"We'd never push you aside," Arno said, "but if you really aren't interested in McDee Enterprises, we're willing to assume full responsibility. We thought we'd alternate months in the San Francisco office--one of us there and the other here at home to look after the family."

Wolf smiled slightly. "Thank God there are two of you. I'm no business man, nor am I suited to be head of the household. But I'd stay on and do what I could to help if it weren't for promises I must keep in the east and also an urgent personal matter to attend to in San Francisco. After that, I intend to carry out your father's last request."

Arno and Ivan both leaned forward. "You didn't tell us about any request," Arno said.

"Sergei and I had thought of traveling to Russia together, to the forests where our ancestors lived. For answers. To find the reason why some of the Voleks are shapeshifters. I know you've heard the story passed down through the generations, the story that tells how it happened--but not why. Your father was convinced there was a reason he was a shapeshifter and I believed him. With his last breath he urged me to find the reason why."

Arno stared at him. "Yes, there must be a reason. And a reason for the stalkers, too."

After a short silence Ivan asked, "What about the stalker who killed our father and Stefan? Do you think another may come looking for him?"

"I don't know," Wolf said. "Before I interred him where he'll never be found, I went through his pack and his pockets and there was nothing to identify him. Except for the fact he carried a clipping of the Chronicle article, there was no clue to where he came from. The other two stalkers I've run across worked alone--I hope this one was no exception." "We'll stay alert,"

Arno promised.

"Yes," Wolf agreed. "Forever."

Before he left for San Francisco, Wolf had a private talk with Grandmother Liisi in her tower room.

"I was right about Arno and about Stefan," he reminded her. "Now I'm more convinced than ever that I'm right about Cecelia Kellogg being a potential shifter. I've got to warn her one more time."

"She refused to listen to any of Sergei's advice," Liisi said, ignoring the tears that came to her eyes when she mentioned his name.

Remembering the final parting between her and Grandfather, Wolf choked up. With Samara's infirmity and a baby in the household, Liisi hadn't had much time for mourning the man who was her life.

He said nothing of this to her, knowing she'd prefer he didn't. "Sooner or later Cecelia will shapeshift," he went on. "Do you have any charm I might give her that might help her control the shifting?"

"Since she's not of my blood or your grandfather's, I fear no charm of mine would be effective--as none were with her mother. But among her mother's effects was a silver buckle in the form of a cat's head. Because it was silver and belonged to her mother and because the shifter trait was in Cecelia's blood, I set the buckle aside when we shipped the Kellogg belongings back to New Orleans. In case it was needed. You might take the cat's head to her."

"Will the silver buckle prevent her from shifting?" Liisi shrugged. "I can't answer that question. I'm afraid the buckle is all I can offer. You might try to teach her the charm that worked on your grandfather--" Liisi paused for a long moment before continuing. "I taught that charm to you, if you remember."

Wolf nodded. He'd never forget the dreadful night in the dark woods when he'd recited the Finnish words to help Grandfather change from his beast form so the hunting posse wouldn't discover what he was and kill him. It was the same night Samara and Stefan had been born.

"Do you think Samara will improve?" he asked.

"I wish I knew. Did she say anything at all to you when you found her?"

"Only two words. 'Dark. Hurt.'"

Liisi shook her head. "I think she sensed the stalker in the woods in much the same way she sensed the female stalker when she was a child of three--as a threatening monster. And this time the monster found her as she lay helpless and hurt her in the uniquely terrible way a man can harm a woman. She hasn't yet gotten over that. I can only hope she will. And that she isn't carrying a stalker child." Wolf drew in his breath. "My God!"

"I've tried to take precautions. I've given her various potions to rid her of a possible baby but she's vomited every one. I intend to keep trying."

A stalker born into the Volek family? Foreseeing the consequences, Wolf shuddered. "Do everything you can," he urged.

"I know the dangers as well as you." Liisi's tone was tart.

After she handed him the silver cat's head buckle, he got up to leave but Liisi's hand on his arm stopped him.

"I noticed you stealing glimpses over your shoulder while we talked," she said. "Why?"

Wolf shrugged. "I don't like to look at that tapestry with the tree so I sat with my back to it. But not seeing was worse."

Liisi put a hand on either side of his face and stared into his eyes. Though her silver gaze daunted him, he tried not to glance away.

"Yes," she said finally, "the shaman power is still within you, unused."

"I'll never be a shaman!"

"Your mother's father was a shaman in Siberia, wasn't he?"

Wolf nodded reluctantly.

"Like shifting in the Volek line, shamanism runs in families. It's in your blood. Sooner or later you'll succumb."

She gestured at the tapestry. "That's the tree of life, with its crown in the upper world and its roots in the lower. Only the center of the tree is in this world we live in. To obtain knowledge, a shaman learns to climb and descend the tree, a dangerous journey, entering the higher and lower spirit worlds at will. The tree beckons you, Wolf; someday you'll find the call irresistible."

