Wolf caught her arm, turning her to face him again, holding her so she couldn't escape. "Listen to me! You can't control the shifting. I'm trying to help you--don't you understand?"

"Let me go!" She fought him, striking at his face with her fists and kicking at him.

Wolf yanked her against him, pinning her arms so she was helpless. "I don't want to see you die," he said. "Not only stalkers kill shifters. Men fear the beasts shifters become and hunt them down. I couldn't bear to have that happen to you."

Seeing her mouth open to scream, Wolf bent his head and covered her lips with his. For a heart-stopping second he felt her respond to his violent kiss-and then she bit him. Hard.

He shoved her away and, freed, she ran down Powell toward the St. Francis. With the taste of his own blood, warm and salty on his tongue, Wolf watched her go, making no attempt to follow. When she turned onto Clay he sighed. He'd done his best and it hadn't been good enough. He dreaded what might happen to her but knew no way to prevent it. Cecelia would certainly never again agree to see him. Sucking his throbbing, bleeding lip, Wolf hailed a cab. When he stepped off the curb a glimmer of green winked at him--the buckle's cat's eye. He scooped it from the gutter and climbed into the cab with the buckle clutched in his hand. He was halfway back to his inn when he remembered that she'd seen a pentagram on his palm. Why had he thought they'd never meet again? His hackles rose as he envisioned their next meeting....

Chapter 11.

Wolf wouldn't admit to being frightened, but New York City dazzled him. Drop him anywhere in the wilderness and he'd soon know exactly where he was but the city confused him, interfering with his sense of direction. If he'd thought San Francisco noisy with its clanging cable cars, trolleys, and clattering cabs, New York was ten times worse. "Come along, there's a good fellow," his companion called to him.

Wolf hurried to close the gap between them. If he lost sight of Muir's friend he'd be on his own and he didn't want that. He was a fast walker but Theodore Roosevelt's normal stride was a lope.

He still wasn't exactly sure how he'd come to join Roosevelt's First United States Volunteer Cavalry.

"By George, you're exactly the man I want," Roosevelt had said when they met in April. "A man of the mountains, like Muir, a man I can trust." Roosevelt had the habit of biting off the end of each sentence, showing his teeth. "As soon as we declared war on Spain I resigned as Secretary of the Navy to form this cavalry unit. I need you as my aide de camp. What do you say?"

With nothing to go home to, what could Wolf say but yes? At first Roosevelt had seemed all teeth and eyes because his teeth were big and square and because his eyes were magnified by thick glasses. He appeared to be a heavy, rather large man. It took some time for Wolf to realize that Roosevelt was actually fairly slender and no taller than he was. Even after he knew this the earlier impression remained.

"I like big things," Roosevelt said to him as he caught up. "Big prairies, big forests and big mountains. But not big cities. Cities make me feel like a caged wolf--confined and hemmed in. Cuba, now, that'll be bully."

Wolf, never a master of geography, knew Cuba was an island but had only a vague idea of where it was, though he couldn't fail to be aware the battleship Maine had been sunk in the Havana harbor in February. According to the New York Journal headline: "THE WARSHIP MAINE WAS SPLIT IN TWO BY AN ENEMY'S SECRET INFERNAL MACHINE."

Roosevelt clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll show those bastards they can't blow up an American ship, by George." He slowed his pace. "Here's the store, Volek--now to order the uniforms."

A week later, Wolf gazed at Colonel Roosevelt in admiration. His khaki riding pants were cinched at the waist by a belt whose large silver buckle was engraved with the head of a bear. His silver and gold-plated Colt, etched with scrolled designs, nestled in a hip holster, only its ivory handle with the buffalo head on one side and Roosevelt's initials on the other visible. A silver plated bowie knife was sheathed on his other hip.

"Just in case, I've eleven extra pairs of eyeglasses stitched into my pockets," Roosevelt told him, "and one pair in the lining of my hat. Nothing like being prepared." Wolf's uniform, though it fit well, had no extra embellishments except for the lieutenant's bars Roosevelt had wrangled for him. He still hadn't quite taken in the fact that in less than a month he'd be fighting Spaniards on the island of Cuba.

"Cuba libre!" was the Cuban rebels' slogan. Wolf supported the principle-all men should be free--but felt he was being pushed into this war without knowing all the whys and wherefores. What, after all, did he have against Spain? Once the troop transports from Florida landed at Santiago in June, he found out. Men who shoot at you very quickly become your enemy.

On July first, in relentless heat, Roosevelt's Rough Riders, many of them horseless by now, charged up Kettle Hill near Santiago in the face of heavy fire from Spanish soldiers. Roosevelt pounded ahead of his men and Wolf was hard put to keep up with his colonel. He finally pulled abreast, bullets zinging past.

