Werewolves of Chicago: Curragh (Werewolves of... Book 6) (3 page)

I
n the Chicago Loop
, Curragh leapt from the rooftop of the Y.S.L.A. building to Northern Trust’s, where he stopped and scanned the rooftop for life. Shadows overpowered the sliver of moonlight. From the ledge, with legs spread wide and solid, he searched every potential hiding place in a matter of mere seconds. Night vision wasn’t a weakness a wolf has to worry about. While he saw no one, the air was still strong with the scent of human men. It hadn’t been fifteen minutes since Viktor’s boys had convened here, but they weren’t here now.

Swearing under his breath, the wolf headed to look over the opposite ledge. The guy he’d beaten for the thugs whereabouts hadn’t lied. That was a positive in a sea of empty leads. He’d have to find that guy again, even if the police had him. Through him, the opportunity to access Viktor’s inner circle was possible.

“Next time I won’t be as patient,” he bit into the Chicago winds, dark hair blowing as he stared into the empty night. He jumped to the second story apartment building beside this and thick, black leather boots slammed into dried tar as his knees bent slightly on impact. Rising up Curragh stared at the new moon and smirked. All those stories of the moon’s cycles causing the shift, still amused him. If only human beings knew what
really
lived among them…and that it had no master.

His smugness vanished. Viktor Kruglov eluded his pack. How could that be? How did one mere man escape
their
grasp?

“One of these nights, Viktor. I’ll wrap my hands around your neck and crack it.”

When he returned to ground level, he passed by a window of Dusek’s on W. 18
^th
Street, and glanced inside. His glowering stare landed on a striking brunette with big brown eyes who sat at one of the ten black barstools around the small bar. Her pink lips were as tight as her tiny black dress. She was not impressed by the douche bag who monopolized her left ear, shouting over the music so loud that Curragh could hear the one-sided conversation through the glass. “I only watch movies with subtitles.”

Curragh stood there staring in as people congregated around him in clumps, smoke wafting through their blocked-out chatter. Something in his gut made the wolf walk through the door. The bouncer started to ask for his I.D. but changed his mind, feet shuffling. Curragh didn’t even see him.

“Get off my seat,” Curragh said with authority. The douche turned and frowned. He took one look at the six foot five inch creature and scuttled off the barstool, sliding his arm quickly back in to grab his drink before he disappeared with it.

The human female turned up her chin, watching Curragh with distant appreciation. He liked that. She looked smart. Street smart. Her eyes had a steel inside them that he'd never seen in a woman. He told the bartender as he walked up, “Makers. No ice.”

“They call that ‘neat,’” the brown-eyed female smiled, her teeth straight and beautiful.

He glanced to her. “I know. I don’t like the word.”

She closed her lips and watched him pull out his wallet, which he kept attached by a chain to his belt. With all the running and fighting he did, he couldn’t risk losing it. “What are you having?”

“Jameson. With one ice cube. It’s melted now, though.” The human stuck her finger in the glass and swirled it a little. He watched, mesmerized. Her wrists were so small. His gaze settled on her black silk blouse, on the cleavage peeking out above the buttons. He kept staring, listening to her heartbeat pick up speed.

As though time had stopped, the bartender was beside him setting down two drinks. Curragh’s eyes flickered over and he handed the man a couple twenties. “Keep it.” To say he was trying to impress her would be accurate.

“Cheers,” she smiled, bringing up her glass and touching it to his. A warm blush colored her cheeks.

He leaned in. “I’m not a fan of subtitles.”

She laughed, but then something flickered across her eyes. She was trying to figure out when that had been said, because it was before Curragh had entered the bar. But human beings will excuse their own instincts just to make sense of the illogical. He and his packmates had a lot of fun with that. But this one, she stared at him now like she wasn’t going to let it slip by. But what she didn’t understand, was everything.

A bar back came over to take away her first glass. She nearly smacked his hand. “Does it look empty?” There was one sip left in it.

Curragh stifled a laugh at the guy’s expression as he left quickly. The wolf watched her move the two glasses to sit side by side. “Now I’m a happy girl.”

“Bad night?”

She paused, eyes dancing in a way that made his dick hard. “Not anymore.”

“What happened to make you need every drop?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She leaned on her elbow.

“I’m not a fan of talking anyway.”

“I can tell that about you.” They both took a drink from their glasses. Curragh couldn’t take his eyes off her, his inner wolf alert in an altogether new way.

“Let’s go somewhere private.” He was unaware of how bold he was being until her big brown eyes flickered again.

“I’m not leaving this bar with you.”

“Who said anything about leaving the bar?”

She regarded him in silence, wondering what he meant. Then a blush flooded her cheeks as she figured it out. Her eyelashes fluttered to her two glasses. Suddenly it occurred to him she might turn him down.

