Dead Reckoning: A Sookie Stackhouse Novel

said. This exchange completely slammed the door shut on my good nature. “Let me reemphasize that I don’t like the way you went about this, and I’m not nuts about the way you’ve changed since you became packmaster.”
    Alcide was genuinely amazed. “I’ve had to change,” he said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
    “You’re way too used to being king of everybody,” I said. “But I’m not here to judge you or tell you that you ought to change because that’s just my opinion. God knows, I’ve been through plenty of changes myself, and I’m sure some of them haven’t done my character any good.”
    “You don’t even like me.” He sounded almost dismayed, but with an edge of incredulity that enforced my feeling.
    “Not so much anymore.”
    “Then I’ve made a fool of myself.” Now he was a little angry. Well, join the club.
    “An ambush is not the way to my heart. Or any other part of me.”
    Alcide left without another word. He hadn’t been listening until I’d said the same thing in several different ways. Maybe that was key? Saying things three times?
    I watched his truck on its way back out to the road to be sure he was really gone. I looked at my watch again. Not yet nine thirty. I changed the sheets on my bed with lightning speed, stuffing the removed bedding into the washing machine and starting it. (I could not imagine Eric’s reaction if he climbed into bed with me and found it smelling like Alcide Herveaux.) I opted to use my remaining minutes before Mustapha Khan arrived to do some much-needed grooming rather than wake up Amelia or Claude and lay into them. As I brushed my hair and pulled it into a ponytail, I heard a motorcycle on the driveway.
    Mustapha Khan, punctual lone werewolf. He had a small passenger clinging to him. I watched out the front window as he swung off the Harley and sauntered to the front door to knock. His companion stayed on the motorcycle.
    I opened the door and looked up. Khan was about six feet tall with his head shaved close, leaving a mosslike burr. He was wearing dark glasses, trying for a “Blade” look, I figured. He was the golden brown of a chocolate chip cookie. When he took off the glasses, I saw that his eyes would be the actual dark chips. And that was the only thing remotely sweet about him. I took a deep breath, inhaled the smell of something wild. I heard my fairy kin come down the stairs behind me.
    “Mr. Khan?” I said politely. “Please come in. I’m Sookie Stackhouse, and these two guys are Dermot and Claude.” From Claude’s avid expression, I was not the only one who’d thought of chocolate chip cookies. Dermot only looked wary.
    Mustapha Khan glanced at them and dismissed them, which showed he wasn’t as bright as he might be. Or maybe he just didn’t think they were pertinent to his errand.
    “I’m here to get Eric’s car,” he said.
    “Could you come in for a minute? I made coffee.”
    “Oh, good,” Dermot muttered, and headed for the kitchen. I heard him talking to someone and deduced that Amelia and/or Bob were staggering around. Good. I wanted a word with my buddy Amelia.
    “I don’t drink coffee,” Mustapha said. “I don’t take stimulants of any kind.”
    “Then would you like a glass of water?”
    “No, I’d like to head back to Shreveport. I got a long list of things to do for Mr. High and Mighty Dead Guy.”
    “How come you took the job if you think so little of Eric?”
    “He ain’t bad, for a vamp,” Mustapha said grudgingly. “Bubba’s okay, too. The rest of ’em?” He spat. Subtle, but I got his drift.
    “Who’s your buddy?” I asked, tilting my head at the Harley.
    “You want to know a lot,” he said.
    “Uh-huh.” I stared right back at him, not backing down.
    “Come here a minute, Warren,” Mustapha called, and the small man hopped off the Harley and came over.
    Warren proved to be about five foot seven, pale and freckled, and missing a few teeth. But when he took off his goggles, his eyes were clear and steady, and I didn’t see any fang marks on his neck.
    “Ma’am,” he said politely.
    I reintroduced myself. Interesting that Mustapha had a real friend, a friend he didn’t want anyone (well, me) to know about. While Warren and I were exchanging comments on the weather, the muscular Were was having a hard time reining in his impatience. Claude drifted away, uninterested in Warren and losing hope of interesting Mustapha.
    “Warren, how long have you been in