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HEART IS
     
    Come home, Rhiannon. Come back
to me .
    Rhiannon Bryson stirred in her sleep, her
awareness sharpening as she faltered on the edge between reality
and her dream world. The man called to her again, luring her to
him. In the dream she was out on the moors and she struggled to
move, to look back over her shoulder and seek out his image. The
old manor house was there just as it had been so many times before,
shadowed and looming against the high crags. Then he stepped out of
the mist that surrounded the house, strode over, and lifted her in
his arms.
    I know this
man .
    His face was so familiar that it was etched
in Rhiannon's memory, and his heart beat hard and fierce against
hers, locking its beat to his own. He held her tightly, so tightly
she could scarcely breathe. When he dipped to kiss her mouth time
and place morphed, and she was rolled onto a bed. Then he was
between her thighs and thrusting into her, stretching her open,
claiming her. His body arched and bucked, as if he were desperate
to find his release within her. Ethereal touches tantalized her
body. Struggling against the torpor of sleep, her skin was
feverish, the ache at her center demanding. She felt his kiss
against her throat—and at the moment of climax, his bite.
    As always, it was the bite that woke
her.
    Rhiannon's eyes flashed open and she
swallowed hard, panting for breath in the wake of her
sleep-drenched orgasm. Blinking into the darkness she rested her
hand on her chest and found the skin damp. Her core was still in
spasm, and she ached for the ghostly presence that had aroused her
so. Denying the truth of her situation she threw off the bed covers
and sat bolt upright. It was a strange phenomenon, one that she
could not ignore. Her pussy was slick—her groin suffused with the
heat of her climax—and a man's name was on her lips: Edgar.
    The thundering of her heart and the ache of
loss made her cry out in frustration. She ran her hands through her
hair and looked around her bedroom, sad to be back in the here and
now.
    "Who are you, Edgar?" she whispered into the
night.
    That old familiar ache for the place that
haunted her dreams lingered. Home. Somehow she knew that. Deep down
in her soul she knew that he'd called to her from home.
     
    * * *
     
    That weekend Rhiannon stood on the wilds of
the Yorkshire Moors and let the place fill her senses. The
atmosphere was like no other, up here where the high crags seemed
to brush the sky. It was here that she felt closer to him—the man
who stalked her dreams—more so than at any other time in her waking
hours. This was the place that made him call to her, she was sure
of it. The very thought made her heart beat a little faster, her
anticipation building as she hiked out across the landscape. The
late-September sun was burning into the horizon, warming the purple
and yellow swathes of rough heather on the far hills, picking out
the thick, lush moss that covered the rocks. Blustery wind streaked
the sky with fast moving wisps of cloud, filling the air with the
heady scent of peat and heather.
    This place had fascinated her since she'd
been brought up here on a hiking trip as a teenager. The dreams
started soon after. Strange, erotic dreams they were, featuring an
old manor house out here on the high rolling hills, where eerie
mist and gaunt shadows suggested movement, ghosts, and strange
creatures. As she grew into adulthood, the man had stepped out of
the mist and into her dreams.
    "Don't go out on the moors alone," she'd
been told many a time.
    Rhiannon couldn't heed the advice because
the place called to her. The sense of timelessness on the moors
seemed to tune into her very soul, and the peculiar heritage of the
landscape also kept her a lonely bookworm, studying everything she
could find as she tried to make sense of her connection to the
place. Folklore and legend were just a small part of it. The area
had been a hotbed for UFO sightings in the 70's and 80's. All of
that, and