This work, as well as all other rights available under the law, is owned by the author, and may not be reprinted without the author's express written permission. The Star Wars franchise is owned by George Lucas, LucasFilm Ltd., and 20th Century Fox Film Corporation. The Haunting belongs to Dreamworks LLC and Amblin Entertainment, Inc., 1999, based upon the 1963 film of the same name and the novel "The Haunting of Hill House" by Shirley Jackson. Forever Knight belongs to Sony Entertainment Group, Columbia/TriStar, Barney Cohen, and James Parriott. The Three Musketeers and The Man in the Iron Mask belong to Alexandre Dumas. The 1998 movie, The Man in the Iron Mask, is owned by MGM Entertainment and United Artists. The 1966 novel, The Island of Dr. Moreau belongs to H.G. Wells and Airmont Publishing Company. Lyrics to The Eagles’ "Witchy Woman" are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Copyright July 1999.

Spoilers for Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, and for The Haunting. These events take place after Nell's death and before the caretakers arrive in the morning.

Inspired by sleep deprivation, cold medication and Italian rum cake, this story is for Laura JV and Rogue, who insisted. I have one other thing to say: "It's not my fault!!"

Author's Note: Historically, I know that the events of this fiction don't quite track. According to my sources, the Holy Inquisition -- best known for its excesses in Spain -- began in the mid-13th century and officially lasted until 1832 (!). The pontiff could call it in response to accusations demanding action by a high-ranking priest of a country or by the leader of a country. It basically flourished all over Europe at varying times in each country's individual history. Now, I haven't figured out exactly when the Inquisitioners swept through France, but I'm certain it did at some point, and am calling it artistic license.

"Master? How did we get here?" Obi-Wan Kenobi was puzzled. One moment he and his master had been walking through the royal gardens on Alderaan, enjoying the serene beauty of the gardeners' skill and the mid-afternoon sunlight. The next minute they found themselves standing outside an imposingly large mansion, in the middle of the blackest night he had ever seen, and surrounded by an equally imposing steel fence.

He wasn't sure what to think about the wrecked land vehicle crushed into the heavy gate. What's more, it was raining, pelting down with such force the droplets seemed to be attempting to batter their way inside his brain.

"I do not know, my padawan." Qui-Gon Jinn sighed, peering through the rain towards the house. "In any case, shelter is in order. Perhaps its occupants will grant us shelter from the storm." As if on cue, lightning flashed in jagged waves, and thunder growled angrily. To Obi-Wan, it sounded peculiarly like an Alderaanian guard-canine, and as everyone knew, those animals had a poisonous bite.

After sprinting to the front door, the pair huddled under the overhang while Qui-Gon made use of the ancient knocker. In spite of the urgency he had tried to inject into the knocking, although considering the size of the house it came as no great surprise, several minutes passed before the door opened.

Obi-Wan stared.

The tall man staring back at him was a dead ringer for his own master. He lacked a beard and a mustache, to be sure, and his hair cut short, but the resemblance was unmistakable. Funny, the young man thought, I'd always wondered what he would look like with his hair shorn. Not bad, not bad at all, but I would miss the beard brushing against me in all the right places. He repressed an amused snort. Not that he's brushed against me that way just yet.

"May we enter?" His master's voice pulled Obi-Wan out of his own musings, and apparently the double's as well.

"I'm sorry, please excuse me." Slightly flustered, he stepped aside, allowing the Jedi to pass into the mansion, before pushing shut the heavy wood and metal-reinforced door. "I was just so ... startled …." Amazement tinged his voice, wiping one hand over his blue eyes before brushing it through his short dark hair. "I mean, the resemblance between us is ... astonishing."

"So it is," agreed the Jedi Master, in a stately voice. "Perhaps this is something we should discuss further, if time permits."

"Yes, yes, of course ...." The man's voice faded a bit, trailing off, before he seemed to catch a second wind, leading them into an ornately decorated parlor. "I'm Doctor David Morrow, and this," gesturing to a young dark-haired woman behind him, "is my new assistant, Theo."

"I am? Cool!"

He shushed her gently, and turned back to his guests, but Theo beat him to the next question. "How did you get in?" The urgency in her voice was hard to miss.

Qui-Gon stared at her for a few moments, wondering why this was so important. "Through the front door. How else should we have --"

"No, no, no," she interrupted, "how did you get through the gate?"

Obi-Wan answered. "We did not come through the gate. It was blocked."

"You went over the razor wire?"

The younger man couldn't resist a grin, watching the doctor's eyebrows nearly disappear so high were they raised. "No." Obi-Wan shared a long look with his master, wondering how much to tell their new friends. This planet was unfamiliar to them -- granted, they were Jedi, not omniscient, although many people seemed to believe the two were indistinguishable -- but too many things were wrong.

This house was one of the things that were wrong.

It was ... haunted. Death had resided in this house for a long time, and something tickled shadows at the back of his mind.

"We are ... travelers from a distant place." Qui-Gon's soft voice glossed over exactly how they had entered the property while still telling the exact truth.

Unfortunately, Doctor Morrow had noticed that fact as well. Maybe they were cross-dimensional twins. "That doesn't tell me how you got here, only who you are."

Obi-Wan sighed, moving closer to his master and putting an imploring tone into his voice. His master simply could not resist the 'I'm such an innocent widdle padawan' act. "Master, we will have to tell them something." The apprentice widened his eyes, showing them off to his best advantage.

The long sigh marked the crumbling of his master's defenses. "We found ourselves deposited here by what was probably an interdimensional plothole. We are not from your world." Eerie music could be heard in the background during Qui-Gon's announcement, but as soon as Obi-Wan tried to focus his attention on it, the strains drifted away into silence. "I am Qui-Gon Jinn, and this is my apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi. We are Jedi."

