text: [Themes: love & dating, romance, fantasy, historical]
  
  The bed is lovely. You are quite comfortable underneath your fluffy blanket, and sunlight has just begun to stream through the window. Perhaps there are birds twittering somewhere far away, but you don't pay much attention to anything. Everything is soft and warm, and soon you are nearly asleep again.
  
  Then there is something against your lips. It is soft and warm too, and you smile. Your mouth is full of sweetness and the taste of great ripe blackberries. You picture them hanging on the bush, gleaming dark on a summer day. Now it is like wine, and now like honey.
  
  The thing against your lips pushes a little harder, and the flavor grows stronger. The wine goes sour and the honey is sickly sweet. The berries seem to burst and spill their rotten juice. There are flies and maggots now, crawling and fluttering and devouring your tongue and face. You scream and they swarm down your throat. You open your eyes; the room has gone terribly dark, and everything is cold.
  
  Sprawled across your body is a woman with purple lips, so purple they seem almost black. She studies you dispassionately for a moment as the insects crawl about your stomach and chew your organs. You cannot scream any more, you cannot even think. You only look at her beautiful face and those lips. You watch her spread a pair of vast silverly wings around you, until you are utterly alone.
  
  Then she bends forward and gives another kiss.
  
  [Author's Note: Daemons have preyed upon humans since the Fall of Man, but in the civilized world they must first fight the daemonologists. Armed with knowledge, they wield learning and magic to protect the innocent from the dark spirits that would do them harm. It has been your dream to join them, to study at their College and then go forth to do battle with infernal warriors, but lately you've had to contend with other dreams, nightmares of a mysterious woman, pale and strange and beautiful. Who is she, and what role will she play in the great unfolding drama of the daemonologists?]
  
  > Continue...
  You wake up gasping in a pool of sweat. It takes a few minutes before you realize it was a dream, the same dream that's come many times over the past year. Sometimes there will be a month in between the nightmares, sometimes only a few days, but they always come back, and they are always the same.
  
  It's funny. The dreams look real, and indeed they even taste real, but after a couple hours you can never seem to remember exactly how those dark lips tasted or how the air grew hideously cold. You can't even remember what the woman's face looked like, only that she was very beautiful.
  
  Today you'll have to force the images from your mind even faster. You can't afford to have these phantoms dancing around in your head during the examination, not after you've worked so hard just to have the chance at entering the College. It's been your dream for years, and who could blame you? The College is practically on your doorstep. Students come from across the country and some from the far corners of the world, but the great iron gates are barely ten minutes from your house. You passed them every day when you walked to school. Behind the gates you saw the students, laden with piles of old books, and the professors, some wizened old men, others .
  
  Once you even caught a glimpse of the Chancellor himself, Dr. Fogg, stooping down to speak to a gardener. He wore a plain black suit, not much different from any merchant or gentleman, but his white beard grazed the grass as he peered through tiny spectacles at the flowers.
  
  You head downstairs. Mrs. Littlethwaite, your family's cook, brings a plate of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and mushrooms, but you can only pick at the food. The sour dream taste is fading, but it doesn't leave much of an appetite behind. Still, you force down a cup of tea and manage some potatoes.
  
  "Your father is in his study," Mrs. Littlethwaite calls from the kitchen. The order is left unsaid, but it still fills you with dread. You climb the narrow stairs and knock on his door. A moment later he calls you in.
  
  He sits behind his desk, upon which sit a number of papers and a small brass balance. Augustus Latimer is tall and thick with a short beard. He motions you closer, still copying something from a huge ledger book. You stand silent as the minutes go by. You're not late, but every second makes you more and more nervous. All your notes are in a satchel upstairs- you'd like to be inside the examination room already, studying them one final time.
  
  > Finally he sets down the ledger.
  "He regards you for a moment and sighs. "Have you prepared as well as you can?"
  
  "I've studied everything covered in the entrance exams, Father. Theology, natural philosophy, literature, the rudiments of daemonology, mathematics. And Latin and Greek, of course." You shift from one foot to another, hoping he won't comment.
  