Roosevelt glanced at him and smiled. "Bully!" he shouted over the boom and crackle of gunfire.

Wolf, inspired by Roosevelt's enthusiasm and bravery, suddenly felt invincible. Neither of them would die today on this hot and dusty hill; they'd not only win, they'd come out unscathed.

He'd no more than thought this when a Spanish cavalryman drove his horse over the crest of the hill toward them, his rifle aimed at the colonel. Sighting quickly, Wolf fired. The man dropped his rifle, swayed and slid from his saddle to tumble onto the ground. His horse galloped past them, riderless.

"Tally up another mount for our men," Roosevelt said. Wolf was content to leave it at that but in the evening as they counted their losses--a third of the unit dead or wounded--Roosevelt drew him aside.

"There's no way I can repay you," he said. "But I'll never forget. You know where to find me if you ever need me."

The next month, back in New York with the war won, Wolf read an account in the Journal of the Rough Riders' victory at San Juan Hill and smiled wryly. According to the Cuban rebels who'd been their allies, Kettle Hill was what they'd won--San Juan Hill was some miles away from where they'd fought.

The Journal might be close to the truth but, like the Chronicle's account about the spirit wolf, the story wasn't correct. Wolf wondered if newspapers ever reported real truths. Then he wondered how many of those who read the papers wanted the truth.

Though Roosevelt had mentioned finding a position on his staff for him, Wolf knew he couldn't stand working indoors. He craved the freedom and solitude of the California mountains. It was time to go home.

Yet a sense of something left unfinished dogged Wolf, keeping him in the city even though he longed to leave. What, he didn't know. The voice in his mind whispered too low to be understood.

On the last day of September, he dreamed of Grandfather....

While lightning streaked the night sky, Sergei lay injured on a battlefield with dead men all around. Because he was a shifter, Sergei's wounds healed rapidly. Wolf, both a watcher and a part of Sergei, felt strength return. Rising to his feet, Sergei cocked his head as though listening to a summons. Wolf could hear nothing but he felt the surge of compulsion that jolted through Sergei and forced him across the dark and wasted ground into a meadow of tall grass.

SHE was there. Wolf couldn't see anyone but he sensed her presence in Sergei's mind and smelled the musk of a woman. He knew her hair was red, her eyes green as the July grass. He knew Sergei both feared her and lusted after her. Sergei wasn't aware Wolf was a part of him but she was and it was him she spoke to, not Sergei.

"Blood of his blood." Her whisper was both smooth and rough, like a snake's scales, and it set Wolf's teeth on edge. "Blood of his blood, you are bound to me and my blood. There is no escape...."

On October first, he met Willa Gebhardt.

The Rough Riders had been an odd mix of cowboys, wealthy polo players and ex-convicts, with few ordinary men. Some of the survivors lived in New York. Larry Cardiff, who'd been a polo player before his leg wound made playing impossible, had befriended Wolf.

Larry, cynical and sophisticated, was totally unlike anyone Wolf had ever known. If they hadn't fought together, Wolf might have shunned his company. But the war, short as it was, had forged a bond he couldn't deny. Larry, wracked with guilt over the death of a cavalry comrade, needed him and so he stayed on. He'd been a guest at Larry's Park Avenue apartment for the month of September.

"You ought to reconsider Roosevelt's offer," Larry said over what was his breakfast but Wolf's lunch. "He'll be our next governor, you know. And it wouldn't surprise me to wake up some morning and find he's been elected President."

"I'm not much for politics," Wolf said.

Larry poured himself another cup of coffee. "A wise man." He took a couple of sips and set the cup down. "Ever been to a seance?"

"No," Wolf told him, somewhat surprised at the abrupt change of subject.

"Then you must come along tonight. It's an experience every man should suffer through at least once."

Wolf pondered Larry's choice of words. Suffer through? "I don't think--"

"Be a sport. They need seven live bodies, I'm told, or the spirits refuse to be summoned. You're the seventh."

Wolf moved his shoulders uneasily, last night's dream still vivid in his mind. Shamans believed in true dreaming and, while he wasn't a shaman, hadn't Liisi insisted the trait was in his blood? Reminded of the dream woman's words, he grimaced.

"No need to make faces, old chap," Larry said. "It's all quite painless, I assure you. You'll thank me for taking you when you set eyes on the medium-she's a stunner. Her husband's a helpless invalid, or so I'm told. More than one of my friends have tried their luck with her but she's apparently resigned to being a virtuous wife. Perhaps you'll change her mind."