"Jedi?"

"Warriors and peacekeepers, guardians of truth and justice in the universe. We are guided by the Force." With that pronouncement, both master and apprentice put on their best 'serene-Jedi-believe-it-or-else' expression.

"The Force?"

"The Force resides in and connects all living things. We," he gestured to himself and to his apprentice, "are connected to it, and thus everything else."

Doctor Morrow sighed, shaking his head. "My field is psychology, not quantum physics."

"Astro-navigation, actually," corrected Qui-Gon helpfully.

Theo slapped one hand on the ornate wooden table in front of the sofa where she sat. "Whatever. Why don't we get some coffee and try to work this out?"

"Excellent idea, Theo. Why don't you and Obi-Wan go on ahead and get the water started, and we will join you shortly?"

David watched as the two young people hurried from view before continuing to speak. Worry showed clearly on his face as he consulted the Jedi Master. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Theo, but there's still something wrong with this place. After what Nell did --"

"Nell?"

"Long story.” He waved away the question. “Anyway, after that, I hoped it was over and that all the captive spirits here had left ... but Hill House still feels wrong."

Gently, Qui-Gon tested the sense of the mansion in the Force. Heavily tainted with the Dark Side, but recently -- very recently -- some of the darkness had lifted. However, a sense of spirit energy remained within the mansion, and it was nearby. "You are correct. A spirit remains ... trapped ... and it --" A sparkling hit his eyes, appearing before him as a vague partially-formed outline of a figure wearing long dark robes. Only sharp eyes and a curtain of long hair could be seen of his upper body. His eyes met its own, and a powerful blast of sorrow and agony dropped the Jedi to the ground.

Darkness had fallen over Paris, and most of its denizens slept, cradled in the arms of the King and his Musketeers. Most of those still awake busied themselves in brothels, in taverns, or in the arms of their beloveds. Most priests slept, safe in the eyes of their Lord, in preparation for a new day of toil.

Monsieur le Chevalier d'Herblay, Bishop of Vannes -- known to his intimates as Aramis -- was no ordinary Catholic priest. His eyes closed, the former Musketeer knelt in supplication before the small cross in his personal quarters, crucifix in hand, softly whispering the words of grace in Latin. Each word was pronounced with care, his faith binding the prayer with its power, carrying his wishes to his God. Most persons finding a priest in such a position -- much less a servant of God so high-ranking and well-known -- would quietly genuflect and leave the room. Thus, a lady's arms draped around his shoulders came as unusual and yet expected.

Pressing her body closely to his back, Janette duCharme knelt in the hollow between his legs, spreading the blue silk and white lace of her dress over the wooden floorboards. "Hard at work, are we, praying to your God?" Her voice mocked him gently, teasing and sardonic by turns, as she pressed her own hands over his in a parody of faith.

"He is your God as well, my love."

"Not any longer. I am far beyond his reach, now." She pressed her lips to the nape of his neck, wetting the warm skin with her tongue, running her hands down the length of his arms. Janette knew this to be true; the love of one priest could not overcome four hundred years of death in darkness and the vampire's bloody kiss.

For she was a vampire, brought across from life to death to a living death, in the hope of a better life. From a life of misery and prostitution she had risen to a life of wealth and comfort, and all she had needed to give up was her mortality, her soul, and her freedom. God had placed her in suffering and told her that the fault was her own, given for the sin of being woman, the root of man's sorrow. Janette accepted no fault and no sin, turning away from the God who despised her sex.

Now, a man of God sought to rescue her soul from the fires of Hell, burning her heart with his love and the heat of his passion. For five months, they had lain together, joining their bodies in a triumph of divine reason over human regulations. She fed on his heart-blood, pulling each sweet drop with every breath he took, experiencing his life through his vitae, tasting each memory as easily if it were her own to recall. Kisses, dark with blood, were shared between them, making the physical act of desire so much more delicate and perfect than with the ordinary mortal.

A sharp knock on the heavy door interrupted their kisses. With a sigh, Aramis pulled on a long brown robe only to find a messenger with a summons waiting for him. Accepting the parchment, he watched the young boy hurriedly salute and run into the night. The flowing words, marked in black ink and red wax, filled him with concern, though not fear. That was an emotion the former Musketeer no longer experienced as death, once faced, loses its frightening facade.

"What is it, mon cheri?"

His words did not want to leave his throat, caged behind his teeth, but Aramis forced them forward. This would be a trial by fire, yet another obstacle to be overcome, but together their love would prevail. "It is a summons ... from an Inquisitor, come from Nice...."

A wail caught his attention and chilled his bones, a woman's keening of sorrow and loneliness, but by the time the priest had turned to face his vampire lover, she had vanished into the night, taking her clothing with her.

Aramis found himself alone to face his fate.

Slowly, Qui-Gon's eyes opened, filling everyone with great relief, particularly the apprentice (after all, how was he supposed to graduate to Knighthood if his Master kicked the housekeeping-bot without a handy Sith around to slaughter?). While not chief among them, David ran a close second in thanks (I mean, as it is, he's not likely to find funding for future experiments, not to mention new volunteers).

"Master, thank the Force you're safe," exclaimed Obi-Wan as he helpfully aided his teacher to his feet.

"You call him ‘Master’?" Theo grinned gleefully at the apprentice, and sidled closer clearly hoping for details. "That's kinky."

Ignoring the buxom brunette but making a mental note to whammy her into a completely harmless game of 'naughty apprentice, stern crèche-mistress' later, Obi-Wan calmly led his teacher to the chaise-lounge and urged him to rest. Coffee poured freely, making sure that sleep would desert all there. Finding its flavor remarkably similar to Idranian kaffe (Special Blend variety), both Jedi sipped the comfortingly sugared and high-caffeine-content liquid.