Wolf left the ferry from Oakland carrying his new suitcase and hailed a cab. Liisi had insisted that Arno and Ivan see to it he was completely outfitted before he left for the East and, under the circumstances, he hadn't liked to argue.

But in San Francisco he was on his own and he was damned if he'd stay at the Palace Hotel just because the Voleks always did. He'd be far more at ease in a modest establishment away from the busy heart of the city.

"You'll find the Pine Cone Inn's just the ticket, sir," the cab driver said in answer to Wolf's question about hotels. At Wolf's nod, the driver turned his horse onto Van Ness.

"The city's sure growing," the driver, a grizzled older man, commented. "Weren't all that many years ago the cowboys used to drive cattle down this very street to the stockyards. Look at the fancy homes along here now. Beats all, don't it?"

"Do you know if Cece is performing in the city this week?" Wolf asked.

"The dancer? That she is. In the ballroom at the St. Francis, if I ain't mistaken--and I ain't. Heard tell she knocked 'em dead in New York last month. Ever see her dance?"

"Once." Wolf didn't add that it was long before Cecelia became Cece.

"I'd like to myself but the St. Francis is a mite too rich for my blood. Only the toffs go there. Guess I'll have to stick with them French cancan gals at the Melodeon. Ever seen them go to it? They're--" He broke off to swear at two men on bicycles who cut in front of the horse.

"Damn cyclists," he muttered. "Crazy as they come. Never get me on one of them new-fangled contraptions."

The driver's non-stop conversation enlivened the ride to the outskirts of the city where the Pine Cone Inn proved satisfactory to Wolf. He tipped the man generously. These days he had a bank account with more money in it than he needed or wanted.

Unknown to him, Grandfather had been depositing a monthly sum in his name from the time he'd first arrived at Volek House. The deposits had continued all the years he'd been gone, accruing interest. To Wolf, a man whose wants were few, the total amount seemed a fortune.

Grandfather had done the same for all the Volek children. And Grandmother Liisi had already transferred Stefan's unused savings into Hawk's name so the baby would be provided for.

Wolf settled into his room. When he registered at the desk, he'd noticed the inn had a telephone--like most businesses as well as many private homes in San Francisco. No doubt Thompsonville would soon have telephone service and then it could be extended to Volek House. Arno and Ivan would see to that.

He returned to the lobby and called the St. Francis to ask about seating for Cece's performance tonight.

"Sorry, sir, nothing is available. We're sold out." "I'm a friend of Miss Kellogg's. Would you inform her that Mr. Volek is in town and would like to see her?"

"I will leave a message, sir." The clerk's tone held a hint of reproof, as though he considered Wolf's request improper.

After leaving the inn's name and his room number with the clerk, Wolf hung up. Since he hadn't had a full night's sleep in weeks, he returned to his room, removed his shoes, and stretched out on the bed. He promptly fell asleep, somehow more relaxed in this strange setting than within the familiar walls of home.

He woke with a start to a tapping on his door.

"Mr. Volek, there's a message for you at the desk," the maid's voice said.

"Thank you, I'll be right there."

Cecelia's reply, as relayed through the inn's desk clerk, was terse. "The St. Francis called and asked me to tell you that Miss Kellogg has reserved a table for you for tonight."

Later, walking through the crowded lobby of the St. Francis, he overheard one comment after another about Cece: "...flawless technique. She could have been a top ballerina..."

"...the most sensuous dancer I ever saw..."

"...scores of marriage proposals but she always says no..."

The ballroom glittered with the electric lights that were reflected from the chandeliers by the long mirrors set between the panels of the mahogany walls. Jeweled, elegantly gowned women and men in formal dress sat at tables circling the dance floor.

The maitre d' led Wolf to a front row table for two. "I am instructed to tell you Madamoiselle will join you after the performance," the man announced after seating him.

Wolf's pulse speeded at the thought of Cecelia seated across the small table from him. Throughout the years, he'd never been able to put her completely from his mind. How could he forget her grace and beauty? Long ago she'd called him a clumsy boy--what would she think of the man he'd become?

His mind on Cecelia, he ordered the first thing he saw on the menu, then ate and drank with little awareness of what he swallowed. At last the lights were lowered and, without an announcement of any kind, without fanfare from the orchestra, in a whirl of red draperies, Cece twirled into the center of the large room.

She curtsied low, cymbals clanged and then the music began, a Spanish melody Wolf half-recognized. Cece, castanets clicking, spun into a lively Spanish dance. He watched her, bemused by the flow of color as her skirts and petticoats, from the palest of pinks to a deep crimson, floated and dipped as she twisted and turned to the rhythm of the guitars.

The dance ended in another curtsy and enthusiastic applause. Drums began beating, softly at first, then louder, more insistent. A gasp went up as Cece straightened, stepping out of the voluminous-skirted gown and petticoats. She was now attired in a long, slim black skirt and low-necked, form-fitting shirtwaist that revealed the exciting curves of her body.