Wolf didn't bother to tell Larry he'd never try to seduce another man's wife. But, in the end, since he was accepting Larry's hospitality, Wolf felt obliged to go to the seance.

They walked to the medium's brownstone--Larry was supposed to exercise his leg in moderation. A chill October breeze toyed with fallen leaves along the evening streets, reminding Wolf that summer was over. A sense of impending doom as thick and gray as a tule fog settled over him, making him glance over his shoulder.

"No hoodlums in these parts," Larry assured him with a wave of his cane.

Wolf didn't reply. Nothing so tangible as hoodlums haunted him. A stalker? he asked himself and almost immediately dismissed the idea. Since he wasn't a shifter he wouldn't attract a stalker. What, then?

"Ah, here we are," Larry said. He'd fortified himself with several stiff drinks before they left but Wolf had refused even one. An occasional glass of wine with meals was all he allowed himself. He'd listened to enough drunken men baring their souls to realize the risk of being overwhelmed by drink. He had too many secrets to keep.

As they climbed the steps to the front door, Larry added, "I can only pray Mrs. Gebhardt won't call up Aunt Hildegarde's spirit from the great beyond-Auntie was a fire-breathing dragon if ever there was one."

Shamans dealt with spirits. Wolf shied away from dealings with shamans. Why in hell had he agreed to come? Larry clapped him on the shoulder. "Melissa Weidman swears by her but I'll give you ten to one this medium's a fraud like all the others."

Fervently hoping Larry's prediction would be the truth, Wolf let Larry precede him when the door opened and an elderly female servant in black stood aside, wordlessly inviting them to enter.

Leaving their hats on a long table in the walnut paneled foyer, they followed the servant into a parlor, well-furnished but quite ordinary-looking except for the round rosewood table in the room's center. Seven chairs surrounded the table. Red shades on the lamps lent a not-altogether flattering crimson glow to those present--one other man and three women.

"Darling!" A blonde woman Wolf recognized as Melissa Weidman launched herself at Larry and embraced him. "How sweet of you to come."

Larry disengaged himself and introduced Wolf to the others--Melissa's mother, a friend of Melissa's named Olive Whitcomb and Olive's friend, Allan Adams.

They all had what Wolf thought of as the monied look but being around Larry for a month had gotten him used to such people. There was nothing about any one of them to make him nervous, so why was the back of his neck prickling with unease?

He grew so uncomfortable that he finally turned.

A woman dressed in brilliant green stood just inside a door on the far side of the room. She'd entered so silently he hadn't heard a sound. They looked at one another for a moment that stretched longer than time. Then her eyes flicked away from his and, with a provocative rustle of her gown, she drifted slowly across the room toward the table. Ignoring the exclamations of the others, he crossed to her and bowed slightly.

"Wolf Volek," he said, surprised to hear the words emerge as more of a challenge than an introduction.

Her only response was a slight smile. Eyes not quite green, not quite brown, gazed into his. She wore no jewelry other than earrings--large circles of gold that set off her long white neck and her honey-colored hair twisted into an intricate knot at the back of her head. Her features were too strong for her to be called pretty but she was damned attractive.

With the others crowding around the table, he had no further chance to speak to her. It wasn't necessary. Something had already passed between them. A challenge and its acceptance? He wasn't quite sure.

"For those of you who haven't met me," she said, "I am Willa Gebhardt. I will sit here." Her voice was low and slightly hoarse and he felt it sink into his bones. "Mr. Volek will sit on my left. The rest of you may choose your seats."

How old was she? he wondered. She was not at all girlish--had she ever been? Her secret smile hinted of forbidden pleasures, a smile that made a man lust to have her teach him what she knew. Was she thirty? Forty? It was impossible to tell.

"To my left, Mr. Volek," she repeated and he realized everyone else had sat down.

When they all were in place, Willa ordered them to put their hands palm down on the table and link their little fingers. When Wolf's finger touched hers, heat sizzled through him, warning him how intense his attraction to her was.

"The lights, Una," Willa ordered.

The elderly servant turned off the lamps and shuffled from the room, closing the door behind her. The only remaining light was a tiny candle in a red votive holder set directly in front of Willa, its minimal flicker giving her a macabre, sinister appearance.

"We are seven," she intoned. "One by one we clear our minds, the better to concentrate on those who have gone before. One by one we choose who to remember and who to forget until at last only the strongest memory can remain in each mind. Seven we are, each with a secret, a desire, a need and a regret. Seven. We are seven. Seven made one by the linkage."