"This is good."

Next to him, Obi-Wan could not hold back any longer, even though torn between needing to know what had happened and wanting his master to recover from whatever ordeal he had endured. "What happened?"

"There is a spirit here, my padawan, a restless spirit."

"On an endless night...." muttered David unthinkingly.

Quirking an eyebrow, Qui-Gon began to get confused, wondering exactly what had gone on while he had been resting. "Excuse me?"

Undeniably caught in a non-sequiteur, David straightened up in his chair, changed the positions of his legs, and took a long draught on his coffee before answering. "Nothing, never mind, I was wondering myself what had happened to you."

With a sigh, Qui-Gon considered the sequences of events after the lights had blackened. "I believe I briefly made mental contact with a spirit in this house."

"Another one?" Theo did not seem pleased. "What is this, Grand Central Station for ghosts?"

"I do not believe so, if I understand your metaphor correctly. This man -- and the feeling of the spirit was male -- showed me flashing pictures of his memories, his life, presumably." The Jedi Master bowed his head for a moment in thought. "So much pain associated with those memories, so much suffering he felt, so much guilt tearing his spirit to shreds, the weight of so many burdens denying him peace."

Obi-Wan considered the feeling he had shaken away upon entering the house, the sense of being watched, of being examined.

Of being judged.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

Heavy pounding shook him out of his own mind with a rush, explosions of emotional pain rushing at him without a thought, obliterating every breath in his lungs. The younger man raised both hands to his head, attempting to push the agonizing feelings away, fighting the simmering along his nerve endings, and gasping in stifling nothingness only to choke on clear oxygen. From the wheezes he dimly heard, Obi-Wan knew his master to be in identical agony. An eternity of pain later, the world shimmered back into his senses again.

As he sat there, dazed on the settee, listening to a conversation about cranes and children and ownership, while surrounded by friends in the center of an old ornate house, a phantom wisp of Force-sense trailed gently along his left arm, raising hackles on the back of his neck. While true that Jedi have the ability to see spirits, most Jedi only saw the spirits of those people true to the Force and usually of those whom the seer had loved. Total strangers -- much less those from another universe -- had never been a part of the plan.

On the other hand, everything that happened was the will of the Force. So Jedi lessons taught; therefore, however eccentric, their arrival here had been destined by the Force. Thus, this spirit's ability to touch him and his master also had been destined by the Force. That left unanswered the question of what exactly they were supposed to do for this spirit.

Release him from his trapped existence?

For this spirit was, somehow, trapped.

As the ghostly presence fled, another sensation made itself known to the apprentice. "Excuse me, Doctor, where might the lavatory be?" Directions were given quickly before the words turned themselves back to tests and misdirections and paintings, and Obi-Wan fled the room. He mused on what direction they might take in clearing the mansion of its living-impaired occupant throughout his personal tasks. Fortunately, toilet facilities are reasonably similar throughout the galaxy, so that posed very little problem.

Another problem, however, immediately made itself known to the apprentice as soon as he opened the door. A large vaguely simian creature -- not unlike one of Hoth's Ice Wampas, only a dark brown color -- greeted him with bared fangs and a roar. Obi-Wan did the first thing his training suggested: go for his lightsaber ... which was downstairs in the kitchen.

Oops.

Obi-Wan immediately acted on his second training response, which agreed with his Jedi instincts in every respect. He feinted to the right, jumped to the left, and ran for his life. The creature roared again, in a volume that would allow elderly deaf Master Yorid to hear it, and followed, muttering peculiarly, running for Obi-Wan's life as well.

Hallways, stairways, both ways, crossways, sideways, up, down, right, left.

Over the next several minutes, running meant everything. Nothing else had importance. Not his lightsaber, not his opportunity to become a Knight, not his master, not even sex.

Well.

Maybe sex.

Definitely sex and his master. But that wasn't worth considering right now.

If he didn't escape from this mumbling creature, he would never get the opportunity for experiencing those two great tastes together. Hmm, lack of oxygen must be setting in.

Breathe, Ben.

Deep breaths.

Obi-Wan ran through this weird moving thing with mirrors, which finally tossed him out into the front hallway. He sprinted to the next set of rooms, within hearing distance of his master's voice, and waited for the creature to show its ugly face. When nothing burst through the doors, hoping to snag its prey in its claws, no doubt muttering about stupid bipeds, the apprentice chanced a look.

The creature was gone.

Epiphany struck in a sudden burst of clarity. The creature's odd mutterings coalesced into a phrase, meaningless and yet strangely fitting: "House of Pain, House of Pain."

The sound of the cell door slamming shut and the heavy snicking of the key turning in the lock pulled Aramis back to consciousness, dredging up memories as he struggled to settle his protesting limbs in a comfortable position. He did not bother to protest the guards' rough treatment. It would do no good.

Nearly four months in the Bastille, labeled a wayward priest, Aramis refused to cooperate with the Inquisitor's demands of confession and information. Through every stage of intimidation, the priest held firm to his convictions. After all, he had been a Musketeer; what kind of example to the young would he be if he allowed a little pain to push him in a direction he did not wish to travel? In any case, was not pain and suffering and regret necessary in this world, leading to the eternal beauty of God's love? Ah well, he reflected, watching a spider spin its web within a crack inside the heavy wall, I was told long ago that I would be lost to heresy, and so it seems I shall be.

Manacles clanking against the old stone of the prison wall, Aramis shifted positions again, ignoring the filth around him. Who would have thought that, after running through the prisons of all sizes and shapes while leading a private coup royal, he himself would become a prisoner in the very same prison where their secret had come into its own? He had freed himself from his boundaries then because it had been right, had been true, had given himself over to the noble loyalty, charging in a magnificent line in pursuit of justice. This time, however, he could not count on his dear friends to help him; to do so would place them at risk, and Philippe needed their support and advice. Philippe -- that is, King Louis XIV -- could not assist him, he did not dare, as he had very little power in this situation.

