The dance was unfamiliar to Criss, yet via an instinct born of dreams, or the surety of the Count's guiding touch, her body followed its steps exactly.  The Count led around the ballroom in graceful arcs as if they were flying; the wide sleeves and skirts of her dress flowed and swirled around her as she spun.  She was vaguely aware of other people in the room, but none ever seemed to impede the couple's movements; every so often, she thought she caught a glimpse of Wendy, but each time, the Count swept her on in the dance and she lost track.

It wouldn't be Wendy, anyway; this had to be a dream, sparked by that book Denise had shown them.  This Restless House, a gothic novel written like a biography... or a biography written like a gothic novel, one or the other.  But if anything, the thought that it was a dream only strengthened the impression that it was the Count and not Criss that was in control of it.

As if in response to the thought, he brought the dance to a halt; though he kept his hand on the small of her back, the touch holding her fast as if she were still following his lead.  He laid his other hand over his heart.  "You are a divine dancer," he said.
"Thankyou my Lord," Criss heard herself answer.  Why should that feel wrong; wasn't that the appropriate response to such a compliment?
"Truly a most precious gift."
"I studied hard for it," she said.  Though she had a nagging sense that he'd meant something else.  "I should retire," she added, trying to follow her doubts.
"Of course," the Count said.  "Allow me to escort you."

The Count led her... still leading her, even though they weren't dancing any more... through the stone hallways of his castle.  On one side windows, looking out into into a black rainy night against which the towers were faintly visible; on the other, hanging tapestries depicted scenes of warfare and hunting.  Surrounded by these evidences of the Count's power, Criss felt tiny.  Vulnerable.  She wondered if this was how the maidens described in the book had felt when the Count had brought them beneath his roof.  At the door to her bedchamber, he kissed her hand before letting her go; inside she locked the door and tried to quieten her heart.

   ****

Wendy kept losing sight of Criss as the Count led her around the dance floor.  Guests kept distracting her with whispered conversation; but as soon as she got away from them, Wendy found she was unable to recall what they had said, or even looked like.  Like they were just set dressing from a scene in that book Denise had shown her and Criss... of course; this was a scene from that book.  The Count was always throwing balls like this.  Wendy was dreaming.  The thought made her smirk slightly; dreaming of Criss in the thrall of some gothic lord?  Criss would certainly have some choice things to say about that.

But Criss had gone.  The Count was alone.  Disquieted now, Wendy crossed the room to him, the rest of the assembled guests flickering and blurring in the corner of her vision; as she approached, the Count seemed to grow larger and more solid before her, until even his mere presence felt like it was pressing against the flesh of her body.
"I can't see my friend, my Lord," she said.
"She has retired," the Count answered.  "Perhaps you wish to do the same?"
"Yes," Wendy said quietly, a little relieved that Criss was away from him.
"Permit me to escort you," he said, though the tone made it a command rather than a question.

   ****

Criss washed her face again and looked at herself in the mirror; the bleary eyes were still there.  Her stomach felt too unsettled for breakfast, but she hoped some coffee would banish the last images of the dream.  She headed down to Wendy's kitchen and set the kettle going. Denise's book was still on the kitchen table:  it purported to tell the story of a Count Grenier, from the Eighteenth Century; though from what Criss had seen of it, his story seemed to be made up mostly of lurid seductions of young virgins.  Yeah, right.  The cover depicted a castle and she found herself analysing it, wondering how well it matched the castle in her dream.

Wendy paused in the doorway as she saw Criss with the book.  "It's vivid, I'll give it that," she said.
Criss looked up, then set the book front down; she made a noncommittal sound, but from the look on her face, Wendy guessed she'd had her own dream about the Count.  Wendy wondered if she'd been in Criss's dream.
"I'm going to take the book round to Denise tonight, after our classes," Criss said she handed Wendy a coffee; she took her own and sat back down, cradling it against her chest.
Wendy nodded.  The previous night had been the first time they'd seen Denise in weeks.  She said she'd been sick, and they'd both tried to take her assurance that she was feeling better at face value; but in truth she'd looked exhausted, and only half aware of her surroundings. Wendy was glad she'd come and gone by taxi.  "Let me know how she's doing," she said.

   ****

Denise looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes, but smiled when she saw Criss at the door.  "What did you think of the book?" she asked.
"Hi," Criss said.
"Sorry, come in.  I'll get some coffee."  She ushered Criss into the living room, and appeared a few minutes later with a pair of steaming mugs.
"How are you doing, really?" Criss asked.
"Fine, really," Denise said; her expression was bright enough to be sincere.  "Do you like the book?"
"I brought it back."
"Oh."  Denise's expression was odd.  "You didn't like it?"
"Just... not quite my thing."
"Or Wendy's?  Ok, let's put a bad film on then."

