The knife sailed through the air, slowed by the attached balloon, and thudded into the wooden threshold of the doorway with an audible thwack. The balloon deflated on impact. Inside, the beast snarled.

"The windows, I think, are too small for him to get through?" Waino asked.

Wolf nodded.

"Good. So he can't leave the cabin without passing by or over the knife. We wait, now, until moonrise lures him to the hunt."

"He must sense we're near."

"Of course. But blood lust over-rides caution. He must hunt."

Sergei had told Wolf much the same. Caught in blood lust, a beast loses all fear of danger.

The beast padded back and forth on the earthen floor of the cabin, keeping away from the stink at the door. He'd already measured himself against the windows and knew he was too large. To leave, he had to pass the knife in the doorway and its unpleasant smell.

And he must leave, must run under the moon, run down his prey and drink its hot blood, sink his fangs into its red heart....

He growled low in his throat. Men waited in the trees beyond the cabin. Men had sent the knife and the stink to plague him. Did they have guns? He'd wait until dark settled over the clearing, slip out and be away before they could shoot. Though men weren't the prey he craved, if any of them tried to stop him, he'd kill.

His brother hadn't followed him. Why? Where was he? Trapped? Locked away? His hackles rose.

Slowly, slowly, the sky darkened. Through the window came the faint scent of deer and his muzzle rose, savoring the smell. Soon, very soon, he'd trace that scent to its source.

At last stars gleamed in the dark sky and the beast sensed rather than saw the faint light of a rising moon. Time!

He trotted to the doorway, keeping to one side, sickened by the stench there. With a rush he bounded over the knife and made for the shelter of the bushes growing near the doorway. Before he reached them, he staggered and slowed and his vision dimmed. Knowing he must find cover, he struggled on.

Suddenly metal wrapped around him, binding and burning. Choking. He snarled and snapped and fought. To no avail. The hated scent of man thickened around him but he lay bound and helpless and in pain, barely able to breathe.

Wolf stared down at the giant beast, almost pitying him. He'd seen cowboys who were experts with a lariat, men who could rope anything, in motion or not. But never before had he watched a man use a silver chain as though it were a rope. Waino's finesse and accuracy had stunned him.

"He should be changing back to human," Waino muttered. "Let's chant the shifter charm together."

They did. The beast remained a beast, the moon shining down on his bound form.

"Beast or not, we've got to get him home," Wolf was saying as three dark figures materialized around them. The Miwoks.

With the help of the Indians, they fashioned a crude bark sled that could be pulled by leather thongs. Using tree branches, they levered the beast onto it.

"If he comes again, we will kill him," Sitting Fox warned.

"I hear you," Wolf told him.

With Waino pulling on one of the thongs and Wolf on the other, they began the long journey home through the night with the helpless beast.

"What will you do with him when we get to Volek House?" Waino asked.

"Lock him in the special cellar room until he shifts back."

"And what if he doesn't?"

Wolf hadn't considered such a terrible possibility. "He's sure to eventually."

"Maybe. But he hasn't yet. We can't leave the chain on once we get him there--the silver will poison him fatally. He'll be sick from it as it is--but he's young and healthy, he'll recover. When he does, you'd better make damn sure that cellar room has a stout door and walls." He glanced over his shoulder at the sled. "I know the binding strength of blood ties but I have a premonition that this one--and the family--would be better off if you'd let him die with a Miwok silver-tipped arrow in his heart."

Chapter 20.

Melanie Volek sighed as Hawk sent his biplane gliding downward to circle the airstrip before landing. Her first flight had been glorious, so wonderful she wanted to remain up in the air forever. She'd felt as free as a bird under the bright blue of the May sky with misty white clouds as her companions.

They'd left everything behind--the troubles, the quarrels, the past. In the sky was freedom, on the ground the gray pile of Volek House with all of its miseries.

Hawk had flown in from New York last month, the returning war hero, tall and handsome in his pilot's gear. She'd grown up with Hawk but this self-assured man seemed far removed from the diffident boy she'd known. The only similarity was his enthusiasm for airplanes.

I wish we could fly away right now, she thought as the airplane wheels touched the ground. Just Hawk and me. Fly away into tomorrow and never come back.

When the plane bumped to a stop, Hawk sprang up and helped her out of the cockpit. "How did you like it?" he asked.

"Flying's better than going to heaven--you don't have to die first."

He grinned and, as he lifted her down to the ground, hugged her. "I can see you're a gal after my own heart. Next time we won't just circle over the valley, we'll pick a destination."