  He looks down at his paper and back to you. "Mathematics?"
  
  "Yes sir. Arithmetic, geometry, algebra, and calculus."
  
  "You never showed much interest in figures when I tried explaining the business."
  
  You hold his gaze for as long as you can. "I'm afraid not, Father."
  
  He only sighs again. "Very well. The College is certainly respectable, and the daemonologists do good service to the Church and the King, but I cannot say I approve of you joining them. Too many are disreputable, too many are foreigners, too many swindle superstitious old women. Too many are selfish and care only for increasing their own power. Too many care only for their work and do not think of the consequences of their magic." He pauses, and you are about to respond when he continues. "Your brother did quite well at Cambridge, you know. Dr. Burney is a friend of the family, and I am sure a letter would secure admission there. His brother is Bishop of Norwich, and I know many other churchmen besides. I'm sure we could find you a position, some well-endowed parsonage perhaps. Unless you're quite determined to continue on this course?"
  
  The old argument, and on examination day too. At least it's helping you forget the dream. "I think my talents can best serve the nation this way, Father."
  
  "Very well. You may go." His eyes linger for a moment on the portrait of you mother, and then he opens the ledger book and begins copying again. The scratching sound seems to follow you as you leave the study and climb to your room. You snatch your satchel and go back down the stairs. You're almost out the door when you see Mrs. Littlethwaite emerge into the entranceway. She's holding something.
  
  "I thought you might get hungry during the exam. It's only a few scones, but it's better than nothing. Good luck dear." Her wrinkled face breaks into a smile, though she's crying a little too. You bend down to give her a quick hug, which makes her blush and sends her scurrying back to the kitchen.
  
  > To the Gates
  It is overcast this morning, but the August sun still beats down and makes the whole city sweat. You pass traders, their carts full of apples and cheese and fish, beggars hunched over beside the street, and old men smoking outside a tavern. A priest, his face red above his starched white collar, yells at a group of schoolboys who nearly knocked him over chasing one another. Only a few months ago you were one of them, studying at St. Stephen's School in the south of Covingsford.
  
  Soon you are at the Iron Gates of the College. They are only opened today, for examinations, and in June, when each graduating class departs, diplomas in hand, to war with the supernatural enemies of the kingdom and of all mankind. A bald man stands just inside, marking off names on a paper and wearing an annoyed scowl. He asks yours, and after you've told him, directs you down the path to Dodley Hall.
  
  The College is full of old stone buildings and neat lawns, and you follow the thin line of prospective students to a particularly large hall near the center of the grounds. The vast antechamber is packed. Most are around eighteen or so, around your age, but there are a handful of adults and even a plump and cheerful old man in a tattered coat. You catch a few snatches of whispered conversation, although everyone is too busy reviewing their notes to really talk. You do the same, letting your eyes wander across Cromwell's classification of lesser spirits, not really taking much in. There are a few hundred people here, and you wonder how many will gain admission. You can always try again next year, but there's a limit to your father's grudging tolerance for this ambition.
  
  Nearly an hour passes in nervous anticipation before the bald man bangs a gong and the room goes entirely silent. Another man, standing behind a small podium, clears his throat. Everyone presses forward to hear while he smiles down indulgently, his red hair and moustache expertly coiled. "Welcome to the admissions examination for Covingsford College. I am Dr. Sidney Ffoukes, and you have already met my colleague Dr. Coghill." The bald man scowls. "In a moment, we will begin calling your names. When your name is called, please proceed to your assigned examination room. A member of the faculty will be waiting to evaluate your fitness for study at this institution. He will disclose his decision, which is final, upon completion of the examination. Good luck to you all."
  
  The crowd waits expectantly for a moment. Coghill hands Ffoukes his list. "Mr. James Day." Day is short and thin, and he goes completely pale at his name. "Mr. Day, your examination will be in room 1." Ffoukes gives a little nod, and Day, trembling, walks down towards the door. The crowd gives him a wide berth, all eyes watching. He disappears through the door.
  
