ICARUS © Sherri L King, 2002 Chapter One Morrigan Mederos looked at the large manor house beyond the gate. After several quiet moments she inched the vehicle forward and tried to still the racing of her heart. A strange and niggling fear was prevalent in her mind and heart as she surveyed her surroundings. The house looked like a mausoleum—dark and brooding under its heavy canopy of rowan and oak trees. The atmosphere of the place sent shivers of apprehension down her spine. But this was to be her home now, she reminded herself. This large monument of brick, stone, and mortar was to be her haven. As far away from the bustling stress of her former New York lifestyle as she could manage. She’d taken this last step of leaving her public life as a poet and songwriter behind her. Now was not the time to let her fears ruin whatever happiness she might find here. There was no turning back now. Her new home was nestled in Scotland, far from the incessant demands of her fans and colleagues. Far enough, too, from the dreams that had begun to rob her of her rest…and of her sanity. Although this land was an alien and forbidding one, it held the hope of succor during the storm her life had become. It was cold. Morrigan tried to shake the invading chill from her bones but knew it was an effort in futility. The cool September air of Meigle, moist and chilling, could not be warded off with a mere shiver. This land, in the beautiful Valley of Strathmore, was ever damp and chilly this time of year. The house was nestled on a plot of land on the outskirts of the village of Meigle—the oldest village in Scotland. It had existed well before the time of Christ. The ancient Picts had lived and worshipped here; their sacred standing stones even now resided in a local museum. King Arthur’s stone, as well as the Macbeth stone, resided in their eternal resting places nearby. This was an ancient and mystical place, perfectly suited for her artist’s temperament. It was a magical land. Deep in her soul she felt sure that this place could bring her the peace and happiness she sought. A peace from the days spent feeling lonely amidst an ever-growing crowd of people. From the faceless mass of people who wanted nothing from her but what her gifts and talents could bring to them. In recent years she’d forgotten all happiness. She hoped this move would inspire it again. In the years she’d spent climbing to the top of the entertainment industry, she’d forgotten what true joy was. Her life had become an endless drive for critical acclaim. It was something she’d never wanted—not really. She was ready to start anew. With sudden hope welling inside of her heart she pulled into the courtyard of her new manor home. All apprehension was brushed aside and forgotten. Coming to an abrupt stop in front of the great oak door of the house, she cut the engine of her car and sighed. Several days before, her moving crew had arrived with what personal belongings she’d decided to keep when she’d moved out of her cold and sterile penthouse. She was more than eager to unpack and looked forward to surrounding herself with familiar comforts. For weeks she’d toured the local countryside and acquainted herself with the population and culture of her newly adopted home. Now she was tired of her travels. In fact, it felt to her at times that she’d been traveling all her life—searching for this place from the very beginning. Since the decision to move had been made, she’d felt cut adrift, and without purpose. Her busy life had never allowed her much time for relaxation. But now that she had all the time she’d ever need she found herself at a loss. What new direction would her life take now? Were her instincts correct in leading her to believe that something…monumental, lie in wait for her just over the horizon? Morrigan was uncertain what the future held for her—but she was more than ready to find out. As she stepped out of the car, the cold wind cut into her like a blade. Under her whipping black cloak, her waist-length copper hair was tamed into a fat braid along her back. Her long legs, lush figure, and exotic elfin features had made her an easily recognizable personality among showbiz’s elite. But she wouldn’t have much use for her assets here in her new world. She needed to blend in, not stand out, she thought with a smile. Her charcoal gray pantsuit looked expensive and chic, and her matching Italian leather half boots barely made a sound as she walked across the cobblestones. She approached the front door with weak knees. Wind whistling about her, the scent of approaching rain heady in her nostrils, she reached for the iron handle. Holding her breath she opened the door of her new home with slow, cautious movements. Risking a peek she looked into the dim foyer beyond and sighed in relief. She smiled and laughed a little to herself at