But that was ridiculous.

P
resent Day

“
S
hit
!” Kara muttered, as they both righted their clothing.

He was staring at her in horror and shock. “You’re a fucking cop?!!!”

“POLICE! Come on lovebirds. Open up!”

“Yes. I’m a fucking cop. But you don’t understand. I’m already on the Guillotine. If they find out I’m locked in a bar bathroom with a man like you!!! I will never be able to…” Uncharacteristic tears burned her eyes. She looked away, completely lost. Life had been so hard for her, and now the last thing she wanted was for this guy Curragh to look at her with disgust, like he was doing now. “I just wanted to have some fun.”

He glowered at her and looked around. “There’s no other way out.”

She leaned against the wall and steeled herself for the worst moment of her life. “Forget it. Fine. Open the door.” She could just see it now. Locking eyes with a man in uniform. Him recognizing her. The smirk on his face. The entire bar watching them walk out. The abuse she’d endure tomorrow morning and probably for the rest of her career.

Curragh grabbed and pulled her to the door so quickly she gasped. For a second she thought he was going to throw her out, like a sacrificial lamb. But then he whispered hoarsely, “Stay back until I tell you.” He snatched her panties from the tile and shoved them into his pocket.

She caught a quick glance of them, saw they were shredded, not ripped, which was odd. But then the shouts grew more demanding. “OPEN THE DOOR! NOW!” No time to give her underwear another thought.

“Stay back. Hold onto your purse.” He handed it to her. That’s when she realized she was shaking.

He opened the door. She saw a blur of motion. It was hard to really see, things moved so quickly. From the cracking thud of knuckles against nose, and the grunt and fall to the hard ground, she knew he’d punched the cop out. Her eyes went wide. Her jaw dropped. He flashed in, threw her over his left shoulder and headed out fast. “Keep your head down. There are cameras.”

They made their way through a hastily parting crowd. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” she muttered, only stopping two times when they were attacked. After he punched those guys out with one crack each, she resumed, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Then she realized what people must be thinking, so she shouted, “I’m okay! He’s my boyfriend! I’m not being kidnapped!!!” The attacks stopped coming, until they were at the front door. The bouncer was trained in combat and it took three blows for him to fall down while Kara flailed in helpless circles, hanging over Curragh’s shoulder.

The cool winds of Chicago hit her naked legs. Her heels were barely hanging on. She gripped her purse against gravity’s pull as he took off running. He was smart. It had her I.D. inside. That could have ruined her life after what he’d just done. Having public sex was one thing. Punching out a cop and a few civilians was another.

“I’m dizzy again. But now I’ve got a reason!”

“Hang on.”

Sarcasm dripped from her. “Great time for a pun.” In an alley, he kicked open the door of a closed restaurant. “What are you doing! Oh my God!”

“I’m saving your reputation,” he growled. “Shut up.”

“Fuck you! How many ways are you going to break the law?! Because I think you’re setting a record. Put me down!” She hit his legs. He shut the door with another kick. In a dark kitchen he kneeled and let her stand up. Around them, dozens of ladles and pots hung from spotless, silver shelves that glinted in the moonlight wafting from small windows.

Curragh glowered at her for a long second. He was really good at that. “I can’t believe I just fucked a cop.”

Kara’s hackles sharpened. “I can’t believe I just fucked a criminal!”

They stared at each other. He snarled, “I’m outta here,” and strode off for the back exit. Kara stared after him. She made a move to follow, but stopped herself. He disappeared out of sight. The heavy sound of an industrial door closing echoed through the room.

“Great. Just great,” she muttered, looking around. Her eyes flashed around the ceiling to search for cameras. There were none. What would the owners need them for, to make sure no one stole a soufflé?

Sighing loudly, Kara paced in tight circles, stomach in knots. There was no choice of what to do. She’d have to wait here until the bar closed, got cleaned up, and all its employees—ie, witnesses—finally left.

Then she’d sneak out to her car and go home. Bars close at four in Chicago.

“And I have to be at my desk at seven. Fantastic.”

Sliding to the ground, she stared off. Memories of his hands on her breasts, his body moving hers, and the disaster that came afterward, played out again and again. Shaking her head, she mumbled, “Well, at least my life’s not boring.”

T
he two-thousand
-square-foot loft they called home was dimly lit as usual. Curragh found both his packmates, returned from their adventures, sitting in large, beat-up leather chairs an artist would love. Nothing in the place was new. Every piece of scuffed-up furniture had a purpose. There was no art on the exposed brick walls. There were few dishes in the cupboards. The wolves didn’t give a rat’s ass about luxury. They wanted space, which they had. They wanted untainted wood, too, which they had. The tables were unvarnished slabs set on low, evenly cut tree trunks. Their beds were mattresses on the floor with no box springs, each separated by about ten feet of distance from the others. Beside them were books stacked on the hardwood floor. No T.V.