  "Mr. Thomas Wesley" is called next, then "Mr. George Ryder" and "Mr. George Townsend." Then Mr. Patrick Warren, Mr. Phillippe Maréchal, and Mr. Ramsay Bennet. The names and faces fade into a blur as you try to focus on your notes.
  
  > Hours drift by...
  The room is much emptier now. Coghill and Ffoukes take turns calling names, and you watch a fat servant bring in bowls of stew and white bread for them to share. You remember Mrs. Littlethwaite's scones and pull them from your satchel. They are soft and crumbly and sweet, and they help keep you calm while you watch the others muttering Latin to themselves and pacing around the room.
  
  "Do you have anything else to eat?" Startled, you turn to find another examinee staring at your satchel. His clothes are a little worn and he looks a bit older than you, though some of that might just be because his skin is drawn and sallow. His eyes have a strange, piercing glint, but then he smiles. "Us forgotten ones have to stick together, don't we?"
  
  You hand him the rest of your last scone and introduce yourself. He eats it quickly and does the same. He is Peter Aubrey, from London, and he has been an orphan since his parents' deaths at sea some years ago. His uncle raised him, but he too died this past year. "But his friend, the learned Mr. Clark of Southwark, was quite kind to me. He knew Dr. Buckstone, one of the professors here, from Eton, and wrote him a letter asking the College to examine me."
  
  You talk with Peter for the next hour, happy to have something to take your mind off what lies in the next corridor. When Ffoukes finally calls out your name, you barely feel nervous at all. Peter shakes your hand, and then you walk through the door and along the hall to room 11. You hadn't talked much about the exams themselves (better to avoid anything that might aggravate your nerves), but you hope he's well prepared. He certainly needs a place more than you do.
  
  You knock on the door and a weak voice calls you in. Banishing the image of your father and his study from your mind, you head inside to find a truly ancient man, his skin like old parchment. He squints at you. "Name?" he titters, his accent Scottish.
  
  You answer, and as he writes it down you watch his hand trembling. You hope they'll be able to read it later- if you're admitted, that is.
  
  > He coughs and begins to speak.
  "I am Dr. Thewliss, professor of Historical Studies and Daemonography." You bow and he continues. "The examination is straightforward. There are no tricks. Do not try to be clever. Answer the questions in good, plain language and you will do splendidly."
  
  He glances down at his papers. "Explain Lagrange's Mean Value Theorem."
  
  You rattle off the definition exactly as you memorized it. "Any part of a continuous smooth curve will certainly include a point at which the curve of the slope and that of the section will be precisely equal, sir."
  
  "How did Hibbert explain the transmission of infectious diseases?"
  
  You think for a moment. "Hibbert believed that diseases were spread solely through contaminated water, sir. He held that patients should be allowed only clean water and coarse bread to cure every kind of disease."
  
  Dr. Thewliss scratches his nose. "And was this effective?"
  
  "No, sir. Hibbert's patients recovered at the same rate as those of any other doctor. He himself contracted consumption and died from it."
  
  And so it goes for a few dozen questions. You are able to give good answers to most questions and something to every he asks. You describe St. Augustine's views on free will and predestination, Shakespeare's tragedies, Quincy's tripartite theory of daemonic possession, the chemical composition of British soils, and so on. Dr. Thewliss remains dispassionate through most of your answers, though he gives a satisfied chuckle when you repeat, verbatim, 21 lines from Virgil in Latin. You fall into an easy rhythm. Question, answer, question, answer. Then Dr. Thewliss asks something you hadn't anticipated.
  
  "Do you have experiential knowledge of any spirit, whether angelic, daemonic, or of indeterminate nature?"
  
  You open your mouth to say no, and suddenly the taste of sour wine and sickly sweet berries fills it. You begin to gag and cough, your mind racing. All the awful dreams of the past year come back in an instant. Is it possible that they were more than simple nightmares brought on by an overactive imagination and evenings spent reading daemonological texts? The dreams are always the same, at least as far as you can remember. Always the beautiful face and the delicate, silver wings. Always pleasurable at first, and then suddenly horrifying and foul.
  
