Dead Reckoning(74)

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 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 . . .”