As she waited for him to secure the plane, she thrilled to think there'd be another time. He actually approved of her! Who'd ever think Hawk would grow up to be so dashing and sophisticated? He'd probably left dozens of French girls weeping when he came back to the States.

Melanie tucked stray wisps of dark hair loosened by the wind under the thick braids that wound around her head and sighed. She was anything but dashing. No man ever looked at her twice--not that she often went any place where men were. Hawk sauntered over to her, stopped in front of her, cocked his head and studied her for so long that she began to fidget.

"You know," he said at last, tugging at one of her braids, "if you cut your hair short and bought the right kind of clothes you'd be smashing. As chic as any Parisienne." Chic? Her? "Nice girls don't bob their hair," she said primly.

He laughed. "Who said you had to be nice? Is being nice any fun?"

Melanie was more delighted than shocked by his words. "Now that you mention it, I don't have much fun," she said in what she hoped was a saucy manner.

He put an arm around her shoulders and and hugged her again. "Old Hawk's here now--we'll see what we can do to change things."

Could he? She longed for a change. Not that she expected him to be able to help poor Quincy, not after Wolf and Waino and Leo had all tried and failed. Just thinking about him still locked away in the secret cellar room depressed her.

"It's like a dungeon," she said aloud.

"What--Volek House?" Hawk asked. "Can't disagree with that. But don't despair, I'll help you escape."

"Where to?"

"Does it matter?"

She stared into his eyes, black and shiny as jet. "Really escape, so I never have to come back?"

"If that's what you want."

His arm around her shoulders, his nearness made her breath come short and she licked suddenly dry lips. Without warning his head dipped and his tongue touched hers, sending a frisson along her spine. He straightened without actually kissing her but she was sure what he'd done was more potent than any kiss.

"First order of the day," he told her, "is a haircut for you. Then clothes. We'll fly to San Francisco and do both. Tomorrow."

"But--"

"No arguments. I'm running this affair."

Affair? But of course he didn't mean a real affair between a man and a woman. After all, they were related after a fashion like most everyone else at Volek House. On the other hand, so were her mother and Ivan and they'd gotten married.

"Meanwhile," he went on, "back to the dungeon and its gloomy inhabitants."

Though she tried to suppress it, Melanie couldn't help her giggle.

Late the next afternoon, going up in the elevator at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, Melanie fingered the bobbed ends of her hair uncertainly. Never had her head felt so light and free but how did she look? She glanced at Hawk and found him watching her.

Leaning close, he whispered, "You're gorgeous."

He ushered her from the elevator and toward the McDee suite. While it wasn't the first time she'd been to the suite, she'd never before been here with one man, just the two of them.

He unlocked the door and opened it with a flourish. "After you, mademoiselle."

Giggling is not sophisticated, she reminded herself. Instead, she gave him what she hoped was an insouciant smile, covering her acute attack of nerves.

"Tres bien, the champagne awaits," he said, motioning to a low table in front of a couch done in Chinese brocade. Sliding her new sable stole from her shoulders, she walked slowly across the room to where a bottle of Dom Perignon cooled in an ice bucket.

"God, you're graceful," he said. "I've never seen you make an awkward move."

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him any grace she had was probably the result of the dance training Cecelia had given her. No, she thought, accept the compliment as though you hear wonderful things about yourself every day.

She eased down onto the couch and he sat beside her. After popping the cork he poured the bubbling wine into two stemmed glasses and offered her one.

"To San Francisco," he said, raising his glass to touch hers. "The American Paris."

She sipped the pale liquid and set down her glass. "Is it really?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Nothing is like Paris but this is as close as you can come in the States."

He told her stories of Paris while they drank champagne. As bemused by him as she was by the wine, she made no protest when he drew her close and kissed her. Nor did she object when, later, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into one of the bedrooms where, she noted, both their overnight cases rested on a luggage rack.

She'd never been made love to but so far she'd enjoyed every kiss and caress and she looked forward to what was to come. She didn't dislike what happened but afterwards, when he rolled away and she lay staring at the ceiling, she tried to tell herself she wasn't disappointed, tried to ignore the question threading insistently through her mind--Is this all there is?

Early the next morning, after two more episodes of lovemaking, Hawk propped himself onto his elbow and looked down at her. "I can tell it's not working for you."

She couldn't manage a lie but she made an attempt to evade a direct answer. "I like you very much, Hawk."

His smile was wry. "Damned by faint praise."

"I--I don't think it's you."

He shrugged. "Don't blame yourself. Sometimes the spark between two people just isn't there. I wish it had been."