  But you're still alive, still healthy. What kind of daemon would haunt your dreams for months without doing any real harm? Besides, it's only a dream. Nothing has ever appeared to you while you're awake, not even to whisper in your ear or try to frighten you by knocking books off a desk. Dr. Thewliss isn't asking about imagined monsters. The College isn't interested in nightmares, only in real daemons and those who are serious about fighting them. Telling the old man about what you've dreamed will likely make him think you a fool, or worse, but you know you must be honest. They are probably nothing, but you can risk some embarrassment to be sure.
  
  > tell Dr. Thewliss
  You take a deep breath. Surely he wouldn't ask unless he wanted to know if there was even the possibility that you'd encountered a daemon. Besides, if it really is more than a dream, maybe Dr. Thewliss or another professor can help. They'll certainly be able to do more than you can alone. "I'm not sure, sir. I've had recurring dreams, strange visions that seem as vivid as real life but then disappear when I wake up."
  
  Dr. Thewliss looks at you with some concern. "What happens in these dreams? Have you seen a spirit? I take it from your reaction that they are not pleasant."
  
  "Very pleasant at first, sir, but then horrible. It's a woman, or something like a woman at any rate. She has great silver wings, and she..." You stop, a little embarrassed.
  
  "She what? Kisses you? That would be most common." You nod and he continues. "Her lips, describe them. Their appearance, their taste. Tell me everything you can remember."
  
  Feeling a little foolish, you explain what you can recall. It's difficult, but you manage to get everything important across. Dark lips, the sweet tastes that turn foul, the sensation of insects. Dr. Thewliss nods at each word. "In the course of your studies, have you encountered the phrase concupiscent nocurnae?" You shake your head. "I'm not surprised, it is fairly technical. Perhaps you have heard the common name- a succubus?"
  
  Your blood runs cold. Yes, you have heard of the dreaded succubus, the terror of men through the ages and in every country, savage or civilized. It is said they come at night and tempt men to unspeakable acts, that their kiss is death and that carnal acts with one brings on a living death far worse than the grave. "But it cannot be a succubus, sir!" you nearly shout. "I'm still alive."
  
  Dr. Thewliss nods. "Quite observant and quite correct, Mr. Latimer. But you have only encountered the daemon, if it truly is one, in a dream. And dreams, though they may have great meaning, are still only dreams. No daemon can harm your body or soul when it appears in a dream, though it may of course corrupt your mind. Now, it may be that this is nothing but a simple nightmare. If not, thank God that the nocturnae has not appeared in the flesh." He sits back and rubs his wrinkled hands together. He looks lost in thought for a moment and then begins to read over your answers. It seems he considers the matter settled.
  
  You, however, cannot let things end there. "But sir, what if it should come while I am awake? I will be lost!"
  
  "Perhaps, Mr. Latimer. But I think you will be more prepared for that possibility soon than you are now." He straightens up and his voice, though still weak, takes on a quivering authority. "On behalf of the faculty, the governors, and the Crown, I am pleased to offer you admission to Covingsford College to study daemonology. Your formal matriculation, should you accept the offer, shall occur at the beginning of the fall term in September. Your answers were exemplary, and nothing you said gave me any reason to hesitate from offering you admission with great enthusiasm. Indeed, given the circumstances, it would be foolish not to admit you. If you truly have been visited by a daemon, it is certainly not by chance."
  
  You look back at the tiny old man for a moment, not quite understanding what he means through the accent and official language. Then it all comes together in one great flash of light- you've done it. You will be a student at the College, and if a succubus really does appear you'll be able to fight it off. Thank God you decided to mention your dreams. Dr. Thewliss beams back down at you and adds, in a final squeak "Welcome!"
  