Not even the King of France dared oppose the papacy.

A rattle at the door signaled a visitor, and he wondered who it might be. Those with sense stayed away from suspected heretics. Knowing this, Aramis was not surprised to see who had come to visit.

"Porthos?" What else could have happened? "You should not be here, my friend."

His old friend and colleague, more frequently called 'Monsieur du Vallon' by those on the streets and in the bordellos, made a show of settling his bulk on the floor. No doubt, Porthos could tell that he lacked the energy to rise from the cold floor, even if he had been left unchained. "You are here, Aramis. Where else should I be?" His voice was soft, carrying only as far as his ears, and run through with undertones of sadness and regret.

"Anywhere, but here." Aramis mentally cursed his own voice, for its timbre sounded weak and poor, an ill-used sword, rusted and dulled by lack of care. "You must leave, now. I will not have you suspected."

Surprise showed on Porthos' face; he could always be read like a book, that one. "The charges are true, then? Consorting with a she-demon?" His words tumbled over each other in his shock. "While the consorting part I applaud to the highest, I think you should have stayed away from hellspawn."

"She is not under the Devil's command, Porthos."

"Then, why, man?" Porthos bent closer to his friend, not wanting to see the suffering on his face, the pain seeping from his very bones. A famous Musketeer, a Bishop in the Catholic church, chained and starving in a dungeon ..... "What could you have gained, besides the obvious? Why sleep with such a woman?" He shook his head sadly. "If only you had come to me, if you were so in need of release...."

Aramis took a deep breath, steadying his nerves and shaking off his friend's comments. "I will not confess for doing what is right. I will not give them the names they seek, and those crimes are enough in their eyes." He sighed slowly, treasuring each breath as if it was his last, wishing he could find the right words to make Porthos understand. "My whole life, I have believed in truth and faith, as pure as Our Lord intended them to be. I cannot gain redemption by their rules, only by God's rules. Sometimes the right thing goes against all earthly or divine laws. One must have faith, and do the right thing for the right reason."

He glanced at his listener, who nodded to show that he followed the argument so far. "I would rather die a heretic, a martyr even, for I did nothing wrong in the eyes of the Lord. They exist, therefore they must be God's creatures, as God is the all-creator and all beings are worthy of God's love." Aramis sighed. "If I can turn her back to God, prove to her the power of love and God's mercy, then I will have done what is right."

"You cannot turn anyone back to God, if you are dead," chided Porthos, shaking his head in dismay. "I think that too much time in prisons, breathing this stale air," with a snappish wave of one hand, "has soured your brain." He sighed, resigned to the fact that his friend would not be swayed from his course. At least, he would die a legend: famous Musketeer, Catholic bishop, secret leader of the Jesuits, and royal advisor to young King Louis XIV. Clasping him at the forearm, planting a kiss on each cheek as is done in respect, Porthos tried not to taste his friend's blood on his lips. "I wish you well, Aramis. I suppose you shall continue your career in Heaven, writing endless treatises and singing in the choir."

"No doubt, Porthos." A smile, filled with regret and sorrow, brought grief to the burly man's heart, as he turned to leave his dear friend to his prayers. Both men knew what was truly being said.

Goodbye.

"A what chased you?"

Obi-Wan stubbornly met his master's startled gaze and repeated his earlier comment. "It looked like a brown Ice Wampa, Master." He shook his head, firmly ignoring the stark disbelief on the psychologist's face. "I know how this sounds ... but I saw it, it saw me, and it chased me all over the house."

"We're a long way from Hoth, and I have never heard of an Ice Wampa being any color other than white." Qui-Gon pressed his hand to his chin, rubbing his beard, deep in thought. "A related species, perhaps?"

The apprentice considered the possibility briefly, recalling what he had seen and his impressions now untainted with fear. "It could be, Master. It moved like a Wampa, and yet appeared to be mainly bipedal in nature." Obi-Wan hesitated, uncertain about the only remaining tidbit of information. "Master ... the creature ... I think it was speaking."

The disclosure was greeted with a raised eyebrow. "Are you certain, my Padawan?"

"No, Master," admitted Obi-Wan, damping down the thrill he felt at being so addressed. Would that instead of being 'addressed', he could be 'undressed' ... but that was a topic for another time. "I am not certain, but its mumbling seemed to divide themselves into comprehensible words."

"I see." Qui-Gon digested that carefully. Peculiar but not unheard of, that a being could act bestial in nature and yet understand and use the concept of language. Perhaps this creature's species found itself in the midst of an evolutionary change. "What did it say?"

"The same words again and again: 'House of Pain.'"

Curiosity running out of him like slime from a Hutt, David Morrow could contain himself no longer. "But Hill House is -- or was -- a house of pain, for a great many people. So many people died here, over the years."

"That does not explain what this being is," argued Qui-Gon. "Clearly, the Force has sent this creature here, even if its purpose is unknown to us at this time. The question is what action we should be taking."

"What about, say, running away in the opposite direction?" Theo did have a talent for getting straight to the point, considered David. "As far as that goes, why don't we just send it back where it came from?"

"If we knew where that was," Obi-Wan reminded her, "and we do not. Running from one’s fears serves only to make them stronger. The only way to truly rob them of their power is to face and defeat them."

"Thank you for that, Mister There-Is-No-Fear-But-Fear-Itself, but the fact is that a homicidal monster is running around."

Qui-Gon jumped in to defend his apprentice. "And it will be dealt with, if necessary." He smiled at her, hoping she would understand his meaning. "Now that we know it exists, we shall be prepared."