her own foolish behavior. The interior looked the same as it had in the realtor’s pictures. It was full of warm cheer and cozy welcome—all the feelings she associated with a good home. It had been an impulsive thing—to buy this house sight unseen but for the realtor’s Polaroids. But she’d been obsessed with it from the first. The realtor’s description had stated that the home and land were situated in Scotland, near various lochs and waterways. A heady compulsion had taken her, driving her to stop at nothing in order to possess the property. Shoes softly padding on the floor, she looked through each room of the house. Falling in love with it was easy. It was wonderful, complete with cathedral ceilings, high windows and spacious rooms. Her bedroom housed a lovely king-sized bed canopied by large falls of white gauze and satin. It was her favorite room. Walking to the French doors on the far side of the chamber, she opened them and stepped onto the balcony that lay beyond. Dark green rowan branches lay close to the balustrade, giving the balcony a private and enclosed feeling. Morrigan breathed deeply of the crisp, cool air, savoring the surrounding silence. The calm of her new home began to seep into her world-weary bones. It grounded her and made her feel as though she was finally an accepted part of her surroundings. With a serenity that had been a stranger to her in recent years, she turned back inside and made ready to unpack. Night was approaching. Hopefully she would have no dreams. * * * * * Sleep enclosed her like the darkness of a tomb, and the dream came upon her once again. The realism of it consumed her utterly, and she forgot that the dreams weren’t real. Forgot to remember that in her new environment—supposedly free of worries—she was no longer supposed to have these dreams. Her therapist had told her the dreams were just byproducts of her stressful lifestyle—that they were fantasies produced by an overworked imagination. But when the dreams conquered her sleeping mind, all rational thought was forgotten. She knew only the reality of what her dreaming mind showed her. Running through the dark forest in the night, her virginal white nightgown flew behind her on the wind. Her hair lay unbound along her back and shoulders, the darkness making the copper waves appear as blood spilling over her. Her heart hammered in her breast. Her eyes and cheeks burned from the cruel bite of the wind. Still she ran on, ever onward into the black heart of the forest. Hands outstretched in front of her to keep grasping branches from scratching and ensnaring her, she barely noticed how far she fled. Her feet were bare below the fall of the gown, but she didn’t even feel the ground beneath them. In the endless dark her eyes searched frantically. For something. For someone whom she dare not name lest she doubt her very sanity. She searched for him. At last, she came upon the dark smooth mirror of a placid loch. Her feet came to a stumbling halt at the shoreline. The water felt cold as it lapped gently at her exposed toes, and she waited there with bated breath. Clouds of mist puffed from her quivering mouth. The heavy silence went on unbroken. She tried to swallow the lump of fear and anticipation in her throat, but found her mouth was far too dry. Suddenly, there before her, a ripple broke the calm of the water’s surface. It was followed by another, and another, until the water splashed against her ankles from the force of the waves. Morrigan gasped and bit her lip, fighting against the urge to flee as a dark head emerged from the heart of the loch. It was followed by the pale and heavily muscled form of a nude man. The man stepped over the water. His feet walked across its surface with barely a ripple as they passed. A small, mysterious smile played about his erotically sculpted lips. The sight sent her heart racing, though with fear or anticipation she couldn’t say. His onyx hair was dry and lay in soft waving curls down his back to his buttocks. Though he’d come from the water, he was completely dry, as if by magic. Standing at six and a half feet in height, he towered over her. His strongly muscled yet graceful body crowded her the closer he came. His skin shone silver in the moonlight, and the only color he seemed to possess blazed from his eyes. His eyes were a deep purple, an impossibly inhuman shade. They burned her from beneath his sinfully heavy lashes, marking her with a possession that was impossible to deny. Morrigan felt a thrill of fear race through her heart, and she turned to flee. With a shock, she discovered that her legs refused to budge. At last the man came to stand before her, and her eyes could not break away from his. His long, beautiful fingers reached for her and she tried to protest but no sound issued ...
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