Dead Reckoning: A Sookie Stackhouse Novel

Shreveport?”
    “Oh my gosh, I been there all my life,” Warren said. “’Cept when I was in the army. Course, I was in the army fifteen years.”
    Easy to find out about Warren, but Eric had wanted me to check out Mustapha. So far the Blade wannabe wasn’t cooperating. Standing in the doorway was not a good way to have a relaxing conversation. Oh, well. “So you and Mustapha have known each other for a while?”
    “Few months,” Warren said, glancing at the taller man.
    “Twenty Questions over?” Mustapha said.
    I touched his arm, which was like touching an oak branch. “KeShawn Johnson,” I said thoughtfully, after a little rummage in his head. “Why’d you change your name?”
    He stiffened, and his mouth was grim. “I have reinvented myself,” he said. “I am not the slave to a bad habit who was named KeShawn. I am Mustapha Khan, and I am my own man. I own myself.”
    “Okeydokey,” I said, doing my best to sound agreeable. “Nice to meet you, Mustapha. You and Warren have a safe trip back to Shreveport.”
    I’d learned as much as I was going to today. If Mustapha Khan was going to be around Eric for a while, I’d gradually catch enough glimpses into his head to piece him together. Oddly enough, I felt better about Mustapha after I’d met Warren. I was sure Warren had had some very hard times and maybe done some very hard things, but I also thought at his core he was a reliable man. I suspected the same might be true of Mustapha.
    I was willing to wait and see.
    Bubba liked him, but that wasn’t necessarily such a recommendation. After all, Bubba drank cat blood.
    I turned away from the door, bracing myself to face my next set of problems. In the kitchen, I found Claude and Dermot cooking. Dermot had found a cylinder of Pillsbury biscuits in the refrigerator, and he’d mastered opening the can and putting them on a baking sheet. The oven had even preheated. Claude was cooking eggs, which was kind of amazing. Amelia was getting out plates and Bob was setting the table.
    I hated to interrupt such a domestic scene.
    “Amelia,” I said. She’d been suspiciously focused on the plates. She looked up as sharply as if she’d heard me pump my shotgun. I met her eyes. Guilty, guilty, guilty. “Claude,” I said even more sharply, and he glanced at me over his shoulder and smiled. No guilt there. Dermot and Bob simply looked resigned.
    “Amelia, you told my business to a werewolf,” I said. “Not just any werewolf, but the packmaster of Shreveport. And I’m sure you did that on purpose.”
    Amelia flushed red. “Sookie, I thought with the bond broken, maybe you’d want someone else to know about that, and you’d talked about Alcide, so when I met him, I thought . . .”
    “You went there on purpose to make sure he knew,” I said relentlessly. “Otherwise, why pick that bar out of all other bars?” Bob looked as though he were about to speak, and I raised my index finger and pointed it at him. He subsided. “You told me you were going to the movies in Clarice. Not to a werewolf bar in the opposite direction.” Having finished with Amelia, I turned to the other culprit.
    “Claude,” I said again, and his back stiffened, though he kept on cooking eggs. “You let someone into the house, my house, without me here, and you gave him permission to get in my bed. That’s inexcusable. Why would you do such a thing to me?”
    Claude carefully moved the frying pan off the burner, turning it off as he did so. “He seemed like a nice guy,” Claude said, “and I thought you might like to make love with something with a pulse for once.”
    I actually felt something snap inside me. “Okay,” I said in a very level voice. “Listen up. I’m going to my room. You all eat the food you’ve cooked, then you pack up and leave. All of you.” Amelia started crying, but I wasn’t going to soften my stance. I was royally pissed off. I looked at the clock on the wall. “In forty-five minutes, I want this house empty.”
    I went in my room, shutting the door with exquisite quietness. I lay on my bed with a book and tried to read. After a few minutes there was a knock at the door. I ignored it. I had to be resolute. People staying in my home had done things they knew damn good and well they ought not to do, and they needed to know I wouldn’t tolerate such interference, no matter how well intended (Amelia) or simply mischievous (Claude). I buried my face in my hands. It was hard to keep up this