsed once, a wet, coughing sound wrenching from her throat. A faint, shimmering golden mist seemed to puff from her lips. It dissipated. She sagged, blinking, looking around the room in utter confusion. She was topless, her clothes in disarray.
“What…?” she stammered, crossing her arms over her chest. “I… what happened?”
“You had a sudden syncopal episode, Doctor,” Lisa said smoothly, grabbing the discarded white coat and holding it open for her. “A fainting spell. You should sit down.”
Cho allowed herself to be led to a stool, bafflement etched on her face. “The patient…”
“Is ready to deliver,” Jan said, her voice weary but firm. She turned to Lisa. “You’re in charge. You remember your training. Do this.”
Lisa, now the sole medical professional with all her faculties, swallowed hard and nodded. She helped a bewildered Doctor Cho into the coat, then turned to Casey, her focus absolute. “Alright, Casey. Let’s see where we’re at.”
Another contraction seized Casey. This one was different. Deeper. Final. A raw, guttural roar tore from her throat. “He’s COMING!”
Mike’s world narrowed to the space between his wife’s legs. Lisa was a blur of efficient motion, guiding, instructing. “I see the head! Casey, push! Now!”
Jan stood back, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. Curing one person had drained her more than she’d anticipated. The sticky gold magic of the candy was tenacious, foreign. She looked at Mike, his face a monument of terror and awe as he supported Casey’s back. She looked at Casey, her body a vessel of unimaginable force.
And through the door, she could hear the rising chaos of the ward—shouts, giggles, moans. A pair of naked orderlies stumbled past the window, clutching each other, mouths fused in a sloppy, desperate kiss. The Candy Man’s plague was here.
But here, in this room, a different kind of magic was happening. Lisa’s voice, steady and clear. “The head is out! One more push, Casey! For your baby!”
Casey screamed, a sound of pure, focused power. Mike chanted nonsense words of encouragement, tears streaming down his face.
And then, a new sound. A sharp, indignant cry. A wet, wriggling, miraculous being was lifted onto Casey’s chest. Messy. Vital. Real.
“Rick,” Mike sobbed, his hand touching the tiny, damp head. “Hi, Rick.”
Casey collapsed back, weeping, laughing, her arms encircling their son. The primal tension shattered, replaced by a shockwave of raw, overwhelming love.
Jan pushed off the wall, a tired smile touching her lips. One miracle at a time.
The door cracked open. Stacy’s face appeared, grim. “The waiting room is a disaster. Two dads just started going at it on the coffee table. Irene is praying the Hail Mary on a loop. Mona is trying to ‘realign their auras’ with a prism. They haven’t eaten anything, but it’s only a matter of time before someone offers them a ‘treat.’” Her eyes fell on the baby, and her fierce expression softened, just for a millisecond. A future flicker in her eyes. “He’s here.”
“He’s here,” Mike whispered, unable to look away from his son’s face.
Jan’s phone buzzed. Amy. She answered, putting it on speaker as she moved to the window, looking down at the snowy streets below. “Talk to me, Willow.”
“They’re getting worse.” Amy’s voice was a strained whisper. “Jason went out to the common kitchen. He came back with… with Mark from down the hall. They’re both… they’re just… Yukio is watching them and touching herself. It’s spreading, Jan.”
“Did you get the wrappers? The ones from Jason’s pocket?”
“Yes. I have them.”
“Good. Don’t touch them more than you have to. I need to know where Jason got them. Think, Amy. Did he say anything before? Was he somewhere today?”
A long pause. Over the line, the muffled sound of male groans and wet skin slapping against skin was audible. Amy was trying to block it out. “He… he had a study group. At the library. The main campus library. He got back a couple hours ago. He was in a weird mood. Jittery. He kissed me and he tasted… sweet. Really sweet.”
The library. A central hub. High traffic. The perfect place for the Candy Man to seed his mischief.
“Okay. Sit tight. Barricade yourself in your room if you have to. I’m coming.”
She hung up. The room behind her was a cocoon of stunned, joyful exhaustion. Lisa and a now-lucid Doctor Cho were quietly tending to Casey and the baby, speaking in low, medical tones. Mike was glued to his wife’s side, one finger gripped in his son’s tiny fist.
Jan caught Stacy’s eye and jerked her head toward the hall. Stacy followed her out.
The hallway was a surreal portrait of decayed order. A janitor’s cart was abandoned, its owner nowhere in sight. From a supply closet nearby, rhythmic thumping and low, eager moans seeped out. Further down, a man in a hospital gown lay on his back on the floor, stroking himself slowly, staring at the ceiling with a blank, contented smile.