She kicked the discarded clothes to one side and began to stretch, slowly and languorously, to the beat of the drum. A flute joined in, then a guitar. Cece began a prowling, sinuous dance so mesmerizing Wolf that after a time he imagined he was watching a black panther stalking over the floor, a graceful, feral beast hunting prey.

A blink of his eyes brought Cece back into focus but now, for him, her dance held an edge of danger that tingled along his nerves, tightening his muscles, upsetting and arousing him at the same time.

He'd been Mima's lover and he'd shared a blanket with Morning Quail but he'd never before felt such a hungry rush of desire for any woman. He fought an impulse to leap to his feet, toss her over his shoulder and carry her from the room, from the hotel, from the city, carry her into the wilderness where they both belonged and there mate with her, animal to animal.

Wolf shook his head to clear it but her slow sensuous movements mixed with the passionate throb of the drum kept him Cece's prisoner, trapped by her allure. She danced closer and, as if she scented her prey, stared directly into his eyes. Her green gaze pierced through to brand his heart, rendering him helpless. Her victim.

He raised a hand, palm outward, as though to ward her off and Cece recoiled from him. She recovered almost immediately, dancing away from him.

By the time her performance ended, Wolf had regained his wits, if not his equilibrium. When she appeared at his table, escorted by the maitre d', he was more or less prepared. She wore a white gown nipped in at the waist, its skirt trimmed with white ermine. Her only jewelry consisted of tiny pearl earrings. The low neck of the gown revealed enough to take his breath away. He got to his feet, unable for the moment to utter a word of greeting.

Once seated, instead of speaking, she reached for his hand and turned it over, staring at his palm. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"What do you see?" he asked, puzzled.

"Nothing." Her voice was low, melodious.

"But you did see something when you were dancing," he persisted, uncertain he was right but needing to know everything he could about her.

"I thought I saw a red circle within a star on your palm," she murmured. "I must have been mistaken."

Looking at his hand, Wolf saw nothing of the sort. But then he hadn't expected to. "It's gone now," he agreed. "What does it mean?"

Cecelia swallowed. "I've seen the star within a circle before. Once. On another man's palm. I found out that it's called a pentagram. I don't know what it means but I don't like it."

"What other man?" Wolf asked, a faint memory stirring. Hadn't Grandfather once mentioned pentagrams?

"You don't know him."

"Who is he?" Wolf persisted, searching his mind for what his grandfather might have told him.

Cecelia flushed. "My physician, Dr. Swanson."

If the man was merely her doctor, why the blush? Wolf fought his jealousy, knowing he couldn't ask.

"A pentagram," he said slowly, finally remembering. "My grandfather saw a pentagram on my grandmother's palm. And on the palms of two others."

She raised her eyebrows. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Grandfather's dead, you know."

Cecelia bit her lip. "The Chronicle carried his obituary. Sergei Volek was kind to me. I was sorry to read of his death and I've been meaning to write his wife..." Her words trailed off.

Wolf leaned closer. "The two men, the ones marked by the pentagram, died by his hand. My grandmother would have been killed, too, if she hadn't been a noita."

Her green eyes widened and she shrank back in her chair. "I don't think I want to hear any more."

Wolf glanced around the crowded room. "I haven't finished. But I agree this is no place to talk. Where can we go?"

Cecelia eyed him dubiously. "I really didn't want to see you at all, much less talk to you. I invited you only because of your grandfather."

"I won't keep you long. We could take a walk. Or a drive. Do you have a wrap?"

In the end they walked from the hotel, turned onto Powell Street away from Union Square and climbed the hill, pausing at the top to look down on the bay where tiny lights of ships winked lonesomely from the vast darkness of the water. No other pedestrians were in sight.

"We've come far enough," she said.

Inhaling her spicy, flowery scent, Wolf's resolve flickered. What he really wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and kiss her. Knowing she must be told, he sought for words to soften what he had to say and found none.

"My grandfather was a shapeshifter," he said bluntly. "He told me shifters see pentagrams on the palms of their victims."

Cecelia drew in her breath.

Aware she meant to protest, Wolf hurried on. "I'm sure you remember Stefan. He was a shifter, too, and he died, killed like your mother by a stalker- one of those who hunt and kill shifters."

"My mother wasn't--"

"She was," he cut in ruthlessly. "You haven't shifted yet but seeing the pentagram is a warning that you eventually will." He pulled the silver buckle from his pocket and displayed it on his palm. The green stones of the cat's eyes gleamed in the dim light from a street lamp. "Liisi gave me this--it was your mother's. Because it's silver, the buckle may help you when--"

She slapped his hand, sending the silver cat's head flying. "No! I don't want it. I'm not what you say. I won't be. Never!" She whirled away from him.