Dead Ever After (Sookie Stackhouse #13)(58)
Author: Charlaine Harris

Secure her, Barry thought. Like we’re in some kind of spy movie. Fuck him. I’ll kill him if I get the chance. Anything to avoid thinking about the bloody body at his feet.

Just as he was looking down at the thing he least wanted to see, he was sure Bob moved.

He wasn’t dead.

But it would only be a matter of time, if they didn’t get some help.

Barry realized appealing to Tyrese was a waste of breath. Tyrese was not in a merciful mood and might just kick Bob in the head or shoot him again. He hoped Amelia would have an idea, but her head was full of horror and regret and loss. Not a single idea in the place.

Barry had never secured anyone with duct tape before, but he bound Amelia’s wrists together behind the chair, and that would have to do.

"Now," Tyrese said. "You sit on the floor and put your hand on that table leg."

That would put him closer to Bob, and there was nothing Barry could do to help the witch. He sank to the floor and gripped the table leg with his left hand.

"Now duct tape your hand to the table," Tyrese said.

With a lot of clumsy effort, Barry managed, ripping off the tape with his teeth.

"Scoot it across the floor to me," Tyrese said, and Barry did.

Then there was nothing left to do.

"Now we wait," said Tyrese.

"Tyrese," Amelia said, "you ought to shoot my dad, not Sookie."

She had everyone’s attention.

"It’s my dad who got you into this. It’s my dad who sold your soul to the devil. It’s my dad who doomed your girlfriend."

"Your dad done everything he could for me," Tyrese said stubbornly.

"My dad killed you," Amelia said. Barry admired her courage and straight speaking, but Tyrese did not. He smacked Amelia across the face, and then he taped her mouth shut.

Barry thought Amelia was absolutely right. And maybe if Tyrese had had a chance to absorb the worst of his grief, he would have seen that, too. But in his rush to do something, anything, in the wake of hearing about Gypsy’s suicide, Tyrese had committed himself to this course of action, and he would not be dissuaded. He would never admit he’d done something so incredibly stupid.

You have to admit, Barry thought, that Tyrese is loyal, in a weird way.

Barry thought of Mr. Cataliades and hoped he’d be alerted to the fact that something was wrong in the house. He was tough. He could handle this situation. Or maybe when Sookie and Diantha pulled up, she’d hear Tyrese’s thoughts, though where she parked it was doubtful she’d be able to get a reading. But if she counted heads in the house, she might think something was off – though she’d have no reason to suspect danger.

Barry’s thoughts went around in circles as he tried to think of some way to extricate them all from this situation, some way that wouldn’t get them killed. Get him killed. He wasn’t much of a hero; he’d always known that about himself. He did good when it would not put him in peril; he believed that in this, he was like most people.

Suddenly Tyrese, who’d been leaning against the wall, straightened. Barry heard a car coming, and there was another sound, too. Was that a motorcycle? Sure sounded like one. Who could it be? Would the presence of other people be enough to stop Tyrese?

But there wasn’t any going back for the bodyguard, apparently.

As the car’s motor died and the other motor, too, Tyrese grinned at Amelia. "Here goes," he said. "I’m going to make everything even. This woman is going to die."

But the person driving the car might not even be Sookie. What if it was Mr. Cataliades in his van? Tyrese didn’t even look. He’d gotten the whole story set in his mind. This would be Sookie, and he would kill her, and then everything would somehow balance out.

Tyrese swung around to face the back door, the smile still on his lips. Barry started screaming at Sookie in his head, because that was all he could do, but he didn’t think she’d hear him. He looked up at Amelia and saw the strain in her face. She was doing the same.

And then Tyrese took a step forward, and another. He was on the porch. He wasn’t going to wait for Sookie to enter the house, which would have been a sure thing. He was going to meet her.

MERLOTTE’S

earlier

Sam’s lips parted and I just knew he was finally going to explain. But then he looked past me and the moment passed. "Mustapha Khan," he said, and he definitely wasn’t happy to see Eric’s daytime guy.

As far as I knew, Sam had nothing against the werewolf. Surely he couldn’t blame Mustapha for beheading Jannalynn? After all, it had been a fair fight, and Sam, though a shapeshifter, was very familiar with Were rules. Or was it Mustapha’s job as Eric’s daytime guy that made Sam so grumpy?

I wondered, things being how they were, why Mustapha was coming to see me. Maybe something had been decided about who would take over Fangtasia, and Eric wanted me to know.

"Hello, Mustapha," I said, as calmly as I could. "What brings you here today? Can I get you a glass of water with lemon?" Mustapha didn’t take stimulants of any kind: coffee, Coca-Cola, anything.

"Thank you. A glass of water would be refreshing," he allowed. As usual, Mustapha was wearing dark glasses. He’d removed his motorcycle helmet, and I saw he’d shaved a pattern in the stubble on his head. That was new. It gleamed under the lights of the bar. An Norr did a double take when she got a good look at the muscled magnificence that was Mustapha Khan. She wasn’t the only one.

When I brought him an icy glass, he was sitting on a bar stool having some kind of silent staring contest with Sam.

"How is Warren?" I asked. Warren, possibly the only person Mustapha cared for, had been awfully close to dead when we found him at Jannalynn’s folks’ empty garage apartment.

"He’s better, thank you, Sookie. He ran half a mile today. He walked the rest, with some help. He’s out there waiting, right now." Mustapha inclined his patterned head toward the front door. Warren was the shyest man I’d ever met.

I hadn’t known Warren had been a runner before his ordeal, but I figured the fact that he’d resumed the exercise was pretty good news, and I told Mustapha to give the convalescent my good wishes. "I’d have sent him a get-well card if I knew his address," I added, and felt like a fool when Mustapha took off his dark glasses to give me an incredulous look. Well, I would have.

"I come here to tell you Eric is leaving tomorrow night," he said. "He thought you should know. Plus, he left some shit at your place. He wants it back."

I stood very still for a long moment, feeling the finality of it hit my heart. "Okay, then," I said. "I do have some stuff of his in my closet. I’ll send it – where? Though I don’t suppose they are things he’ll miss." I tried to not add any layers of meaning to that.