Slumping backwards in her seat, Theo sighed dramatically, wondering absently which of the Jedi would be better in the sack. Obi was adorable, all spice and copper, but there was just something about older men and the experience therein.... Although, he looked so much like Dr. Morrow that it was vaguely creepy ... and yet even more intriguing. Maybe both of them at once.... She stripped off her heels and massaged her tired feet, knowing that -- even as an avowed insomniac -- she would likely sleep for a week once she got home.

If she got home.

That thought-fragment didn't exactly fill her with joy. "Damned house, I swear to God this is just some sadist Muse's idea of a good time," Theo muttered, rubbing the pressure points on her feet. "If this is just someone's idea of a joke, they're going to wish they had never been born." Suddenly frustrated, she released her hold and stamped her foot down savagely on the floor.

A loud click sounded. Startled and honestly expecting her chair to spring into life and attack her, Theo leaped off the chair and pounced a nearby sofa. Tumbling over one side, she wrestled a protesting cushion, punching it into submission, and peeked over its rear edge.

"That's right, Theo, show that sofa who's boss."

"Feel the Force," offered Obi-Wan helpfully. "Let it flow through you."

"Shut up, sword boy," snapped the brunette. "It clicked at me. I wanted to get the hell away from it. Who knows, in this house, I didn't want to take any chances!"

That sounded like a good plan to Qui-Gon, considering what he had already learned about the mansion. "Where approximately was the sound coming from?"

"Over there, by the chair."

Reaching the antique chair in long strides, the Jedi Master knelt down, examining a loose floorboard with elegant fingers. "It appears to have a locking mechanism activated by pressure. What did you do?" His blue eyes bored through her.

"I ... stamped my foot."

"Hitting the precise point, it seems." A wicked glint sparkled in his eyes for a moment before he turned back to his exploration of the space. Qui-Gon rummaged briefly, finally pulling out an ancient book, heavy with dust and bound in peeling red leather. Its ornate cover was unusual, the leather tooled in designs of roses and vines.

David approached and took the tome, setting it carefully on the table. He went through it gently, turning ancient pages with desperate care. "It's a diary." Reading some entries, he blushed and turned to the last page. "A woman's diary -- her name is Janette duCharme -- not all of the entries are dated, but combined with the content indicates approximately mid-seventeenth century." The others gathered around him, listening closely, wondering if this new clue held information as to the recent happenings. After all, a similar book had cracked the haunting of Hill House, proving what Hugh Crain had done to his wives and all those children he had murdered and terrorized.

The psychologist read aloud, from one of the last few entries:

"I have never been so afraid as I am at this time. Lucien told me, that if
I came across, I would never have to be afraid again. But I am ... mon
cheri, mon angel pauvre, has been taken by the Inquisitors, and it is
because of me.

Because of what I am.

I always knew that Nicolas lived hand-in-hand with jealousy, but even I
never dreamed that he would go so far. Too cowardly to approach my
beloved himself -- he is a bishop, after all -- and too weak to challenge
him to a duel, as one should over the love of a woman.

No, instead Nicolas makes an accusation to the Inquisitors, that the Bishop
of Vannes has been consorting with a she-demon, holding secret rituals in
praise of the Devil, and sacrificing children on God's altar at midnight.
And Lucien stood by and watched with pride, of this I am certain.

I will never forgive you, Nicolas de Brabant. Dear God, hear my tears,
hear my cries for vengeance ....

There is only one thing I can do. Be strong, Aramis, beloved. I will come
to you."

He stopped, gazing at a delicate ink sketching of a man in robes and a woman in a fancy dress. The man held the lady in an embrace, yet something in his stance indicated both his reserve from her and his love for her. "Qui-Gon? Is this the man you saw?" David turned the book around, showing the other man the drawing. The Jedi glanced at it for a moment and agreed without hesitation.

"So what do we do now?"

David shook his head, in a what-do-you-want-from-me gesture, and continued reading:

"My beloved is dead.

He is gone from me, and nothing I can ever do will bring me to him. It is
as I have said before, I have never sought God for anything. Until now.
How I long to become mortal just so I could die and be with you, now ....

I know that is a foolish wish.

Still, I wish it, and whatever suffering I must endure at God's hands for
my sins, it will be worth it, just to be by your side once more.

My pain is so great I cannot bear it, a horrible aching sadness, the sun's
rays pouring into my heart, burning it to ashes in my empty soul. I did
what I could for him, easing his suffering, but he would not take what I
offered.

Perhaps he knew that I would suffer for my actions, once Lucien and Nicolas
discovered what I had done. He is stronger than I ever was, for if I had
any strength left to me, I would walk into the sun tomorrow as it rises. I
know, even as I consider it, that I will not.

From others, I heard of his death even as I felt the pain of his leaving,
mourning him already. His friends arranged for a quick death, paying those
in charge to set his place with wet wood. Suffocation is favorable to
burning, if one must die at all. So many treated his death -- so
horrifying to burn, bound to timber -- as if it were an entertainment,
made just so for their pleasures.

And they call us monsters."

He raised his head, vaguely aware of the tears whispering down his cheeks, and faced the audience who watched him. Theo also had tears blooming in her eyes while both Jedi sat quietly solemn, sharing long painful looks, speaking with their expressions. "I can't imagine what she must have gone through."

"Hell," said Theo succinctly. "She went though Hell."

"I wonder if she ever got her wish."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but a loud knocking at the door interrupted him, and he glanced at his master, a wry expression twisting his features. "Why do I have the feeling we're about to find out?" David hurried off to answer the door.

"Possibly we are."

"What is it with this house? Everybody shows up out of nowhere, but no one can leave?"

