Morgan J Muir lives in Utah with her fantastic husband, three offspring, and as many cats (but she doesn’t carry them with kits in sacks, and has never been to St. Ives). She grew up riding horses and motorcycles and listening to her grandmother read poetry. She grew up reading any sci-fi/fantasy novel she could get her hands on and so was surprised the day she discovered that she also really enjoyed historical fiction.
Morgan always loved to write and draw and her parents always liked to say that they knew she’d write a book some day. Ever since she was small she told stories and drew pictures for her tales. When she got old enough, all of her spare time between classes was spent writing and she always had a notebook with her.
Her first novel was originally written after her first child was born, to help her pass the long, lonely hours as a new stay-at-home mom. As her kids got older and more came she was too busy to do much with her stories, until one year she was introduced to NaNoWriMo, which finally rekindled the spark that led her to finish what she’d started.
Morgan’s favorite authors are Brandon Sanderson, Kristen Britain and Marion Zimmer Bradley.
Mikhael stood in the darkness, adjusting the sails of the tiny fishing boat, and enjoying his moment of peace and quiet. Enjoying the rise and fall of the waves, the feel of the ocean spray on his skin. Enjoying being alone. As alone as he ever was, anyway. Elisa was busy working some political party back in town, and Theron was preoccupied watching her, coaching her on what to say. It was late, and Mikhael had managed to plead that he needed to rise early to attend to business in the morning before Theron or Elisa could protest. His excuses made to the host and fellow guests, they had no choice but to let him go.
Feeling daring, he had commandeered a small sailboat and set out into the bay. The nightly catatumbo lightning storm brewed in the distance; it would be a few hours before he would need to change direction to avoid it. Mikhael had no fear for his own life, but he did wish to return the boat in one piece; he did not want to deprive some small family of their only means of income.
He inhaled deeply, tasting the salt in the air and feeling a clean breeze sweep down from the shore, caressing his shoulders as it passed and swirled about. Smiling, Mikhael closed his eyes and gave himself up to his other senses, adjusting automatically to the rise and fall of the boat beneath him. Sailing relaxed him like nothing else he had experienced. It was peaceful. He could almost imagine that he did not remain a prisoner, a puppet of some twisted master, that he didn’t live by stealing the lives of others. He could almost believe that he hadn’t spent his entire remembered existence with a woman he merely tolerated, while longing for a specter who he wasn’t sure had ever really been.
The thought of the dark-haired angel who haunted his memories turned his mind to the pendant he always kept on his person. Often, throughout the years, he had longed to rid himself of the thing nearly as strongly as he longed to throw off the ropes of Theron and Elisa, cords that existed only to control him. But this stone — what had it ever asked of him? How had it ever tried to control him? Many times he had held it out over the sea, needing only to twitch his hand and let it slip into the deep, but he could not. That such a small, insignificant little bit of rock could hold such sway over him galled him. As though it called to him, he reached into a pocket and pulled it out.
Opening his eyes, he looked at the pendant in its diamond-studded setting. What he really wanted, what he hoped for when he was being honest with himself, was that someday she would reappear. But she had not. Not for years. Not since that first time, the only time.
“What power do you have over me?” he whispered into the night, touching the stone gently.
“The same you hold over me,” a voice whispered in the wind. Startled, Mikhael dropped into a crouch and looked around, searching for the speaker who had no scent and made no noise. When he found nothing, the thought crept into his mind that he had simply imagined an answer from the flapping of the sail, the crash of the waves, and the caress of the wind. A little irritated at himself, he sat down, leaning against the side of the boat.
“Not only can I not rid myself of you, now I think you’re speaking to me,” Mikhael said ruefully to the trinket. Sighing, he leaned his head back and gazed up at the stars. “Perhaps I am finally going mad.”
“I have sometimes wondered if immortals ever went mad,” the quiet voice replied.
“I think you are the proof of it,” Mikhael responded with a smile, his gaze still on the stars.
“No more than you are,” came the enigmatic reply.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked. He decided he liked the voice; it was feminine, sure, and beautiful. If he had to hallucinate, he was glad it was pleasant.
“If I am your madness, then you are mine.” The voice had a smile in it. Mikhael closed his eyes and the dark-haired angel appeared in his mind. Yes, he thought, the voice matches you.