“You’l just have to comfort yourself,” I said tartly.
He was smiling as he left the kitchen.
That night, for the first time in forever, I locked my bedroom door. I felt bad when I turned the latch, like I was dishonoring Dermot with my suspicions. But the last few years had taught me that one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings was true. An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure.
If Dermot turned my doorknob during the night, I was too soundly asleep to hear it. And maybe my ability to drop off that deeply meant that on a basic level I trusted my great-uncle. Or trusted the lock. When I woke the next day, I could hear him working upstairs in the attic. His footsteps sounded right above my head.
“I made some coffee,” I cal ed up the stairs. He was down in a minute. Somewhere he’d acquired a pair of denim overal s, and since he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath, he looked like he was about to take his place in the stripper lineup from the night before as the Sexy Farmer with the Big Pitchfork. I asked Sexy Farmer with a silent gesture if he wanted any toast, and he nodded, happy as a kid. Dermot loved plum jam, and I had a jar made by Maxine Fortenberry, Hol y’s future mother-in-law. His smile widened when he saw it.
“I was trying to get as much work finished as I could while it wasn’t so hot,” he explained. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“Nope. I slept like a rock. What are you doing up there today?” Dermot had been inspired by HGTV to hang some doors in the walk-in attic to block off a part of the big room for storage, and he was turning the rest of the floored space into a bedroom for himself. He and Claude had been more or less bunking together in the smal bedroom and sitting room on the second floor. When we’d cleared out the attic, Dermot had decided to
“repurpose” the space. He’d already painted the wal s and refinished and resealed the plank floor. I believe he’d recaulked the windows, too.
“The floor is dry now, so I built the new wal s. Now I’m actual y putting in the hardware to hang the doors. I’m hoping to get that done today and tomorrow. So if you have anything you want to store, the space wil be ready.”
When Dermot and Claude had helped me carry everything down from the packed attic, I’d gotten rid of the accumulated Stackhouse debris—
generations of discarded trash and treasures. I was practical enough to know that moldering things untouched for decades real y weren’t doing anyone any good, and the trash had gone in a large burn pile. The nice items had gone to an antiques store in Shreveport. When I’d dropped by Splendide the week before, Brenda Hesterman and Donald Cal away had told me a few of the smal er pieces had sold.
While the two dealers were at the house looking through the possibilities, Donald had discovered a secret drawer in one of the old pieces of furniture, a desk. In it, I’d found a treasure: a letter from my gran to me and a unique keepsake.
Dermot’s head turned at some noise I couldn’t yet hear. “Motorcycle coming,” he said around a mouthful of toast and jel y, sounding almost eerily like Jason. I snapped myself back to reality.
I knew only one person who regularly traveled by motorcycle.
A moment after I heard the motor cut off, there was a knock at the front door. I sighed, reminding myself to remember days like this the next time I felt lonely. I was wearing sleep shorts and a big old T-shirt, and I was a mess, but that would have to be the problem of my uninvited guest.
Mustapha Khan, Eric’s daytime guy, was standing on the front porch. Since it was way too hot to wear leather, his “Blade” impersonation had suffered. But he managed to look plenty tough in a sleeveless denim shirt and jeans and his ever-present shades. He wore his hair in a geometric burr, à la the Wesley Snipes look in the movies, and I was sure he would have strapped huge weapons to his legs if the gun laws had let him.
“Good morning,” I said, with moderate sincerity. “You want a cup of coffee? Or some lemonade?” I tacked on the lemonade because he was looking at me like I was crazy.
He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t take stimulants,” he said, and I remembered—too late—that he’d told me that before. “Some people just sleep their lives away,” he remarked after glancing at the clock on the mantel. We walked back to the kitchen.
“Some people were out late last night,” I said, as Mustapha—who was a werewolf—stiffened at the sight and scent of Farmer Dermot.
“I see what kind of work you been doing late,” Mustapha said.
I’d been about to explain that Dermot had been the one who’d worked late, while I’d only watched him work, but at Mustapha’s tone I canceled that plan. He didn’t deserve an explanation. “Oh, don’t be an idiot. You know this is my great-uncle,” I said. “Dermot, you’ve met Mustapha Khan before. Eric’s daytime guy.” I thought it more tactful not to bring up the fact that Mustapha’s real name was KeShawn Johnson.
“He doesn’t look like anyone’s great-uncle,” Mustapha snarled.
“But he is, and it’s none of your business, anyway.”
Dermot hiked a blond eyebrow. “Do you want to make my presence an issue?” he asked. “I’m sitting here eating breakfast with my great-niece. I have no problem with you.”
Mustapha seemed to gather up his stoic Zen-like impassivity, an important part of his image, and within a few seconds he was his cool self. “If Eric don’t have a problem with it, why should I?” he said. (It would have been nice if he had realized that earlier.) “I’m here to tel you a few things, Sookie.”
“Sure. Have a seat.”
“No, thanks. Won’t be here long enough.”
“Warren didn’t come with you?” Warren was most often on the back of Mustapha’s motorcycle. Warren was a skinny little ex-con with pale skin and straggly blond hair and some gaps in his teeth, but he was a great shooter and a great friend of Mustapha’s.
“Didn’t figure I’d need a gun here.” Mustapha looked away. He seemed real y jangled. Odd. Werewolves were hard to read, but it didn’t take a telepath to know that something was up with Mustapha Khan.
“Let’s hope no one needs a gun. What’s happening in Shreveport that you couldn’t tel me over the phone?”
I sat down myself and waited for Mustapha to deliver his message. Eric could have left one on my answering machine or even sent me an e-mail, rather than sending Mustapha—but like most vamps, he didn’t real y have a rock-solid trust in electronics, especial y if the news was important.
“You want him to hear this?” Mustapha tilted his head toward Dermot.
“You might be better off not knowing,” I told Dermot. He gave the daytime man a level blue stare that warned Mustapha to be on his best behavior and rose, taking his mug with him. We heard the stairs creak as he mounted them. When Mustapha’s Were hearing told him Dermot was out of earshot, he sat down opposite me and placed his hands side by side on the table very precisely. Style and attitude.
“Okay, I’m waiting,” I said.
“Felipe de Castro is coming to Shreveport to talk about the disappearance of his buddy Victor.”
“Oh, shit,” I said.
“Say it, Sookie. We’re in for it now.” He smiled.
“That’s it? That’s the message?”
“Eric would like you to come to Shreveport tomorrow night to greet Felipe.”
“I won’t see Eric til then?” I could feel my face narrow in a suspicious squint. That didn’t suit me at al . The thin cracks in our relationship would only spread wider if we didn’t get to spend time together.
“He has to get ready,” Mustapha said, shrugging. “I don’t know if he got to clean out his bathroom cabinets or change the sheets or what. ‘Has to get ready’ is what he told me.”
“Right,” I said. “And that’s it? That’s the whole message?”