The psychologist returned a few moments later, a beautiful dark-haired lady in burgundy in tow. Qui-Gon immediately recognized her as the woman in the drawing and, from the silence that had fallen in the room, everyone else had as well. She broke the silence, her tone sure and certain. "Bonjour, I am Janette duCharme."

Theo spoke first. "How did you get here?"

Smiling softly, Janette moved to a plush chair, her silken gown whispering as she glided across the room. She adjusted the black lace wrap around her shoulders, its ends trailing delicately to her small waist. "I flew."

"Flew?"

"Mais oui, after I heard a voice speaking to me softly, asking me to come, I knew I must." Janette smoothed her long dark hair, fixing its tangles caused from her hurried flight.

"Who called you?"

Her blue eyes dropped briefly to the floor before she raised her head again, meeting the doctor's gaze. "A person I can never forget."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Aramis."

Janette's blue eyes widened in surprise. "How did...." Her voice trailed off in shock, turning to anger, as David held aloft the diary. "You had no right to read that. None, whatsoever." She trembled with cold rage, freezing the house with her pain and regret and humiliation.

“We had to,” explained Theo quietly. “We’re trapped in this damned freak house and we don’t know what the hell is going on. We thought the diary might have clues in it.” The young lady hoped that she was saying the right things; obviously, if this was the same lady who wrote this book back a few centuries ago, then she was clearly not a normal human being. But, then, after a night in this place, Theo wasn’t sure any of them exactly qualified as normal. “Can you fill in some blanks for us? Please?”

The female vampire sighed softly, memories running across her mind like images from a film, so vivid even now, even without the benefits immortality provided. That time remained so perfect, so golden; how could she make these mortals understand? “Some of what I will say, you may not believe,” Janette began, hesitation clear in her tone, “but, rest assured, all of my words are the truth.” She took a deep breath, even though her lungs did not need it, thinking even as she did so that it was absurd what habits will remain across time.

“I am a vampire,” she resolutely ignored the gasps of her audience, “and I have been so for about a thousand years. The three of us - myself, another, and the master vampire who made us - were traveling together across Europe, and we had settled in Paris during the summer of 1667. I met Aramis completely by accident. We bumped into each other in the night; he was returning from some midnight assignation, a meeting with a married lady, I suppose, and I had been hunting.” Unruffled by speaking the truth, Janette met their eyes without fear or shame, but she saw only rapt attention reflected there.

“Aramis was - had been - a priest, a Bishop.” A shocked barely-there exclamation reached her sensitive vampire hearing. “That shocks you, Theo? That priests had no immunity against the sins of the flesh? He might have been a man of the cloth, but he was also a man, and certainly not celibate.” Janette smiled softly, recalling the linen and silk and sweat against her skin, hearing again the throbbing pulse that surrounded her body. “Before he took his holy orders, Aramis had been a Musketeer….”

“Wait a minute!” David could not believe what he was hearing. “Aramis? Friends with Porthos, Athos, and D’Artagnan?”

Janette nodded once, a small smile flitting across her face at the memories that comment produced. “Mais oui, although D’Artagnan had died before I arrived in Paris. The others, however, I never met, but I had heard of them.” She shrugged delicately. “In that place, in that time, who had not?”

Unable to speak, his mouth hanging open, Doctor Morrow still seemed to be in a state of shock. “I don’t believe it,” he finally whispered, “they actually existed.”

“Dumas based his books upon real people. Whether or not the events he described actually occurred, I do not know.”

“God.”

“God had nothing to do with it,” she spat, reacting instantly to the surge of emotion David’s question created. “Because of me, because of us, the inquisitors called for him, and he went to his death. They tortured him, and he would not speak. They starved him, and he said nothing. Again and again, they demanded names and deeds, and he shamed them with his bravery.” Janette forced away her misery and remained calm, refusing to allow herself the luxury of tears. “The night before his execution, I went to him, in the prison, in the night, and pleaded with him to escape with me. He refused, insisting that he would not flee in shame from our love. Aramis believed he had committed no sin by God’s law, and the final judgment was the only one that had any meaning for him. When he refused and I could not sway him, I wanted to make his death as easy as possible for him by clouding his mind, so that the flames would be nothing more than wind brushing against his face.” Ignoring the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes, she shook her head against the painful memories. “He would not allow me even to make death as painless as possible.”

“Why?” Theo’s voice was barely audible.

“Above all things, Aramis cherished doing what was right for the right reason,” she explained carefully, “and knew forgiveness to be the greatest gift any person could give. He believed in honor and duty and promises, but he also knew that there were times when you had to break oaths in order to have any meaning in performing duties that were bound by those oaths.” Caught up in the memory of a well-loved voice trying in vain to explain these very things, the vampire laughed softly for a moment. “He said to me, ‘God will have to take me as he finds me, along with whatever shreds of a soul are left to my name.’ In the end, Aramis always did the right thing, no matter what it cost him. Taking the painless death I offered seemed to him like cheating, and he could not bring himself to besmirch his honor that way.”

“Jesus.”

“Once a Musketeer, always a Musketeer.” Janette smiled sadly, cuddling the precious memories to her heart, cuddling also the pain that accompanied them always. After all this time, only the dull ache in her heart served to remind her of what she had found and what she had lost. “And then, early last night, I heard his voice on the wind, speaking to me, begging me to come here, to this place. Only because he wished it, I left that very moment. I had never been able to refuse Aramis anything.”

Simultaneously, the thought came to three minds: 'Maybe it's his fault, he brought us here.' Each of them wondered why and how and for what reason, but all of them could guess that this trapped spirit wanted to escape his earthly bounds. For some peculiar reason, Qui-Gon found himself instead thinking of a ly’Rhewll-meat sandwich on sweetbread with spicy vegetables, and he immediately shook that unworthy contemplation out of his head. Focus on the problem at hand, he scolded himself, you are a Jedi Master. Act like one.

