I proceed forward in the dark, my shoulders brushing against the cool stone walls of the passageway, my hair touching the ceiling. There's no light here and, with only one direction to travel, no need for it. After forty paces I feel the corridor widen, the ceiling rise above me. Running my fingers over the wall to my right, I find the switch and flick it on.

The light illuminates a round chamber, no more than ten paces in circumference, leading to another dark corridor on the other side and flanked by two, steel-plated wood doors, each chained shut and padlocked.

As always I feel uneasy here, knowing that every man who worked on these rooms was slaughtered as soon as they were completed. I turn to the door on my right and dial the lock's combination. Years ago, after Father ceased to visit this floor, I removed the ancient locks Don Henri had installed and replaced them with modern, stainless-steel combination padlocks, both to forgo the need for keys and to save me from any further time wasted on struggling to unlock the aged and rusted devices.

The door swings open and I can't help but gawk at the riches inside, chest after chest brimming with gold and silver jewelry. Boxes containing Rolexs, Cartiers, Omegas and Ebals. Ancient gold and silver ingots stacked knee-high near the far wall. Piles of twenty-dollar bills taken from drug runners who'd suffered a fate far worse from us than they would ever have encountered from the DEA.

Maria's few pieces of jewelry look paltry and cheap alongside the wealth they join. Still I drop all of it in a chest, the gold four-leaf clover resting on the top and proceed on, locking the door, extinguishing the light and entering the other narrow, dark corridor.

Stumbling occasionally over the rough stones lining the floor, I follow the passageway's contours as it curves, then dips, then rises, then ends-another wooden door blocking any further progress. I listen to the wind and the rain outside and I smile, knowing I'll soon be out in it.

It takes only a few moments of fumbling in the dark to pull on the yellow slicker and matching yellow overalls of my foul-weather gear. I throw the ancient bolt on the door, push it open and, leaving Don Henri's escape tunnel, I breathe in the clean cool night's air. I revel in the beauty of the storm as rain beats in my face and lightning illuminates the heavens.

The tunnel opens in the bushes just a few yards from the dock and I pause to add some large rocks to the bones inside the burlap bag, then I sprint to the dock where my Grady White tosses and pitches. Thunder cracks somewhere in the night and I laugh. The seas will be furious and dangerous in their anger. No right-minded person will be out in such weather.

I throw the burlap bag into the cockpit of the Grady White, then make my way to the Chris Craft and release its dock lines, tying its bowline to the Grady White's stern cleat.

Taking my boat's wheel, I fire up the Yamahas and head out the channel, towing the Chris Craft behind me. I gasp when I clear the protection of the island and the full force of the wind hits me. The Grady White's wheel fights my control. Waves crash over the bow. Salt spray and driving rain hammer my face and eyes.

I push the throttle forward even more and concentrate on guiding the boat through the twists and turns of the channel. The Chris Craft follows, fighting its towline, crashing into waves, skittering sideways from their impact.

Taking the last turn of the channel at full speed, turning the wheel hard to the right, I yank the Chris Craft out of the channel, take it over the coral rocks lurking just under the surface. The Grady White quivers when the other boat hits rock, then slows, motors whining, as it pulls the Chris Craft across the coral, ripping and splintering the wooden boat's bottom.

The rain is so dense that I can barely make out the Fowey Rock lighthouse's beacon a few miles away. I pray that the Chris Craft doesn't sink until I'm well past it, out in the deep water where I always dispose of my family's secrets.

Besides, I find I'm enjoying myself, fighting to keep the Grady White under control, steering my way from wave to wave. Fear isn't a possibility. Should the boat founder or I get knocked overboard, I can always change shape and take to the air.

On the edge of the Gulfstream, the waves tower over my boat, threatening to crash down on me. I wait until the Grady White clears the top of one giant wave, then I rush back and cut the Chris Craft's line before we hit the bottom of the trough. The boat disappears behind me, sinking as I guide the Grady White to the top of the next wave.

I repeat the maneuver two waves later, this time throwing the burlap bag containing Maria's bones into the angry sea. I'm too busy to watch it sink and very glad to have my attention required elsewhere.

The run back to the island goes easier. With nothing to tow, the Grady White responds to the lightest touch. Running with the wind behind us reduces its ferocity, lessens the impact of the driving rain and I have time to think of Maria and allow myself to mourn her passing.

Against the reality of her gruesome death, the image of a faraway love's embrace seems even more illusory to me than before. Had Father not confirmed the probability of her existence, I would probably now be assuming that what happened wasn't the result of an airborne scent but rather a moment's madness. It wouldn't be the first time I felt my existence was insane. Certainly no human would think it otherwise.

Near the island, the shock of Father's words sink in and, for the first time in my life, I consider living without him. It makes me ache inside, a hollow empty pain that tears at me and sears my brain. I want to cry out against any thought of it but I know Father's right. For the love of me he's lived longer than he's wanted and, in return, I must let him go without complaint.

I must focus instead on finding the woman, the mate my blood requires. The thought of her brings back the memory of the scent of cinnamon and musk floating in the evening air. My heartbeat quickens and my nostrils flare. To my shame I forget about the undeserved death, so recent, so sad, of an innocent girl.

For the moment I forget Father's words too, his imminent and desired demise. The recollection of the distant female's scent overtakes me and-no matter the rain, the wind, the tousled, frothing seas that batter me-I give in to the fantasies the remembrance brings.

Father chooses to die in May. Even though we've discussed his impending death many times, I still gasp when I open his chamber door, the first morning of the month, and find him lying still and open-eyed on his bed of hay.

My nose wrinkles at the stale musty smell his dead body gives off and, for an instant, I feel like running from the room. Instead, I pivot in the doorway, stare into the interior of the house and take a few cleansing breaths.

Just the night before, Father had regaled me with stories from his past, laughing and boasting of the victories he'd won, the enemies he'd defeated. I shake my head as I approach him now. I'd laughed with him, taken a vicarious thrill from his tales, marveled at the strength he seemed to keep summoning to go forward, the sparkle still shining in his emerald-green eyes. Now a dead carcass lies in his place, green scales turning opaque, those bright eyes turned milky and glazed.

I sit on the floor next to his bedding and stare at his remains. I envy humans and their ritual approach to death. If this were a human household, I could wail and gnash my teeth, busy myself calling priests and ambulances, friends and relatives. There would be a funeral to be planned, food and refreshments to order for the well-wishers and afterward, meetings with attorneys and accountants to see what could be salvaged from the estate.