  You shake the professor's hand and make your way out Dodley Hall's back door into the heart of the College grounds. The morning clouds have broken and the summer heat is fierce. You are full of energy. You want to run, to jump and sing and shout. But this is England, and you are a daemonologist-in-training now, so you content yourself with breathing in the sticky August air and wearing an enormous grin. A few other examinees are hanging around too, most just marveling at the stone buildings and the fact that their hard work and luck has paid off.
  
  A while later you notice Peter emerge from the examination hall, blinking in the light. He looks even paler and less healthy outside, but his smile is no smaller than yours. "You're in too?" he asks hopefully. You nod. "I had a feeling. Is there a good tavern or something around here? Greek makes me hungry, and Dr. Davies must have asked half his questions in the wretched language. I know it's his subject, but it doesn't make for a very balanced examination."
  
  You are about to set off for the White Boar, a good inn near the marketplace, when Dr. Thewliss emerges from the hall. He sees you and totters over, waving his arms. You notice a few students laughing at the tiny old man. "Mr. Latimer, Mr. Latimer!" He takes a minute to reach you, and when he arrives he nods at Peter before addressing you again. "I fear I was too hasty in dismissing you. For your own safety and from an overabundance of caution, let me invite you back to my office. I may be able to give you some rudimentary protection. Just something to ensure your safety until term begins."
  
  You arrange to meet Peter in the tavern a little later and follow Dr. Thewliss around the College grounds to his office.
  
  > Cannot stop grinning at your good luck.
  The professor winds around the College buildings and lawns before finally entering one near the center of the grounds. Like many of his colleagues, Dr. Thewliss lives and works in this ancient stone structure. His office is small but well-used. Books law strewn about the desk and tables in English, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, and a number of other languages. He rummages through a chest for a few minutes before pulling out a small object.
  
  "This," he explains, holding it up by the window and waving you closer, "is an ankh. First discovered by the Egyptians, clever fellows, it will give you a little protection from lesser daemons. It's iron too, which cannot hurt."
  
  He hands you the amulet. It's shaped roughly like a cross, only it's topped with a looping ring. You are at a loss for words, so you bow.
  
  Dr. Thewliss laughs, a high and reedy but not unpleasant sound. "There won't be any need for that. It's not such a handsome present, really. Any scrap of iron would do almost as well, nothing daemonic can abide the stuff. Now remember, it isn't very powerful. Just strong enough to spook the nocturnae and make it think again about chasing you, if it's really a nocturnae at all."
  
  "Sir," you ask, "how else can I protect myself from a succubus?"
  
  "You can't expect me to give away all the secrets of our profession today, not before you've even officially enrolled. Succubi are frightening, there's no denying that, but they usually aren't picky about their prey. Nine times out of ten, if you put up the least resistance, it'll leave and find someone easier to tempt. Mind you, it's not easy to find a man who'll put up resistance to a beautiful woman, not when she's as good at seduction as a nocturnae. That's why the ankh will be useful."
  
  You thank Dr. Thewliss for the gift and his advice, but you can't help feeling a little less calm than he seems to be. The professor seems to be treating your dreams as quite real, much more so than you'd anticipated. And if succubi aren't picky, why has this one chosen to haunt your dreams for a year? There isn't anything in particular about you that would attract daemonic attention.
  
  With a head full of questions and the ankh around your neck, you walk to the White Boar to find Peter already on his third pint. Soon you are drunk too, and as the hours go by you forget your concerns. All you remember from the morning is that you passed the examination.
  
  > Lose track of the time
  "Lizzy works at her father's shop. He's Thomas Norrell, a bookseller, and she used to smuggle me out whatever I wanted to read and then return it before he'd notice. When I told her about the College examination she helped me a lot, brought me all sorts of things I needed and even introduced me to her father as 'an aspiring daemonologist.' He's not a bad fellow, but I suppose he didn't like my look, and that made Lizzy quite sad for a while. She's pretty, even when she's sad. Long blond hair, lovely blue eyes, plenty of other...assets."
  