A month later, Ivan told Melanie he and Samara had decided to move to San Francisco. "I hope you'll choose to come with us," Ivan added with a smile.

Melanie agreed with relief. After the fiasco with Hawk, it was difficult for her to sit at the dinner table with him at Volek House and even harder to speak to him as though nothing had ever happened between them. Especially since, no matter what he said, she knew the problem lay with her.

Ever since she'd been a tiny girl, her relatives, no matter how much they tried to conceal it, had given her one clear message--you aren't like everyone else, you're not like us. You're an outsider and you'll always be one. Even her mother had never fussed over her the way she later did over Jennifer McQuade when Jenny came to live at Volek House. Melanie didn't expect the situation to change with the move to San Francisco but at least she'd be away from Hawk. And from poor Quincy suffering in his locked room. And she'd be free of the smoldering anger between her stepfather and his twin, Arno, an anger that infected all of Volek House. Though she wasn't sure, she suspected that anger had something to do with Arno's French wife, Griselda. She couldn't help but wonder if the fact that Griselda was going to have a baby had anything to do with Ivan's sudden decision to move.

Curtis Volek was born to Griselda and Arno on August 15, 1919. Wolf assured the parents that the boy was not a shifter.

One month later, Waino Waisenen married Druse Volek.

On August 15, 1920, Beth Volek was born in San Francisco to Samara and Ivan. Despite Liisi's strange vision of Rasputin, to Ivan the little girl seemed perfectly normal.

On January 27, 1921, Marti was born to Waino and Druse. Marti was not a shifter but she wasn't normal either.

In Berkeley that September, Jennifer and Lily McQuade, after seventeen years apart, insisted on sharing an apartment while attending the University.

Since her mother refused to allow her to return home, Jennifer had left Volek House for boarding school when she was ten. Lily had been kept at home until she was twelve, then sent to a different private girls' school than the one Jennifer attended.

Because of her stay at Volek House, Jennifer understood Grandmother Liisi, Cousin Wolf and Cousin Samara had special talents but neither twin knew the Volek secret because Tanya McQuade hadn't yet told them.

Lily stared long and hard at her scarred face in the entry mirror. Over the years, the angry red had faded to a shiny pink over her left temple, ear and cheek. Her clothes hid the scars on her left shoulder and upper arm. Was it possible Rolfe Utmeyer could overlook such terrible disfigurement? Apart from the fact that she helped him with chemistry, he really seemed to like her.

Jenny didn't think much of Rolfe, calling him a good-time-Charlie and claiming he drank too much but it was precisely his boisterous, joking manner that didn't distinguish between her and anyone else that attracted Lily to him. All too often people were either put off by her scars, treating her as though she was somehow defective or else were extra-nice to her. Rolfe behaved as though she was normal.

The hell with what Jenny believed about him. Her twin, with her perfect, if lightly freckled, complexion could have any man in their class if she wanted. Jenny didn't bear any scars at all--Jenny gave them.

Lily shook her head and turned away from the mirror to look from the window at the street below. Jenny had been three when it happened, too young to know better--it was wrong to blame her for the burn scars. Besides, down deep she loved her twin more than anyone else in the world, more than her parents who'd kept them apart for so long. Mama seemed afraid to have Jenny come home. Or be with Lily. Mama didn't seem to understand. She and Jenny were twins, they belonged together.

Outside, wisps of fog floated past, pale and gauzy in the dim evening light. Bay fogs were not depressing thick gray blankets like Valley tule fogs. In the Bay area the sun always broke through before the day was out.

"Lily?" Jenny called from her bedroom. "Are you going to get dressed for the Halloween party or not?"

Lily drifted toward the bedrooms. There were two but she and Jenny shared one and used the other for a study. After years of feeling like half a person--a feeling Jenny claimed she'd had as well--they savored their renewed closeness.

This was Lily's favorite kind of party--costume. With her disfigured face hidden behind a mask she could behave as if she was as pretty as any of the other girls. She'd chosen to be a princess in a full skirted white gown and a wig with golden curls to hide her own pale red hair. Atop the curls she'd wear a sparkling rhinestone tiara. Her mask was a frothy affair decorated with lace and sequins that hid all but her mouth.

Jenny was already in costume. In her long black gown, black fright wig, conical hat and green-skinned witch mask, she was a truly hideous sight and Lily told her so.

Jenny's sinister witch's cackle was in keeping with the costume. Then she slid the mask up as she watched Lily dress, spoiling the effect.

"Remember what I told you about frat parties," she warned. "Never go upstairs."