Qui-Gon approached her, gently touching her shoulder, trying to reach the person hiding behind the cold exterior. "Janette, he is here, trapped in this house." Her eyes widened again as she listened to his words. "You must help us release him. Now," the Jedi took her hands in his own and knelt before her, gazing into her eyes, "what is there, in this house, that might hold him here?"

A choked sob broke her silence, tears trailing bloody lines down her beautiful face. "The diary keeps him here ... it must ...."

"What is it, Janette?"

"The night he ... died, I went to where the auto-de-fe had been held, where he had been murdered. It disgusted me, how many vultures had been there before me, stealing fragments of his body and ashes, placing them in collections." Wiping her eyes, she sniffled, struggling to keep her emotions in check, trying not to break down or blow up before these mortals. "I knew he would not be buried properly, as he deserved -- unless his friends stole his ashes and buried him in secret -- so I gathered what little was left and took it away with me. I kept the ashes with me, keeping him with me, a part of me, and hid them inside the binding of that diary." She nodded at it, as David concluded he held a makeshift tomb in his hands. "We left France shortly after that, and eventually traveled to America. How it came to be here, in this house, I do not know."

The elder Jedi nodded knowingly. "His spirit is held to this earth, bound by the ashes. His ashes are here, thus, he is also here." Janette took a deep breath, pushing away the pain, focusing on the present.

"Not long after we came to America, I tried to forget." She bowed her head, her voice growing softer with each word. "It hurt so much to think of him, and every time I looked at Nicolas' smiling face, I wanted to kill him for destroying my happiness." Theo went to her and took the vampire into her arms, hugging her closely. When the women had separated, Janette moved away from the others, and continued speaking, her voice stronger. "Finally, I abandoned the diary in Boston -- I thought Aramis would somehow approve of his remains in a city that had managed a coup d'etat on the English."

The wry smile on her face did not reach her eyes, blue and frozen, remembering a painful and yet precious past that she could not change, remembering a dearly beloved lover whom she could not save from death. She, true to her word, had never forgiven Nicolas for this ultimate betrayal, nor would she for his most recent act of selfishness. They had sat and talked four years ago, when he finally understood her feelings, comparing them to his own cravings for the mortal coroner, Natalie Lambert. If she had given in to the vengeance which a part of her craved, the Enforcers could have been informed as to Nicolas' defiance of the Code.

The Enforcers would have done the Inquisitors proud -- better, as no mortal organization bound the Enforcers with rules. However, Nicolas would likely be killed as punishment, having tangled with them once before during America's Civil War. Janette had not wanted that; she wanted Nicolas to suffer in immortal torment just as she had, knowing nothing could bring them together again.

Warm and inviting, a ghostly touch caressed her cheek, and she raised one hand to press against her admirer's hand. That feeling haunted her dreams daily, of Aramis' loving caress on her body, full of love and happiness, pure and thrilling. "Beloved? Are you here, mon cheri?" She knew he must be, she could nearly feel his presence, hear his heart beating in her ears.

His voice came to her in a whisper, gentle as he had been in life, and he shimmered into view, lit with shades of blue, violet, and gold. "I am here, my love." He took her hand in his own, raising it to his lips, kissing away her fear.

Blood tears again trickling down her cheeks, Janette wept, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Cheri, I've missed you so...."

"And I, you." He gently wiped away her tears with his free hand, smiling softly, a glow of spirit-light spreading around him, holding him in its embrace like a lover. "I have always loved you, even here. I only wish my faith had allowed me to join you, as you wanted."

Janette fiercely shook her head, grabbing both his hands, ignoring her surprise at his solidity. She held him close to her, inhaling the scent he had always carried around him, a scent of old books and candle wax and incense, a scent that even now recalled his memory to her. "Non, beloved, you had always been right. If we had been given more time, perhaps our love could have given me mortality. It has happened."

This she knew very well -- a lover's complete acceptance had restored her humanity, allowing her to cry watery tears for the first time in millennia. Janette had wanted to kill and had done so, had wanted to die as a mortal, hoping she might see him again in death. Again, Nicolas had interfered, forcing her out of the burning house, forcing her to accept undeath as a vampire again, forcing her once again to turn away from her own desires to fulfill his own selfishness.

Nicolas was not here, this time.

Knowing her plan, determined to follow through to the end, Janette walked through the house, finding a nearby hallway which met her needs. There Aramis stood, waiting for her. Sly one, he had always known her thoughts before they coalesced in her mind. "I love you," she said, her eyes burning with need and adoration, extending her hands out towards her lover. The others had followed her in her travels throughout the mansion, carrying the book with them like the precious relic of love found and lost that it was, and they stood quietly. She wondered whether any of them realized what they would be witnessing -- although she suspected they might.

Aramis took her hands into his own and squeezed them lightly. "I love you, my heart. I will always love you."

Love in her eyes, buoying aloft the soul she had fought for years, Janette turned to face the window, prepared for the long journey ahead of her.

The sun was rising.

Its pure light shone around her, engulfing her in flame and smoke. Saying not a word, Janette's eyes remained fixed on her beloved, clinging to the love and comfort he offered in her time of pain. As a final prayer and a final thought of love left her body, a few drops of clear liquid gathered in the corners of her eyes.

When the smoke cleared, the vampire named Janette duCharme had disappeared.

"I hope she's with him, now, after all this time." Theo's fervent wish echoed David's own thoughts.

"They are together, at last," said Qui-Gon quietly, pointing further ahead of where they had gathered towards a large staircase.