Criss was usually up for a bad film, and between cable and Youtube it was never hard to find one.  Denise had made sure to sit beside Criss on the sofa.  The comfort, and the presence beside her, the brainless film, and the sleeping pill in the coffee all combined into the desired effect; soon Criss was leaning her head back, eyes closed.  Denise was relieved; her Lord had wanted both girls, but Criss most of all.

   ****

Criss was in a library, sitting at a desk in a high backed-chair.  Around her, the shelves of leather-bound books lent silent weight to her imprisonment; outside, the howl of the wind told her there was nowhere to go anyway.  The Count's hand came down on her shoulder, gentle, but strong as a chain; he placed a book in front of her... not the one Denise had shown her, a journal, the Count's memoir.  Obediently she began to read...  of his life spent in study of black magic, of the power he had stolen from the Underworld; of how he had conquered death, living on in the lives of his descendants, sustaining himself through the years by bending the souls and dreams of women to his own.

"That is what you are doing to Denise," Criss said; "that's why she's so sick."
"Yes," the Count answered simply.
"Is it what you intend for me?"
"No, you are to be much more," he said; he lifted hand from her shoulder to smooth her hair.  "This existence as a ghost in my children's blood is no longer enough.  I will have more."
"What does that have to do with me?"
"How?"
"There are other, older things than death," he said.  "But their power too, can be taken.  Only a little, but that is enough to attain a state beyond that of any man or ghost.  And when I walk the Earth as a Prince, it is you who shall be my first reward."

"I won't let you," Criss said.
"It is not for you to deny me."
"I won't let you.  I... I've fought a ghost before."
"Indeed?  Perhaps that is part of the light I saw in you."  He tightened his fist in Criss's hair, turning her head to face him.  "But already, I am beyond a mere ghost.  And my soul is in yours."
"I..."  Criss's denial died in her throat.

   ****

Wendy ran through the halls of the castle, screaming Criss and Denise's names.  Something inside her had changed... as if her mind had been lulled last time she'd dreamed of this place; but now she could feel the touch of death all around her... and a terror she'd only felt once before, as a ghost drank her life away on a haunted stage.  It had to be the book; somehow it had put this dream in her head, but now it wasn't in her house any more she could sense it for what it was.  But that meant... it meant it had really been Criss she'd seen dancing with the Count...

And it meant Denise had given them the book deliberately.  But why?

An instinct she didn't question led her to open a door.  In the room beyond she saw Criss seated at a table, the Count beside her.  Both looked up as Wendy came in.
"Criss!" she cried.  "Get away from her!  Criss, we have to get out of here."
"I belong here now," Criss said.
"What?"
"With the Count... my Lord."
"No, that's bullshit, he's inside your head-"
"I am inside her soul," the Count said.  "And it makes her mine, as you should have been also."
"You-"

"- can't!" Wendy screamed as she woke in her bed.  "You can't have them.  You can't have them.  I will stop you."

   ****

Criss looked around her as she was led through the Green family estate.  She'd had no idea any of Denise's students were so rich; indeed Denise herself hadn't known until the Count had claimed her.  The eldest of his living descendants was taking Criss to what would be her room; she wondered if her Lord could see her through their eyes, or only when she dreamed of his castle.  But soon enough he would be able to see the living world with his own eyes; and when he did, his chosen bride would be here awaiting him.

   ****

Denise lay supine on the bed in her chamber; she had feared the Count would be angry, but his face bore a look of satisfaction as he parted her legs.
"I brought Criss to the estate, my Lord," she said.
"Good.  My progeny will guard her until I am ready for her."  He entered her and began to thrust.
"What about Wendy?"
"They will find her."
"Will they hurt her?"
"That depends.  If they can subdue her, she can be left alone with the book and I can claim her."  His thrusts picked up in pace, and Denise felt herself beginning to build.

   ****

Wendy paced around her house.  Could she call the cops?  But Denise had delivered the book herself.  Whatever the Count was doing to her, it was affecting her while she was awake; and the same would be true of Criss.  They'd just tell the police there was nothing wrong.  And would Wendy end up in the castle again the next time she slept?  How could she fight any of this?  Or even find them?  She needed help. Her mind went to Sonny.  It wouldn't be the first time the two of them had saved someone.  But he also worked in a mental hospital; what the hell would he say if she came to him talking about ghosts?  It didn't matter what he'd say; she had to try.  Wendy picked up the phone and began to dial.