Hunting Ground

It didn’t take Charles long to settle the other wolves down. Without Chastel around to prod and push them, no one was interested in a public fight.

He ordered food for everyone-the house special was limitless ribs at a per-person charge-and asked if they would wait for a few minutes while he made sure his mate was all right. The French wolves were a little restless, knowing that Chastel would note how long they lingered without him-but no one objected. Alphas understood about watching over their own.

A

Her hands arched gracefully over the battered keys and pulled music and something more into the room. It was subtle, but he could see it in the chatter and in the way the old one who’d been hunched over his plate slowly straightened, eyes bright as he whispered something to the large young man sitting beside him. The man said something quietly in reply, and the old one shook his head.

“Go ask her,” he said, his voice still quiet, but loud enough that Charles could pick out the words over the music. “I bet a gal who can play the ragtime right knows a few more old-time songs.”

“She’s all by herself, Gramps. I’ll scare her. Aunt Molly-”

“No. No. Molly won’t do it. Won’t want me to embarrass myself-or exert myself. You do it. Right now.” And the frail old man practically pushed the big man out of his seat.

Charles smiled. That was right. So often people got it wrong, treating their elders like children, people to be coddled and ignored. He knew better, and so did the big man. The Elders were closer to the Maker of All Things and should be deferred to whenever they made their will known.

He tensed a little as the big man made his way through the diners and closer to his A

BEFORE she’d quite finished, she noticed there was a big man standing miserably beside the piano, hunching his shoulders and trying not to look scary. She judged him to be only moderately successful.

He had a scar on his chin and a few more on his knuckles and was, she judged, an inch or so taller than Charles. Maybe if she’d still been human, she might have been worried, but she could tell by the way he stood that he was no threat to her. People seldom lie with their bodies.

He obviously was waiting to speak to her, so when she played the last measure of the song, she stopped. For some reason she wasn’t in the mood for happy songs, so it was probably just as well.

A few people noticed she’d finished and began clapping. The rest put down their food and followed suit, then went back to their meal.

“Excuse me, miss. My grandpapa wants to know if you’ll play ‘Mr. Bojangles’-and if you’d mind if he sang with you.”

“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 go

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 begi

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 A

The old man’s voice was just right. It, the beaten-up piano, and A

“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 A

“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 A

And he started singing “You’re Nobody ’til Somebody Loves You,” a song Charles hadn’t heard for forty years or more. A

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 A

A

“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 A