  You burst out laughing at the gesture Peter makes on that last word. You've talked for a long time, with the ale flowing all throughout. Peter continues his story, and you listen as best you can, but soon you've fallen asleep right at the table, your head resting comfortably in the remains of a pork pie.
  
  You awaken in the morning on a pile of flour sacks with a letter pinned to your shirt. Your head hurts a great deal, but it's better than the nightmares. The note is brief.
  
  My dear Mr. Latimer,
  
  I preemptively accept your most heartfelt thanks for carrying you to your luxurious accommodations. I shall have returned to London by the time you read these words, but I will be back in Covingsford in September for the beginning of term and will look for the man who cannot control his beer and has the charming smug knowledge of a native son of the town. In the meantime, I may be reached at the home of Mr. Geoffrey Clark of Great Suffolk Street, Southwark.
  
  Your humble and most obedient servant,
  
  Peter Aubrey
  
  You fold the letter and put it in your pocket. The barmen gives you a smirk as you leave, and you realize there's still a bit of gravy dried on your face. You wipe it off as you walk back home. It's only then that you realize you never told your father the examination results. Even through the headache you feel nervous. You begin fingering the ankh mechanically, wondering if the iron will protect against his cold glare and disapproval.
  
  "Brother?" calls a voice, interrupting your worrying. You turn and see Charles striding up the road, his cloak and coat flecked with mud from the road. "Has Father told you of the difficulties?" You shake your head. It's been weeks since you've seen him, but Charles is not interested in catching up. "Let me speak to him first, then. I'll get to the heart of the matter. it can hardly be as dire as his letter suggested, even if it's all true. Stability is the cornerstone of success in business, Father taught me that, and I won't forget it now."
  
  You follow him home, and your brother explains what he knows of the family's troubles. It seems that a string of bad luck hit several of your father's ventures. Some mines have run empty, and the American rebels have burned and looted a great deal of British property across the colonies. You tell Charles that you were admitted to the College. "Well done," he says, and then goes back to explaining the financial woes.
  
  > He goes to the study as soon as you get home
  You stand at the foot of the staircase, trying to catch something of their conversation but to no avail. Giving up, you decide that some water would be the best thing for your headache.
  
  You find Mrs. Littlethwaite and one of the serving girls in the dining room. The latter is sweeping, but apparently it's not to the old woman's liking. "For heaven's sake girl, give me that broom! You've got to push the dirt, not send it flying. Like this." When she sees you she nearly drops the broom. "Oh dear, you don't look well at all. Come here and let's find you something to drink."
  
  Tottering over, she tries to help you to a chair. "There there, you can always take the examination again next year."
  
  Smiling, you correct her. "I won't need to, Mrs. Littlethwaite. I passed. This is just what comes of celebrating afterwards."
  
  She gives you a little swat on the side. "You shouldn't play such jokes on an old woman! If your mother could see you now, how proud she'd be. Oh, I'm so proud I could burst and I'm only a cook!" Her eyes tear up, so you make her take the chair next to you. You stay there, telling her about the examination, Dr. Thewliss, and Peter, though of course you don't mention anything about your dreams.
  
  Charles stays in the study until tea time. "Well, I was right that things aren't as hopeless as Father first thought. But between the Americans, the mines, and some other ill-fated investments, we don't have much capital on hand, much less than we ought. I'll return to London tomorrow, and he may come along. We should be able to find sterling enough to cover our debts until this black clouds breaks. We just need to keep our wits about us." He gulps down a quick cup of tea and adds "I told Father that you passed the examination, so there's no need for you to disturb him. Now, I need to walk and think."
  
  Turning just before he reaches the door, you brother regards you for a moment. "It really would be best not to disturb our father today. As I said, he's calmed considerably now, but anything might set him off again. He's never been like this, not that I can remember, except perhaps...well, except when Mother died. Your birth. Good day, brother." And, with a stiff bow, Charles departs.
  
