Werewolves of Chicago: Howard
The Underdog
Faleena Hopkins
Hop Hop Publications
Contents
Copyright
DESCRIPTION
Epigraph
Prologue
1. Alisa
2. Howard
3. Howard
4. Howard
5. Alisa
6. Howard
7. Alisa
8. Howard
9. Alisa
10. Howard
11. Alisa
12. Xavier
13. Howard
14. Howard
15. Howard
16. Alisa
17. Howard
18. Alisa
19. Howard
20. Howard
21. Alisa
22. Alisa
23. Alisa
24. Howard
25. Alisa
26. Howard
27. Alisa
28. Howard
29. Alisa
30. Howard
31. Alisa
32. Howard
33. Alisa
34. Howard
35. Howard
36. Alisa
37. Epilogue
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Copyright © 2016 by Faleena Hopkins
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DESCRIPTION
An action-packed tale of courage, good vs. evil, and leaps of faith in yourself transforming you into who you really are.
What kind of a werewolf is named Howard? Yeah, I get asked that a lot. The kind suffocated in his youth, who wasn’t taught how to be a man…or a wolf.But then I met Curragh, Xavier and Draik, and they made me prove myself. Something happened. When I helped save their lives less than two months ago as we faced the vicious and evil Viktor Kruglov, I changed. Filled out. Hardened on the outside. My strength, sense of smell, hearing and night-vision are becoming extraordinary. But Alexander Kruglov is still out there so when I meet the unusual girl with the blue hair, and an insane chain of events unfolds, all I want to do is to learn how to harness these powers and use them to protect what's mine…HER. Even if who my friends think she needs protecting from is me.
If we did all the things we are capable of, we would literally astound ourselves.
Thomas A. Edison
Prologue
In the caverns below Chicago, forgotten by man and time until very recently, a dark figure prowls on four legs, green eyes glowing hot. Snarling, he sniffs dried bloodstains left behind in several rooms, eyeing the empty hangers and familiar places where his family’s expensive furniture used to rest. The fur along his back rises more sharply with each step and new discovery as he plots his vengeance. They will pay with their lives, he silently vows as he vanishes once more into the shadows.
1
Alisa
“I thought you were going out tonight,” I whisper, so the douchie hipster doesn’t hear me. “Why’d he just take his shoes off?”
Lynnie rolls her eyes and says, just as quietly, “It’s date three, so…”
“Ick,” I say on a blanche, my voice rising. “Who says three has to be the magic sex number?”
“Magic sex?” D. Hipster calls over with his eyebrows raised. He plops onto the couch in his skinny jeans, and grabs up a copy of Rolling Stone magazine from our garage sale coffee table. My best friend and roommate exchanges a glance with me. I hadn’t meant to say that so loudly, but in my disgust at the prospect of them going at it, I forgot we were whispering. My filter is almost non-existent—it’s always clear exactly how I feel about someone no matter how much she’s tried to train that out of me since Lynnie and I met in the fifth grade. I’ve gotten better, except when I really don’t like someone.
“I doubt it,” I mutter, referring to magic sex happening with him.
Lynnie smacks my arm and I stifle a smile. She gives me the once over. “You wearing that to work?”
Glancing down to my dark jeans and black shirt, I shrug, “Yeah, why not?”
She plucks at the fabric of my t-shirt. “You’re the first thing they see in the club. Hundreds of hot men go through that place every week. Try harder!” Throwing her hand on her hip, she adds, “You never know who you’re going to meet.”
Cocking a sarcastic eyebrow her way, I head for the kitchen and pour myself a quick glass of water as I inform my undiscerning friend, “There are not hundreds of hot guys in all of Chicago. And we get a lot of repeats anyway.” D. Hipster is still looking at the magazine patiently, completely tuning us out as only a guy who knows he’s going to get laid can do. “I won’t meet anyone special tonight, so why not be comfortable?”
“There are hundreds of hot men in this city!” Lynnie balks. “Be serious.”
“I am totally serious.”
“You’re totally picky, is what you are,” she tells me with a measured glare.
Glugging down the glass, I set it down by our sink and run both hands through my blue shaggy bob, smoothing the frizz out. “No argument there. I’m looking for amazing. And he’s not coming to that club, I can tell you that.”
“Alisa!” She nearly shouts with exaggerated authority as she points toward my bedroom. “Go put on that blue dress. Now.”
Throwing up my hands and laughing, I mutter, “Okay, okay, jeez. But we’re both wasting our time. I’m meant to be single. I just know it.”
“Says the twenty-three-year-old cynic,” she dryly calls after me.
As I shut the door of my room, I hear D. Hipster say in a voice I’m not meant to hear, “How long have you been friends with her?”
