Denise turned it over in her hand, but it wasn't signed; it was handwritten though, so looking through enough homework might clue her in on who wrote it.  She turned her attention to the package instead; it felt solid and heavy, like a hardback book.  A birthday present from one of her students wasn't unheard of, but it wasn't usually something as substantial as that.  It wasn't her birthday until tomorrow, but curiosity got the better of her, and the tore the wrapping paper away.  It was a book.  The title, This Restless House, and the cover art of a castle with indistict figures moving about it, left her unsure if it was meant to be a history book or a gothic novel.

And she didn't have time to find out this morning; it was time for school.  The day passed uneventfully enough, and whenever she got a few minutes' time, Denise looked through old assignments of her students trying to find a match for writing on the card.  But by the end of the day, none of the handwriting she'd checked resembled it.  Back at home, she had a few more papers to grade before dinner and she hoped an early night.  But between the latter two, her gaze was drawn back to the book.

Denise curled up on the sofa and leafed through the first chapter.  It appeared to be a biography more than anything, of an Eighteenth Century count called Grenier, though the tone of the writing still had plenty of the gothic novel about it with its tales of his lurid tastes and the number of maidens who visited his castle (and, naturally, of how few of them remained so when they left again).  Denise thought she might be able to have some fun nights with it, though not in the sense that her student had probably thought; though that would have to wait for a night when she was less tired.

    ****

Denise was walking down a hallway, the skirts of her pale dress fluttering in the breeze from the window ahead of her.  The tapestries lining the wall were made of heavier cloth; in keeping with the masculine scenes of hunting and battle they displayed, they stayed resolutely unmoving.  As she got to the window, Denise looked out at the night; part of her thought there should be a storm, but there was just high wind and driving rain.  Turning away, she continued round the corner; this part of the passage was free of tapestries, the bare grey-brown stonework seeming as drear as the weather outside.

Her heart began to beat faster as she approached her destination, her breath catching every few seconds as her stays compressed her lungs.  Only then did it occur to wonder where she was, what this destination was, and what was happening.  But then she was at the library door, her hand on the latch; she opened the door and entered the room.

The Count was there, looking up from his writing desk as Denise appeared before him.  He said nothing, but he needed no words for Denise to know what he wanted from her.  A demure protest rose to her lips, but died before passing into the air.  She was here, wasn't she?  Every step from her bedchamber to this room had been an acquiescence to his will.  The Count rose and rounded his desk to approach her.  As he grew closer, his size and presence began to frighten her, and she took a step back; but he closed the distance quickly, placing a hand at the small of her back, stilling her.

Still, he did not speak.  He just exerted a tiny pressure with the hand, pressing her to him.  Even through her stays, she felt her body mould itself to the solidity of his.  His other hand took her by the hair, tilting her head back to receive his kiss.  She closed her eyes as his lips claimed hers...

    ****

Denise shook herself awake.  She'd gotten tangled up in the bedclothes somehow, and it was a few moments before she could free herself from their constriction.  In that time, the dream had faded slightly, though she could still remember the shape of it, and grimaced in inward embarrassment at what a wet ingenue she'd been in it; as she got up the embarrassment deepened when she realised she was wet in a different sense as well.  The shower brought her back to herself, and then it was back to work.

During her few free minutes of the school day, she searched through more essays and assignments for a match to the handwriting on the card, but still came up empty.  But when she arrived for her last class of the day, another card was on her desk.

Denise thought for a few moments.  The card definitely hadn't been there earlier.  So maybe it was one of the kids in this particular class who was the- ... her mind had been about to finish the sentence with 'culprit,' but that seemed unduly harsh.  Still, it would let her narrow her search down tomorrow.

As she got home, Denise glanced again at the book, but resolved not to read it before bed this time.  But a moment later, she was back, holding it in her hand and scrutinising the cover.  It almost looked like some of the small figures on the cover were in different places.  But that was crazy; Denise dumped the book back on the coffee table, and resolutely refused to think about it for the rest of the night.