Janette, resplendent in a burgundy and royal blue gown, covered in lace and silk, stood there, her eyes shining with completeness and delight. Next to her, holding her gently in his arms, Aramis stood proudly. To David's surprise, he wore not the simple brown robes of a priest, but black and argent garb, lined with red silk, gilded with a fleur-de-lis of Royal service. A wide-brimmed black hat sat on his head, its long black and red feathers curving backwards, waving gently in a breeze no one could feel. Black leather boots reached past his knees, and an ornate fighting sword in the French style hung at his waist, held firmly in place by a simple scabbard belt.

A spray of golden light washed over them, urging them up a staircase the others could not see. Its welcome reached out, caressing them in its purity, sparkling throughout the room, cleansing it, chasing away the darkness that had filled Hill House for so long.

While the others watched in awe, David scooped up the ancient diary from the floor where Theo had dropped it, and set it carefully on a nearby table. He hoped to make some notes when he had the chance, hopefully before the Dudleys arrived. Hell, hopefully before the police arrived; it was doubtful that the local cops would enjoy hearing of a double murder at Hill House.

"Master, look!"

The professor raised his head from study, and was shocked to see a large ape-like creature lurching towards them, its deadly intent clear from the glint in its large black eyes. Kicking off her high heels, Theo screamed and ran, pulling Obi-Wan behind her. Morrow shouted to Qui-Gon -- "Run for the outside, perhaps we can lock it within the house!" and then wasted no air by yelling further. His time at this moment in his life would be best spent in running. He chose to forget that, with all the broken windows -- even if several had very expensive antique chairs now decorated their sills -- the creature could probably manage to scale the face of Hill House to the grounds.

The foursome ran hell-bent-for-leather through the hallways. David noted for future reference that the house appeared to grow exponentially, depending on whether you were or were not in a hurry to get somewhere. Their flight of perhaps ten minutes, if that, felt as if it took several days. Tumbling out the front door and taking the stairs in huge downward leaps, they ran for the front gate. Perhaps the Jedi would be able to do something, in the expanses of the wide-open grounds, and if that failed, they could climb the ruins of the car and scale the gate that way.

His concerns proved unfounded, for on reaching the gate, the group turned to find the creature burning up in the morning sunlight. Before their very eyes, it smoldered and crumbled to ash, its horrifying shrieks rending the air to shreds. Everyone stared at each other for a moment, unsure what to make of this development.

Breaking the silence, Qui-Gon spoke, "It's no longer a House of Pain." He quickly explained what he meant to David -- even though the other man understood immediately, so intelligent and a good-looking man, too -- while Theo hurried to Obi-Wan's side, looking carefree in her bare feet. Still, it was time to go, and they had other duties elsewhere; why, just the other day, a situation on some Rim planet over trade negotiations had erupted. No matter, it was bound to be unimportant. "We had best be on our way," the older Jedi said, motioning for his apprentice's apprentice, and walking closer to the gate.

Obi-Wan joined him a few moments later, stuffing a piece of parchment in one of the pockets of his robes. "What is that, my padawan?" Qui-Gon had noted the short exchange between his apprentice and the young lady, and wondered what they might have been discussing with such solemnity.

"Her holovid number, Master."

The older man frowned, and not just because he did not want his apprentice paying court to women rather than gentle, dignified, and seasoned men. "I do not believe this dimension has holovid capability."

"Something like that, perhaps." Obi-Wan gazed at the address, committing the sequence 867-5309 to memory. After all, he rationalized, you never know when you might find yourself dumped in another dimension, seeking a warm bed and a warm bedmate with whom to cuddle.

"You could have called me, Obi-Wan, if you needed someone with whom to cuddle."

Almost shocked at his master's ability to slide past his mental shields and read his thoughts, Obi-Wan recovered, startled that they both felt the same way about the other. "Really, Master?" An almost bashful nod answered him. "When we get home, the next horizontal or reasonably stable vertical surface won't be safe." A wave of sensual agreement nearly steamrolled the young apprentice where he stood. Turning toward the gate, deciding that they were in approximately the same spot as where they had arrived, he impatiently called out, uncertain to whom he was speaking. "We're ready, and in kind of a great hurry to get home."

Sparking and crackling with blue light, the portal opened to the Jedi like a spurned lover, swallowing them whole, and then snapping shut in the flick of a cat's eyelash. Theo and David watched quietly and glanced at each other. "I won't tell if you don't."

"Deal."

An old blue and white VW van made its way toward the front gate, catching Theo's attention. "Hey, I bet that's the caretakers now."

"Yes, it certainly appears to be."

"United front?"

David winced, thinking of what his superiors at the university would say when they heard of this debacle. Two students dead, and massive destruction upon an historical relic that had been rented in the school's name. He could just hear his career doing down the loo. "Definitely. We were attacked in the night by intruders --"

"Who wore gloves, and were intent upon kidnapping us for white slavers overseas --"

"And robbing Hill House of its luxurious furniture and jewelry --"

"And whatever else they could find --"

"Since the four of us had been locked in, for our own protection --"

"From the dark, for no one will come any closer than town, in the night, in the dark --"

"We were forced to hide, flee, and fight back. After murdering Luke and Nell, the intruders --"

"Got scared, since they hadn't expected to find anyone in the house at night --"

"Since no one comes to Hill House in the dark --"

"And fled the same way they got in --"

As the car drew closer, they softly said the final line in their lie together. "However that was, we wish we had known."

David sighed quietly, watching as the elderly couple vacated their ancient wagon, muttering about city people. "If only we had known, indeed, but now ... no one in Hill House walks alone. The darkness is truly safe now, here on the hill." He shook himself out of his funk, and grimaced, hiding his sudden mirth from all. Meeting the Dudleys' eyes, he spread his arms wide, palms up, and stated the truth as simply as he could.

"It's not my fault!"

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