Werewolves of Chicago: Curragh (Werewolves of... Book 6) by Faleena Hopkins Page B

his head. “You forget I was a cop. All the time you forget.” He raked both hands through thick hair, his expression hard. “There are other rooms in the building. There are fingerprints. I could have dusted for fucking fingerprints and found a way to…something!”
    Curragh stared at him, speechless. “You’ve never dusted for that shit before. How was I supposed to know you could do that when—”
    “—I’ve never done it before,” Xavier admitted on a growl. “But you know me! When I need to figure something out, I figure the shit out! I’ve seen the crime lab techs at enough crime scenes. I would have found a way.” He stared at the dark wood floor.
    Curragh exhaled. “Think about it. If I’d called 911, they would have called the cops. We’d be in the same place we are now. At least this way, we might—” He was going to say, have an ally on the force , but then he remembered that Kara didn’t want to help them.
    Xavier’s black eyelashes rose to the window. He stared out at the dawn light drifting through the break in the curtains. “Well, at least my wanting pancakes may have saved a woman’s life.” He swatted Curragh’s shoulder and headed for his mattress. “I need to shut my eyes. Wake me when Howard gets here.”
    “I’ll stay watch,” Curragh mumbled, trudging over to plant himself on the hardwood floor by Draik’s mattress. His buddy hadn’t moved, lips still parted on raspy breaths. The blond and light brown beard made his skin appear incredibly sallow, the yellows matching. Patches of visible, cut up scalp made him even more sad and broken. The finger on his left hand, the one nearest Curragh, twitched. Picking up the hand, the green-eyed wolf turned it over and inspected the burn marks covered in glossy healing salves. He stayed like that for a half hour with his chest twisted in vengeful anger. After a long while, he leaned over and blew on the wrist.
    “Cur?”
    Curragh’s spine shot up. Draik was staring at him through tiny, tired slits. “I’m here, buddy.”
    “Alexander,” he whispered, hoarsely. “They called him by name.”
    So Alexander was alive! “Do you know where they took you? Do you remember any details? We’ll find it and kill those motherfuckers for you.”
    A haunted look overcame Draik, tinged with fear.
    Curragh hated to see it. “Where?” he demanded.
    Draik stared at him, then rasped, “ Here . It was here. ”
    “That’s impossible!” Ice poured into Curragh’s blood. “We found you on the doormat! There was no sign of anything!” He scanned the loft. It looked exactly as it always had. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
    Weak fingers pressed his. “They cleaned it. This was done to me…in the middle of our home.” Pale eyelashes closed and he moaned, “Everything hurts.”
    “Hang on.” Curragh leapt up for the whiskey bottle and found it nearly empty. “Shit!” Rushing it back, he lifted Draik’s head so he could drink the rest down. Wiping stray drops from the pale beard, Curragh stared at his friend in horror, imagining the Russians coming in and taking Draik hostage. There must have been many of them. And if Alexander was as ruthless and swift as the rumors said he was, it made sense that Draik didn’t stand a chance. Not on his own.
    Curragh set the empty bottle down and stared at his friend’s docile face. He’d passed out again, the pain too much for him. With fury tangling around the puzzle in his mind, Curragh touched his shoulder and snarled, “That’s right. You sleep. Let us take care of this now.”
    A knock sounded on the door and the wolf froze. He listened for heartbeats and found one.
    From outside Howard hissed, “It’s me!”
    “Get up.” He passed Xavier’s mattress and kicked it. “We’ve gotta get outta here.”
    “Huh?” Xavier mumbled, rubbing red eyes and sitting up in the clothes he wore yesterday.
    Howard Peters was ready for his workday, wearing a lab coat over his slacks and polo