Alpha Omega 02 - Hunting Ground by authors_sort

the big man made his way through the diners and closer to his Anna. But there was no threat in the human’s body language. Charles thought that the big man had spent a long time trying to look less . . . lethal than someone who moved like a fighter and stood six inches taller than most people could. Charles sympathized—though he had learned to take advantage of the effect he had on people rather than disguise it.
    Â 
    Â 
    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.
    â€œExcuse me, miss. My grandpapa wants to know if you’ll play ‘Mr. Bojangles’—and if you’d mind if he sang with you.”
    â€œNo problem,” she said, smiling at him and keeping her shoulders soft so he’d know she wasn’t scared of him.
    â€œBojangles” 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.
    â€œI’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.
    Â 
    Â 
    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.
    â€œBojangles” 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.
    â€œThank you,” she told him. “That was