Werewolves of Chicago: Curragh (Werewolves of... Book 6) Read Online Free PDF Page A

disaster that came afterward, played out again and again. Shaking her head, she mumbled, “Well, at least my life’s not boring.”

Chapter Eight
    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