And on one wood table pushed against a wall, was the contraption that enabled them to record police activity and beat the cops to the punch, or at least do the dirty work they couldn’t do. Xavier had been a cop for a few years. He’d dropped that when he realized he wasn’t able to do any real good. He’d sat around with his thumb in his ass, moping, until he’d heard about strange things happening in New York City—bad guys confessing to crimes willingly. Some of whom insisted they’d seen a werewolf, or sometimes the more general ‘monster,’ term was used.

It was enough to make Xavier take a flight to Manhattan to see for himself. Sure enough, a pack of four wolves there were doing good deeds on the side. From the way Xavier explained it to Curragh and Draik, they really were the architects they purported to be, but had also found a way to use the heat that every werewolf carries in his soul, for good. They channeled their God-given heightened sense of smell, sight, hearing and strength in a way that served humanity. The same humanity who would hunt them if they knew they were real.

It was the perfect, most ironic mask.

Ever since he’d returned, Xavier had taken up the hunt for Viktor Kruglov, the largest Russian mafia gangster ever to exist in the windy city. Other than his father, Alexander, that is. Draik and Curragh, itching to put their wolves to work, signed on immediately.

“From the look on your face, you didn’t find them.”

Curragh strode angrily to one of the cupboards and pulled out a bottle of Makers Mark Whiskey. Then he walked over and slumped on the long leather couch, the rips giving a little under his muscle weight. “Nah. I didn’t.”

Draik was watching him. “You going to drink out of that bottle?”

“What are you, human?” Curragh shot back, unscrewing the red cap and taking a hefty gulp. He made a sound of deep appreciation, but his frown remained.

Xavier scratched his black beard and stared. In this light, for any human man, it would have been hard to see his eyes, dark as they were, but not for Curragh. His vision was incredible. And he was very aware of the inspection he was under.

“What? What the fuck are you guys staring at?”

Draik’s light brown eyes narrowed. He leaned forward with his forearms resting on his spread-out thighs, jeans pulling. “What’s up?”

Curragh cracked his left shoulder. She’d felt so fucking good; it was driving him insane to know he couldn’t see her again. Or that he even wanted to. “Nothing,” he grumbled. “I’m just frustrated about this whole thing. He’s just a man. Why is it taking so long to find him! What’d you two come up with?”

Xavier sighed. “We found a cavern dug under the city library. Eighteen Russian girls, none of them older than sixteen years old. They were in cages down there.”

Curragh sat forward. “What the fuck?!”

“Fought off three armed men. So, we’ve got some new guns if we want them,” Draik smirked, knowing that was impossible. But he loved to bait Xavier.

“The weapons are probably—”

Curragh and Draik both cut him off. “—Marked” “—and we’ll be connected to Kruglov if we’re caught with them.” “Yeah yeah. We know.”

Xavier held his arm out. “Give me that bottle.” He took a swig. “Well, at least that’s eighteen innocent girls who won’t be sold on the market anymore. Not a bad day’s work.”

Curragh watched Xavier pass the bottle over, their pale friend taking it eagerly. Right before he took a swig, the bottle hovering by his lips, Draik growled, “Kruglov is going to pay with his life. Mark my words.”

He took a big drink, set the bottle down and got up for the bathroom. He was built like a wolf, broad shoulders, muscle to spare, narrow hips, but unlike his darker packmates, he was Nordic. He had really white skin, pale brown eyes and dirty blonde hair that he changed the length of all the time. And today he was sporting a blonde and light brown beard, but that wouldn’t last. He called over his shoulder, “And don’t think we can’t smell that you got laid.”

Curragh stared at him, then glanced to the window as Draik headed off. The curtains were partly opened, only about three feet wide. Through the third-floor window he could see the glittering lights of the city, Lake Michigan in the distance.

“He’s out there.”

But it wasn’t Kruglov on his mind. It was her. She was out there. And there were a lot of precincts to search if he ever wanted to see her again.
Which I don’t.
He grabbed the bottle and drank more than his mouth had room for, a little slipping down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his arm.

“We’ll get him, Cur. Let it go for now.”

Curragh looked over at Xavier and gave a short nod. “Yeah.”

“Have fun with the girl?”

“She was nobody special.”

Returning, Draik laughed. “They never are.”

Xavier jerked his chin up. “Give me that thing.”

As Curragh’s left arm passed the bottle, he pretended to scratch his nose with his shoulder, the scent of her still so strong on it. He couldn’t help himself. And that’s what bothered him.

With dead eyes, he leaned back and stared out the window.