Hunting Ground(14)

“No problem,” she said, smiling at him and keeping her shoulders soft so he’d know she wasn’t scared of him.

“Bojangles” had been sung by a lot of people, but the very slight old man, leaning heavily on his cane, who stood up and made his way to the piano, looked a lot like the last pictures she’d seen of Sammy Davis, Jr., who’d recorded her favorite rendition of the song—right down to the maple color of his dark skin.

His voice, when he spoke, was a lot more powerful than his frail body.

“I’m gonna sing something for you,” he told their audience—and everyone in the room looked up from their meals. It was that kind of a voice. He paused, milking it. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t dance anymore.” She waited until the laughter he’d invited died away before she began.

Usually, when she first played a piece with someone she didn’t know, especially if the piece was one she knew well, it was a mad scramble to make her version fit with the other person’s perception of how the song should feel. But except for the very beginning, it was magic.





CHARLES worried a bit at first as the old man missed his cue, worried more as the beat came up again, and a third time—and closed his eyes when he started singing at entirely the wrong time.

But Anna worked around it in a more clever bit of playing than anything she’d done up to this point, and he knew she was better on the piano than he’d thought from the pieces of music she’d chosen.

The old man’s voice was just right. It, the beaten-up piano, and Anna’s sweet self all combined in one of those rare moments when performance and music blended to make something more.

“Bojangles” was a song that took its time to get to where it was going, building pictures of an old man’s life. Alcoholism, prison, the death of a beloved comrade—none of those things had defeated Mr. Bojangles, who even in his darkest hour still had laughter and a dance for a fellow prisoner.

He jumped so high . . .

It was a warrior’s song. A song of triumph.

And at the end, despite his early words, the old man did a little soft-shoe. His movements were stiff from sore joints and muscles that were less powerful than they used to be. But graceful still, and full of joy.

He let go a laugh . . . he let go a laugh . . .

When Anna finished with a little flourish, the old man took his bows, and she did, too.

“Thank you,” she told him. “That was really fun.”

He took her hand in his own worn hands and patted it. “Thank you, my dear. You brought back the good old days—I’m ashamed to say just how old. You made this man happy on his birthday. I hope that when you are eighty-six, someone makes you happy on your birthday, too.”

And that won him a second round of applause and shouts of “encore.” The old man shook his head, talked to Anna a bit, then smiled when she nodded. “We just figgered out that we both have a liking for oldies,” he said. “ Except for me they’re not oldies.”

And he started singing “You’re Nobody ’til Somebody Loves You,” a song Charles hadn’t heard for forty years or more. Anna joined in with the piano after a few beats and let the old man’s trained voice lead her in the dance.

When they were done, the room burst into applause—and Charles caught a waitress’s attention. He handed her his credit card and told her that he’d like to pay for the old man’s meal and those of his family—in appreciation for the music. She smiled, took his card, and trotted off.

The old man took Anna’s hand and made her take another bow as well. He kissed her hand, then let his grand-son escort him back to his table in triumph. His family rose around him, fussing and loving as they ought, while he sat as a king and took his due.

Anna pulled the protective cover over the keys and looked up and saw Charles. She hesitated, and it made his heart hurt that he’d made her afraid of him. But she lifted her chin, her eyes still full of the music, and strolled up to him.

“Thank you,” he told her, before she could say anything. He wasn’t sure if he was thanking her for leaving the room when he’d asked, for staying in the restaurant instead of leaving him, or for the music—which had reminded him that this whole thing wasn’t just about the werewolves.

It was about the humans they shared the country with, too.

The waitress, who was coming back with his card, overheard what he’d said. “From me, too, Hon,” she told Anna. “It was pretty gloomy in here when you started. Like a funeral.” To Charles she said, “All taken care of. You wanna be anonymous, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’ll work better that way, don’t you think?”

She smiled at him, then at Anna, before hurrying off on her way.

“I’m sorry,” he told Anna.