  You certainly won't go to your father's study after a warning like that, not that there was much chance of it before. Charles comes back in the evening but goes straight upstairs. He leaves the next day before you wake up, and your father follows in the afternoon. "Make inquiries about tuition and fees," he instructs you coldly, leaving you at home with only the servants and your dreams. You squeeze the ankh, hoping it will at least take care of the latter problem.
  
  > Things slowly quiet down...
  Your father and brother remain in London for most of the next few weeks, but the latter sends a handful of brief letters that make it clear the family isn't going to fall into complete ruin. When he comes back near the beginning of September, he says the same thing in person.
  
  Of course, changes must be made, and one of the serving girls is sent packing. Charles tells you they might send Simon away too, since your father does not often host guests and a family hardly needs a butler to manage things when they have only two other servants, but nothing has been decided yet.
  
  Meanwhile, you've spent the intervening days exchanging letters with Peter and reading anything you could find on succubi. There isn't much in the books you've collected, and you can't access the College's library until the term starts. What you've found hasn't made you any less anxious, but at least the dreams have stayed away. Maybe the ankh is working, or maybe it really was just the stress of the entrance examination. In any case, it's the longest you've gone without a nightmare since they started.
  
  You learned the College tuition is steep, but not terribly so, and informed your father of the cost by letter. He has not responded, and the few times he's been in Covingsford has barely said a word. There is something a little shameful, you cannot help but feel, in spending so much on your studies while the family is in somewhat dire straits, and despite all your anticipation, you nearly tell your father you've changed your mind. You always beat back these vague feelings of guilt, but you remain quite sure that your father feels the same way, though he has not shown it.
  
  Some madness has caused you to use his study as your main reading room, perhaps because it is not quite as hot as your bedroom. Simon raised an eyebrow the first time he saw you enter, but, dour gentleman that he is, has not said a word. There is something reassuring about being able to glance up at your mother's face whenever you read some new and terrifying fact about succubi or daemons in general. You wonder if the portrait did as much good for your father when he got the wretched news about the family's fortunes.
  
  With only one serving girl, Mrs. Littlethwaite has been working a good deal harder to keep the house impeccable. You tried telling her it was alright, that there was no need to dust rooms no one sleeps in, but she wouldn't hear it.
  
  As luck would have it, your father returns the evening of September 1st. The first day of term is in the morning. His presence sends Mrs. Littlethwaite scurrying out of the dining room- you had taken to eating all your meals with her in his absence. He stares for a moment. "You are to begin tomorrow. Your letter did not contain the cost of accommodations at the College."
  
  "I had thought I would lodge here, sir. There's no need to spend..."
  
  "There is every need," he interrupts. "Propriety insists things be done in the established way, and in any case, the cost of a room in their dormitory will not break this family. I will not have it be said that my son had to live in his childhood bedroom because his father had lost all the family's wealth. You will make arrangements for a room after your matriculation tomorrow and send the cost by letter. There will be no need for you to return until Christmas." He turns and walks upstairs, and the familiar feeling of guilt returns.
  
  A moment later Mrs. Littlethwaite creeps from the kitchen. "It seems I won't be seeing you for some time," you say.
  
  She glances at the staircase and frowns, though she catches herself after a second. "I shan't be going anywhere, dear. Now, you go off and learn everything you can, and don't spend a minute thinking of me." You shake your head and she gives you a quick, tight hug.
  
  You spend the next few hours packing everything you'll need. Clothes, books, it's all very ordinary. Very little to suggest you'll be learning to combat dark powers. When you're finished you try to sleep, but you lay awake, thinking of tomorrow, wondering what the future will bring, and arguing with yourself about what you ought to do. Time slides by and you aren't growing any more tired.
  
  > go for a walk
  Covingsford is mostly deserted at this time of night. It's warm and the air is sticky. You set off in a different direction than usual, away from the College's Iron Gates and out of town. Soon you are walking through fields full of fat wheat, the moon big and bright above. In the distance there is a peasant's cottage, but for now you are quite alone.
  
