Dead Ever After

spotted my companion when she was a couple of yards away. She had a startled look, which she exaggerated for effect when she drew up to us.
    “Brother, you are almost enough to make me wish I was straight!” she said, with her beautiful smile.
    “Sister, right back at you,” he said politely, which perhaps answered a question I’d had about Mustapha. Or perhaps not. He was the most secretive and closemouthed person I’d ever encountered, and I must admit I found that refreshing—occasionally. When you’re used to knowing everything, including a lot of factoids you wish you had never learned, it can be mighty frustrating to wonder.
    “Mustapha Khan, India Unger,” I said, trying to keep up my end of the exchange. “India’s here to take over my tables, Mustapha, so I guess you can come out to the house now.”
    “I’ll see you there,” he said, nodding good-bye to India before striding out the door. He was donning his dark glasses and helmet as he walked.
    India shook her head as she watched him go, thinking about how fine his ass was. “It’s the front half that doesn’t appeal to me,” she said, before going to the lockers to put on her apron.
    Sam was still standing in the same spot, and he was giving me a big stare.
    “Sookie, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this has to be tough. Call me if you need me.” And then he had to turn away to make a mojito for Christy Aubert. His shoulders were stiff with tension.
    He was a problem I couldn’t solve.
    Diantha followed me out to the car. “Sookieunclejustcalledheneedsme. You’llbeallrightwiththewolf?” I assured her I would.
    “Okaythen,” she said, and went back into Merlotte’s, I guessed to wait for Mr. C to pick her up. I wondered what India would make of her.
    When I pulled out from behind Merlotte’s, Mustapha was waiting for me. Warren perched behind him on the Harley. Warren was like a bird compared to Mustapha—small, pale, narrow. But according to Mustapha, Warren was the best shot he’d ever seen. That was a compliment Mustapha would not give out lightly.
    As I drove home down Hummingbird Road followed by the Harley, I found myself feeling relieved that Eric would be gone soon. In fact, I wished he were gone already.
    I’d never imagined feeling this way, but I couldn’t handle this emotional jerking around. I’d start to feel okay, then I’d get poked in the sore spot, like taking a scab off my knee when I was a kid. In books, the hero was gone after the big blowup. He didn’t stick around in the vicinity doing mysterious shit, sending messages to the heroine by a third party. He hauled his ass into oblivion. And that was the way things should be, as far as I was concerned. Life should imitate romance literature far more often.
    If the world operated according to romance principles, Mustapha Khan would tell me that Eric had always been unworthy of me and that Mustapha himself had harbored a deep love for me from the moment he’d met me. Did Harlequin have a line of books for guys-out-of-prison-get-redeemed romances?
    I was just distracting myself, and I knew it. I noticed as I pulled to a stop that Barry’s rental car was parked in my yard, but Mr. Cataliades and his van were in town, of course.
    I got out of my car and turned around to tell Mustapha that I had company. “You and Warren come on in. I’ll have Eric’s stuff together in a jiffy,” I said. I put my hand on my car door to close it, and Mustapha got off his bike. I raised a hand to Warren, and hearing the creak of the screen door, I turned my head slightly to see who was coming out the back door. I caught a glimpse of someone I hadn’t seen in a long time. I couldn’t recall his name . . .
    And he had a gun. He called out my name in a terrible voice.
    Mustapha, his eyes hidden behind his shades, was reaching toward me, quick as only a werewolf can be. When I saw that skinny blond Warren, still on the bike, had drawn the biggest handgun I’d ever seen in my life, I had a moment to be afraid. I had time to think, “Oh Jesus, that guy is going to kill me,” when two things happened almost simultaneously. From behind me I heard a crack! , and my left shoulder burned as I staggered because Mustapha was flinging me face-first to the ground. Then a house landed on top of me. And I heard a voice screaming from inside the house, a voice that was not mine.
    “Barry,” I said. And a huge bee advised me that it had dug its stinger into my shoulder.
    Life