“This is bad,” Stacy murmured, her body coiled tight.
“It’s a fucking epidemic,” Jan corrected. “Casey and the baby are safe for now. Lisa and the doctor are stable, hopefully immune. They won’t remember the magic, just that they felt faint. You need to hold the fort here. Guard that door. Do not let anyone in you don’t know. Do not accept any food or candy, no matter what. If someone seems off, you get physically between them and that room. Can you do that?”
Stacy’s dark eyes hardened. She looked at the door to Casey’s room as if it were the gates of a castle. “They won’t get past me.”
“I know.” Jan squeezed her arm. “I have to find the source. I think it started at the library. I have to follow the trail back.”
“Go,” Stacy said. “We’re good here.”
Jan nodded, turning to leave. She took one last look at the peaceful chaos inside the delivery room, then sprinted down the corrupted hallway, weaving past entwined, oblivious bodies, her boots clicking on the linoleum. The joyful, desperate cries of new life faded behind her, replaced by the sounds of a different, more twisted compulsion.
Outside, the Chicago winter dusk was deepening, the streetlights casting long, lonely shadows on the snow. Somewhere out there, a trickster was laughing. And Jan, the Red Tornado, was going to find him.
The hospital’s sliding doors hissed shut behind her, muting the inner symphony of madness. The cold Chicago air was a physical slap, scrubbing away the scents of antiseptic and sex. She breathed deep, the freeze burning her lungs, and pulled out her phone. She needed mobile, overwhelming loyalty.
She whistled, two sharp notes cutting through the urban dusk.
A low, answering woof came from the service bay where ambulances idled. A massive, shaggy shape detached from the shadows, trotting toward her with serene purpose. Godfrey’s warm brown eyes regarded her, his tail giving a single, dignified wag. He nudged her hand with his wet nose.
“Hey, buddy. We’ve got a weird one.” She scratched behind his ears, the familiar texture grounding her. “Time to work.”
She fastened his service vest, the familiar ritual focusing her mind. The library. Amy’s voice, trembling, saying Jason tasted sweet. The trail was cold and getting colder, buried under a city slowly succumbing to a magical aphrodisiac. She started walking, her boots crunching on salted pavement, Godfrey a calm, solid presence at her left hip.
Across town, in a cozy third-floor walk-up in Andersonville, Vivian Chace was stirring a pot of mushroom risotto. The soft, earthy scent usually comforted her. Tonight, it couldn’t mask the alien energy pulsing through her building’s old bones.
It began as a low thrum, a vibration in the floorboards. Then came the sounds. Not the usual muffled television or domestic argument. This was rhythmic slapping. Guttural, pleasure-raw moans that held no trace of intimacy, only frantic need. A woman’s high, shrieking laugh.
Vivian put her wooden spoon down. Her demon half, a dormant tension at the base of her skull, twitched awake. Hunger stirred. This was… a lot of energy. An impossible feast, just walls away. She moved to her door, pressed her ear against the cool wood.
The sounds were unmistakable now. Many voices. Grunts, wet kisses, the slap of flesh on flesh. Her neighbor Mrs. Gable, a sweet retired librarian, cried out, “Yes! More! Fuck my old cunt!”
Vivian’s own pussy throbbed in sympathetic response. Her hunger yawned wide, a cold, dark pit. She needed to feed. Cautiously, she unlocked her door and peered into the hall.
The scene was a riot of pale, gyrating flesh under the harsh fluorescent hall light. Five of her neighbors were a tangled, sweating heap in the middle of the carpet. Mr. Robertson from 3B was on his knees, his face buried between the splayed thighs of the college student from 3C, who was in turn arching back to take the thick cock of a delivery driver Vivian recognized from the Thai place downstairs. Mrs. Gable was on her hands and knees, being relentlessly pounded from behind by a man Vivian had never seen, her thin body jolting with each thrust.
“Vivian!” gasped the college student, spotting her. The girl’s eyes were glassy, her lips slick with her own juices and saliva. “Come on! It’s amazing!”
The hunger screamed. Vivian, half-succubus, needed sexual energy like oxygen. This was a banquet laid out before a starving woman. She let out a shaking breath and stepped into the hall, closing her door behind her. Clothing was discarded like litter. She peeled off her cotton t-shirt and leggings, her pale skin goosepimpling in the drafty hallway.