She gave him an odd, wise look. “No worries. Everything okay?”

He didn’t know. Mostly that depended upon her. But he knew that wasn’t what she meant. She was asking about the wolves in the next room, so he shrugged. “Mostly. Chastel was always going to be a problem. Maybe by making him back down right now, he’ll be forced to play nice. Sometimes it works that way.”





THE music helped. Music usually helped. Making people happy helped even more. When she looked up and saw Charles waiting for her with a small smile on his face, that helped the most. It meant that no one had died, that she hadn’t messed things up too badly for him—and that he wasn’t upset with her.

He escorted her to the other section, where the wolves awaited them. Chastel was gone. Anna hadn’t noticed him leaving, and she should have, even with her back to the outside door and music under her fingers. It was dangerous not to notice things like that.

The tables had been moved again until there was one long table in the middle of the room. There were three big plates of food, one full and two mostly gone.

They weren’t suddenly all buddies. Spanish wolves sat on one side of the table, French on the other. The British werewolf took up one end of the table and there were two place settings that hadn’t been used at the head.

“It seemed a shame to have come all the way here and not try the food,” murmured Charles, one hand light on the small of her back. She couldn’t see his face because he was just behind her, but she saw the impact of his gaze as the roomful of Alphas made it clear that they believed he was the biggest, baddest wolf in the place.

Most of them seemed content with that. Wolves don’t fuss about things they can’t change—the only exception, she thought, might be the British Alpha. Something was making him unhappy, certainly. But he kept his eyes down while Charles was looking at him anyway.

“Gentlemen, my mate and my wife, Anna Latham Cornick, Omega of the Aspen Creek Pack.” Charles raised his hand to her shoulder.

“Your pardon, monsieur,” one of the Frenchmen said. He had one of those double accents, French with British overtones. “Perhaps we could introduce ourselves and then take our leave. We have taken time to eat, and we cannot linger much longer. Chastel isn’t our Marrok, not as Bran is to those wolves here, but he can make our lives exceedingly uncomfortable.”

“Of course.”

The Frenchman proceeded to introduce his countrymen in hurried tones—and as he introduced them, they bowed their heads. “And I am Michel Girard.”

“I look forward to more leisurely conversations later,” said Anna.

“I also.” He smiled with weary eyes. “Until tomorrow.” And they left.

“Anna, this is Arthur Madden, Master of the Isles—the British equivalent of the Marrok.”

“Good to meet you, sir,” she said. Not an Alpha then, she thought, or not just an Alpha.

“Delighted,” Arthur said, as he rose from his place and came forward to kiss her hand. “I am sorry to confess, though Chastel is not waiting to chastise me, we’ve been here much longer than I intended. My wife awaits me, and I must attend. I would, however, like to issue an invitation before we leave. I’ve a condo in the University District, and it would be my pleasure to have you two for dinner tomorrow.”

Anna looked at Charles. Madden had so clearly excluded the Spaniards that it felt awkward. She didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it worse.

“Thank you,” said Charles. “We’ll discuss it, and I’ll let you know.”

Arthur smiled, and she noticed that he was handsome. She hadn’t been paying attention until then.

“Good enough.” Arthur looked to the Spaniards. “My control is just not good enough, gentlemen, to have more than one dominant in my territory at a time. I am sorry.”

“De nada,” the dark-skinned man who was the de facto leader said graciously. “We understand, of course.”

Arthur excused himself. The whole room fell silent, listening, she thought. When the restaurant door in the other room opened and closed, it felt like the whole world relaxed.

Sergio, the wolf who had faced off with Chastel, tossed a bone on his plate. “Pompous ass,” he said.

“Smart, pompous ass,” said Charles.

“Deluded, smart, pompous ass,” said the dark-skinned man. “Have you decided how you’re going to introduce us yet? How about by age?” He looked at Anna. “Charles knows all of us—and probably the Frenchmen, too. Knows everything, your mate.”