  Or perhaps not. Something makes a sound like wind behind you, but the thick air does not move. You turn but see nothing. A few minutes later it happens again, and when you look there is still nothing there. When you hear the noise a third time, you spin as fast as you can, and there she stands, her face just inches from your own.
  
  It is the woman from your dreams. Her eyes are bright, brighter than any eyes you've seen before, but her lips are darker than the night. Her face is more beautiful in person than you could ever have imagined, a pale, unearthly beauty. Mindlessly you move slowly forward until your lips have almost touched hers and your arms are almost caressing her soft skin.
  
  She takes a step back, and you regain a little of your senses. She is a succubus, there can be no doubt. There was something you were supposed to do if she ever really came, what was it? Something that would make her go away.
  
  The she speaks, and everything else disappears. Her voice is deep, sultry, and feminine, and you stumble closer even as she keeps backing up. Somewhere in the back of your mind you notice she isn't smiling, but you can't seem to care. "You're weaker than I expected, and what's that around your neck? Such a nasty thing for a nice boy like you to wear. Would you stop coming nearer, I'm trying to speak to you. I said stop." She says the last word with complete authority and you freeze, still staring into her eyes.
  
  "That's better. Now I want you to think very hard, I know you're clever. I am going to give you a choice, and I'm sure you'll want to make the choice that will make me happy. You want me to be happy, don't you?" You nod stupidly. "Such a clever boy. You're going to the College in the morning, aren't ypu? Such a waste of your talents. I could teach you more, show you more. Let you feel much more." She grabs your hand in her own and places it on her chest, then pulls you close.
  
  Wrapping her body around yours, she whispers in your ear, careful never to touch her lips to your skin. "Come with me now, and I will make this night the first time you have truly lived."
  
  You stand, her heat spreading into your body. You can feel her breath on your neck, and the only thing you can think is that she wants you, and you want her. You need her.
  
  > give in
  "Yes. Yes. Yes," you gasp.
  
  She looks at you for a second and then laughs. There is no humor or joy in the sound, but you don't notice that. Her vast wings extend and, holding you close, she takes off into the dark sky.
  
  Time passes. You cannot tell how much, but eventually you land in a misty old church yard, the stones covered in black lichen. The moon is gone, and there are no stars above, but you don't notice that.
  
  Bodies intertwined, you fall to the soft grass. The ground is littered with bones, and the gravestones have been defaced with foul symbols and curses in heathen tongues. You don't notice.
  
  Instead, you spend several pleasurable minutes exploring the body of your new companion. She is so pale she seems to glow just slightly in the night, and that and the dim light of the mist are all to see by. You don't mind much, as your other senses have more than enough to occupy them. You don't even notice when she sinks her teeth into the gold chain you wear around your neck, snapping it effortlessly and letting the little ankh fall useless among the bones.
  
  Eventually she pushes you away. Her eyes shine brighter than before and, if you cared to look, you might have seen the tears on her perfect, porcelain cheeks. "I thought you were something more," she says, her voice emotionless. "But I suppose this is reasonably diverting too." She presses her lips against yours, and then the agony begins. The insects and maggots crawling down your throat, sour wine and sickening rotten flavors compete to make you gag and choke. But you do not die.
  
  She pulls her lips away and the horror recedes, but when she takes you inside her it comes back worse than before. You forget the taste of sweet berries and wine, you forget the feeling of the summer sun and the wind on your face. You forget your name. The pain is everywhere, and you are very cold.
  
  > Centuries pass...
  You are always cold, but as your body rots away the pain grows less and less. The sensation of maggots and rot no longer sickens you. Of course, it is debatable whether you truly exist to be sickened, but that is a matter for philosophers and theologians. All you truly know is that every so often She brings someone else to this place, someone warm, and that sometimes She sends you to terrorize some other warm people.
  
  Perhaps someday your bones will finally disintegrate and you will be free. Daemonologists have discussed the question of whether a succubus's slave is freed once his mortal body is nothing but dust, or if he is burned completely by fire, or any number of other possibilities, but they have not come to any certain conclusions. There is hope, but only a very little.
  
  You are less than dead.