The delivery driver, withdrawing from the student with a slick pop, reached for her. His hands were calloused, gripping her hips, pulling her toward the writhing center of the pile. Vivian went, her mind separating from the instinct. He bent her over the shivering form of Mrs. Gable, his blunt fingers parting her folds from behind. He was huge, and he didn’t wait. He drove his cock into her with a single, brutal stroke.
“Oh, god,” Vivian gasped, the fullness a sharp, stretching shock. He pistoned into her, his balls slapping against her ass. The physical sensation was intense, almost painful in its lack of tenderness. But that was fine. She wasn’t here for tenderness.
She opened herself, the inner mechanism of her birthright clicking into place. She began to draw.
The energy flooded into her—a hot, rushing current of climax and frantic desire. But as it filled her veins, a sickly dissonance chimed. It was thin. Hollow. Like chugging neon-colored sugar water instead of rich, dark wine. It sparked and fizzed, giving a jittery, immediate rush but leaving a metallic aftertaste of emptiness in her soul. It was all sensation, no substance; all animal noise, no human connection.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” grunted the man inside her, his breath hot on her neck. His thrusts were becoming ragged, desperate. “Here. Makes it better.”
Over his shoulder, Mrs. Gable, her face flushed and twisted, held out a trembling hand. In her palm were several gold-wrapped candies, their foil gleaming under the light. “Have one, dear,” she panted. “It’s delicious.”
Vivian’s human mind saw the candy. It looked exquisite. The gold foil promised creamy, rich chocolate. Her mouth actually watered. But from the depths of her being, from that ancient, demonic lineage, a primal shriek of revulsion erupted. It was wrong. It was poison. It was artificial.
“No,” Vivian managed, her voice strangled as the man behind her slammed home, his orgasm pulsing inside her with that same hollow, unsatisfying energy. “No, I’m… I’m good.”
“More for us, then,” Mrs. Gable said with a giggle, popping two into her own mouth before offering them to the delivery driver, who crunched them down without missing a stroke.
Vivian pushed herself off, disentangling from the grunting, mindless pile. She stumbled back into her apartment, grabbing her clothes, her body still humming with the ghost of that empty calories. She felt simultaneously wired and depleted. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers leaving smears of her neighbor’s sweat on the screen.
She called Jan.
Jan’s phone vibrated as she and Godfrey approached her rust-spotted Subaru. She saw Vivian’s name and accepted, putting it on speaker as she unlocked the car. “Viv. Talk fast.”
“Jan. Something’s… there’s an orgy in my hallway.” Vivian’s voice was breathless, unnerved. “I fed. It felt like shit. Like Styrofoam and static. Then they offered me this candy. Gold wrapper. My human half wanted it so bad, Jan. But my other half… it screamed.”
Jan’s blood went colder than the January air. “The Candy Man. It’s a batch that induces compulsive, public sex. The energy it produces is magically corrupted. Fake. You did right not to eat it. Where are you?”
“Home. In my apartment. They’re still going out there.”
“Barricade your door. Do not engage. The energy won’t sustain you, it’ll just make you jittery and sick. I’m heading to the university library. That’s the lead. Sit tight, stay safe.”
“Jan?” Vivian’s voice was small. “It’s spreading, isn’t it?”
“Like a funhouse mirror of the clap. Yeah.” Jan ended the call, opened the passenger door for Godfrey. “In, boy. We’re hunting.”
The dog lumbered onto the seat, turning to face the windshield with a solemn expression. Jan slid behind the wheel, the engine coughing to life. She pulled out of the hospital lot, tires crackling over ice, heading toward the university. The streets were eerily quiet for a Friday evening. Then she saw the first cluster.
On a corner, under a glowing bus shelter, three people were entwined. A man in a business suit had a woman pressed against the Plexiglas, her skirt hiked, his pants around his ankles as he hammered into her. Another woman knelt before him, taking his balls into her mouth, worshipping them with slurping abandon. They were utterly exposed, steam rising from their naked skin in the cold, their eyes vacant with gold-flecked bliss.
“Christ,” Jan whispered, swerving slightly.
Every few blocks, another vignette of debauchery. Two cops, their uniforms in a heap, the female officer bent over the hood of their squad car while her partner took her from behind, his service weapon dangling in its holster near her swinging breast. A group of what looked like teenagers in a fast-food parking lot, a daisy chain of grinding, moaning bodies. The candy didn’t just break inhibitions; it erased context, environment, all sense of self-preservation. The magical protection from the elements was the only thing keeping them from freezing to death.