    ****

The Count and Denise were dancing; she wasn't quite clear on who the other guests were, only that it pleased the Count to show them how far he had put Denise into his thrall.  He led her through a dizzying array of moves and steps, his touch growing steadily closer to intimacy with every hour.  She felt unsteady as they moved, sure she would trip and fall without the Count's hands steadying her; she felt as if she were drunk... but she could not remember drinking anything; perhaps it was his ferocity that had intoxicated her.

As the last dance reached its conclusion, the Count took Denise to him and pressed his lips to hers; she opened her mouth, letting his tongue penetrate her.  The gathered guests watched in a mass of disapproval as the the kiss when on and on; by the time he broke it and put her away from him, Denise felt weak, half drowned in him.  As if sensing it, the Count swept her up in his arms, and carried her from the ballroom, followed only by the mutters of discontent from the guests.

The Count bore the pale-clad maiden down a great corridor, lined with more tapestries on one side, and windows on the other; the former showed more scenes of battle and hunting, with Grenier himself featured heavily in the scenes, while the latter showed a vista of a lowering sky, and lashing rain that all-but obscured the sight of the Moon.  Did it always rain here?  Was it always night-time here?

Suddenly, it all began to feel oppressive to Denise:  the stonework, the heavy tapestries, the dense sky outside, even the strength of the arms where she lay and her obedience to the Count; it all seemed to press in on her, crush her somehow.  But before she could understand what to do with the thought, they were at the door of her bedchamber...

    ****

Denise woke to find herself coughing.  She staggered to shower, feeling decidedly unwell; she wondered whether she should go in today, but breakfast revitalised her a little, and besides she still needed to finish her search for a handwriting match.  Before she left, she couldn't help glancing at the book's cover again.  Impossible as it was, the figures on the cover seemed to have moved again.  At the weekend, she decided, she'd find a second hand shop to sell it to; it was clearly messing with her head somehow.

At school, Denise found the time to go through the handwriting of her previous day's last class.  And finally she found her match:  Billy Green; the similarity of his name to Grenier left her kicking herself for not having seen it sooner.  But while she was deciding what to do about it, her exhaustion caught up with her, and her head drooped.

    ****

Denise was sitting at the Count's desk, reading the memoirs he had been writing when she had first come to him.  The Count stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders.  Imprisoning her in the chair, just as he had imprisoned her in his castle, in his dream, in obedience to his will.  The pages told of the power he had stolen from the Underworld:  how his life lingered within the lives of his descendants; and how he would take the souls of women down through the centuries to sustain his own, bend them to his will, and take both life and pleasure from them.  And in return he would protect and reward his descendants.

Count Grenier, thought Denise, warm contentment spreading through her at the thought of a deathless nobleman claiming her as his own.  But a tiny part of her insisted that she had had a life beyond this castle, and beyond the will of this man.  As if reading her mind, the Count spoke for the first time she could remember.
"That life still exists, but it is in service to me also.  I have penetrated your soul already, and made my claim to you."
"Yes," breathed Denise, her brief assertion of self crushed beneath his will.
"Do you know what you must do in that other world?"
"Yes.  I must serve your descendants as I do you."

The Count said nothing more, moving away from Denise and leaving the room.  Obedient, she followed him through the stone hallways to her bedchamber.  The Count lifted her and placed her on the bed, securing her with steel manacles round her wrists and ankles.  Here she would wait until he had need of her.

    ****

Denise awoke, the Count's will clear in her mind.  She went looking for Billy Green, and once she found him took him to an empty classroom.  Of course he was excited; he sensed what had happened.  Still, she said, "It wasn't really your grandfather who wanted you to give me the book, was it?  It was the Count Grenier."
"Yes," Billy said.  "But he's sort of a grandfather, just with a lot of 'greats' in front of it."
"The Count is grateful for your loyalty," Denise said.  "He says I am to serve you.  As your reward."
Billy looked lustfully at Denise.  "I'd hoped he would.  That's why I chose you, so he'd make you serve me."
"Thankyou, my Lord."
"Kiss me."
"Yes, my Lord."