She fell silent. Wolf no longer looked at her, he was too preoccupied with the shifting images in his mind, faces he only vaguely recognized--was that his mother?--and others he'd hoped never to see again. At last all vanished except one.

Wolf saw Sergei Volek as clearly as though his grandfather stood before him. He realized with a jolt of apprehension that Grandfather had become a part of him in the same way he'd felt a part of Sergei in last night's dream. Not as an advisor but as watcher. And participant.

Intent on what was happening to him, at first the voices were only a background murmur to Wolf. Until he heard someone he knew.

"Come off it, Diff," a man's gruff voice commanded.

A chill snaked along Wolf's spine. That was Curly speaking. Curly, bald as the granite dome at Yosemite. Curly, a cowpoke from Texas who'd been Larry's buddy in Cuba. Curly, who was prone to nicknames and who'd dubbed Larry "Diff." Curly, who'd died at the battle the Journal called San Juan Hill.

"Ain't doing no good to me nor you," Curly went on, "to keep blaming yourself. Fact is, that bullet had my name writ all over it, clear as snake piss."

It was Curly speaking but the voice came from Willa's lips. Wolf swallowed.

"I could have stopped--" Larry began.

"Naw. Weren't enough time and you know it. Makes me mad as hell to watch you wallow in guilt like a pig in a mud hole. Come off it or I might just take to haunting you--if'n I kin get the hang of it. Fact is, you're alive and I'm dead. Ain't a damn thing you could've done to make it come out different. You hear me, Diff?"

"I hear you." Larry's voice quavered.

Another silence stretched into infinity. A cold draft eddied around Wolf's ankles, rising to wrap around him like an icy rope. The candle in the red glass wavered and snuffed out. One of the women gasped.

"Mother! No!" Willa cried, her voice shrill with terror.

A short silence, then another voice spoke, a woman's, low and seductive. "I sense your presence, Sergei," she said. "Were you foolish enough to believe death would break the bond?"

Through his shock and dismay, Wolf was aware the voice came from the woman seated next to him, the woman whose little finger was entwined with his. From Willa. Yet the voice was not hers any more than Curly's voice had been.

"I drew you here just as I did in the past, Sergei," the voice said. "There's no escape. Not for you, not for me, not for those of our blood."

Wolf, more frightened than he'd ever been in his life, told himself he'd jerk his hand away from Willa's, rise and stride from the room. From the house. Get away from the voice who spoke to his grandfather. Never return.

He couldn't move.

"The rest of you are dismissed," the voice continued. "Go from here. Go quickly. You will not speak, nor will you come back this night."

Wolf felt the person on his left disengage her finger from his, he heard chairs scrape and the rustle of clothing as the others rose from the table. Willa's finger remained intertwined with his. He wondered if she was as unwilling a participant as he was, a reluctant player in a game of someone else's devising. Or was it something else?

His grandfather was still there, still a part of him but unreachable. He tried but found he couldn't communicate in any way with Sergei. Or with Sergei's spirit. Or whatever it was. Wolf shuddered, feeling invaded. Helpless.

The door opened and he realized the others were leaving the parlor. In the dim light slanting briefly into the room Wolf saw that Willa's eyes were open and glazed, her expression a rictus of terror. Any doubt fled that she was as much a victim as he. The door closed them into darkness once again. The two of them. With whatever else held them prisoner.

Willa's hand trembled, moved and tightened convulsively over his. "Come with me," the voice commanded.

He rose as though drawn up by invisible strings. Holding his hand, Willa pulled him with her and he was compelled to follow. He wasn't certain if or when they left the parlor but he found himself descending stairs. Into a cellar?

She opened a door and drew him through it after her. A moment later a light flared--a match--and Willa lit a black candle. She released his hand, returned to the door and locked it.

Though he couldn't move his feet he could turn his head. He examined his surroundings. Shadows leaped and danced in the corners of the small paneled room. There were no windows. Cupboards ranged along the rear wall, one with a long counter top. Near him was a wide sofa upholstered in green velvet with a white bearskin rug thrown over it so the bear's head snarled from one arm.

The room smelled very faintly of decay, the scent overlain with a heavy musk that seemed to enter his brain, making him dizzy.

Willa turned to him. Slowly she raised her arms to unpin her hair. He held his breath, his gaze fixed on her. Down tumbled the soft strands, curling over her breasts, beckoning him. He took a step forward.

She reached to him and unbuttoned his suit coat. "Do you remember the last time, Sergei?" the voice purred.

Not Willa. And yet it was Willa's fingers undressing him, caressing him. When she slipped free of her gown it was Willa's naked body that pressed against his, urging him down onto the tickling softness of the bearskin.