She parked illegally a block from the massive, neo-gothic library. The grand arched entrance was lit, but no one was at the desks. She clipped Godfrey’s leash. “Stay close.”
They entered. The vast, cathedral-like silence of the reading room was shattered by the same sounds she’d fled. Whispers had become gasped profanities. The rustle of pages replaced by the slick friction of skin. Among the towering shelves of knowledge, bodies copulated with frantic, joyless urgency. A young man had a woman spread-eagled on a photocopier, its green light scanning blankly as he drilled into her. In a study carrel, a man fucked another man’s mouth with brutal, rhythmic force.
Jan moved through it like a ghost, her jaw tight, Godfrey a silent, unimpressed sentinel. She saw the trash cans. They were filled with discarded gold wrappers, gleaming like poisoned treasure. This was ground zero. But the Candy Man himself? He’d been here, seeded his poison, and moved on. He was a ghost.
Frustration boiled in her throat. She needed a newer trail. She pulled out her phone again, pulling up Molly’s number. Molly was entertaining the Winter Queen. If anyone could track a creature of capricious magic, it might be another one. The call didn’t even ring. It dropped immediately. A cold that had nothing to do with winter seeped into Jan’s bones.
“Come on,” she muttered to Godfrey, turning back toward the entrance. She needed air. She needed to think. They pushed back out into the frigid night. She turned the corner into a narrower side street, a shortcut to her car.
The air changed.
The wet, dirty scent of the city vanished. The sound of distant traffic and closer moans deadened into an absolute, crystalline quiet. The very light altered, the yellow of the streetlamps leaching away into a pure, moonlit blue that cast sharp, black shadows. The snow on the ground glimmered with an internal, ethereal radiance.
Standing in the center of the alley, as if she had always been there, was a woman.
She wore a gown of living frost, swirling around a form of impossible, heart-stopping beauty. Her skin was paler than the snow, her hair a cascade of silver-white that moved in an unseen wind. Her eyes were the blue of glacier fissures, deep and pitiless. The Winter Queen. In a human form, yet utterly, terrifyingly not.
Godfrey let out a low, steady growl, the fur on his neck rising. He planted himself slightly in front of Jan.
The Queen’s flawless lips curved into a smile. It held no warmth. “Jan O’Connor. The Red Tornado.” Her voice was the crackle of ice forming on a branch, the whisper of a blizzard from miles away. “Your gift was… amusing. The blonde mortal. Molly.”
Jan’s heart hammered against her ribs. She forced her voice to steadiness. “You’re welcome. I’m glad she entertained your court.”
“Oh, she did.” The Queen took a step forward, her bare feet leaving no imprint in the magically-altered snow. “Such a fragile, earnest little thing. So dedicated to her artifice of laughter. My court finds her… delightful. A new pet. A sparkling trinket.”
The words iced down Jan’s spine. “She has a life here. Friends. A career.”
“Mortal concerns.” The Queen waved a dismissive hand, the air freezing in its wake. “They are grains of sand. I have decided. I will keep her. For a century or two. Perhaps three. She will sing for us, and make us laugh, until the cold finally stills her voice. It will be a beautiful, slow fading.”
She said it with the casual certainty of a child declaring it would keep a captured firefly.
“You can’t,” Jan said, the words escaping before she could temper them.
The glacial eyes fixed on her. The temperature plunged. Jan’s breath solidified in the air, falling as tiny ice chips. “I can. I am. You sent her to me. A gift. I am accepting it.” The Queen’s head tilted. “You may go. Attend to your… candy plague. It is a crude magic. But the mortal is mine now.”
She began to turn, the frost of her gown swirling as if to depart.
Panic, sharp and sheer, clawed at Jan’s throat. Molly. Sweet, brilliant, ambitious Molly. Trapped in the frozen halls of a capricious fae court for centuries, until her humanity was worn away by the cold. It was a fate worse than any the Candy Man could devise.
“Wait!” The word tore from Jan, desperate.
The Winter Queen paused, looking back over her shoulder. An eyebrow arched, awaiting a plea she would undoubtedly find entertaining before she denied it.
Jan’s mind raced, scrabbling for purchase in a sheer cliff-face of hopeless power. The Queen wanted to be entertained. She valued amusement above all. To challenge her directly was suicide. To beg was useless. But a trickster’s poison was loose in her city, and a different kind of trickster stood before her now.
She had nothing to offer.
Nothing but a gamble.