“All my life,” Lynnie answers on a long exhale, then adds, “Thank God.”
I smile to myself and reach for the light blue mini-dress she gave me the day I dyed my ‘do almost the same color. I’ve never worn this out in public because it is sexy as fuck. I tend to, as I told her, prefer the most comfortable outfit I can find, out of pessimistic disinterest.
Slipping into the dress, I walk over to check myself out in the mirror. Turning from side to side, I am hesitantly surprised. “Not bad…” Grabbing up the phone, I check the time and realize that Louie is going to kill me if I’m late again. “Fuck!”
Heading for the front door, I brace myself, expecting embarrassing words of appreciation from Lynnie on my way out, but I’ve lucked out. She hasn’t though. She’s already in her bedroom with what can’t possibly prove to be the ride of her life. Grimacing at the idea of a jerk like that ever touching my body, I grab a coat, lock up and head for work.
“You never know who you’re going to meet,” I mumble. “Pretty sure no one, just like every other night.”
2
Howard
Joining Curragh’s pack was something I’d wanted ever since I first met them that Friday night at Rossi’s bar on State Street. They smelled my presence and knew what I was before I even got a whiff of them. That was normal for me. My wolf senses had never been keen like they were supposed to be, at least not back then.
And tonight as I walk to join them at their loft with steady almost too eager steps, my mind revisits that fateful beginning, when I sat in the dimly lit, d
ive bar on a bitterly cold night, staring at a hand-scrawled, paper sign of the night’s special. It had been a long day of cutting up bodies…and so there I was, tired and lonely, drinking a rum and coke.
And then I heard snickering.
It was a familiar sound. I’d heard it whenever our pack ran into my own kind during my childhood, like on family vacations and every time we had reason to visit a new city. Hell, even my own pack laughed at me whenever they got the chance—pretty much daily. They would never let me forget that I was a runt. Scrawny. Not intimidating in the slightest. When I hit my teens, I prayed I would grow. And I did, sort of. I was tall, but so thin you could send me into the air with an industrial leaf blower. That’s what my mom used to say to her girlfriends when she’d had too much wine. They’d laugh. I’d smile like it didn’t bother me. But of course, it did.
So the sneering laughter wouldn’t normally make me bat an eye, but that Friday night I was surprised because it had come directly from my right. From the next chair, in fact, and two more beside his. I hadn’t noticed them come in much less take a seat right next to me. That’s how out of tune my survival instincts were. We wolves can smell our own kind…except in my case. I’m always the last to know, and what good does that do me? Their unexpected appearance, with drinks already in front of them showing how long they’d been there, was just another nail in my runt-coffin. I sighed, pushed my glasses higher up on my nose, and looked over.
They were beasts—larger than most men, and larger than most in my pack. I could see why they traveled together. All three rugged faces were easily visible thanks to the bend in the rounded bar counter. I locked eyes with them one at a time. I was tired. What did I have to lose? I was probably going to get my ass kicked anyway. At least I knew how to sew myself back up.
The wolf sitting closest regarded me with intelligent, dark irises under even darker eyebrows. He had thick black hair and matching beard, cut features, and wore a dark, worn, burgundy leather jacket with a black t-shirt. He didn’t move when I looked at him, which was unnerving since he was so near.
The one in the middle had the appearance of a blond Viking wearing modern day clothing. Definitely Nordic ancestry. He was in a light brown leather jacket, gray weathered t-shirt, and I couldn’t see from where I sat but I would have bet money he wore the coolest jeans with the perfect fit. His hair was stylish by accident, skin pale with blonde stubble around a chin any wolf like me would envy. Not that I’d ever met another wolf like me. And it was he who had done the snickering, from the sarcastically amused gleam in his unfamiliar pale brown eyes.
But it was the last packmate I couldn’t look away from. He’s who really got to me. His hair was a shade lighter than the bearded wolf—a deep, dark chocolate brown with natural highlights. You could tell he combed it only with his fingers. He seemed to be the largest of the three, because he looked the same in size, but was farther away, so I put two and two together. He never blinked as I stared at him. His lips were drawn thin with distaste. Keen green eyes narrowed on me as if he could see all of my insecurities without me even opening my mouth. He wore no jacket, and it was crazy cold that night. If someone had given him a scarf, he would have strangled them with it, snarling, “Scarves are for pussies.”
I wanted nothing more than for him to like me.
It was going to be an uphill battle, sure. But I couldn’t help it. In that instant when we glowered at each other (with him doing all of the glowering) I fell in love. Not the sexual kind—I’m into women and clearly so was he—just the kind where I wanted to be like him. I wanted his approval. I needed it.
But then again, my dad was a dick.
I’d muttered, “Hey,” trying my best to be brave, inwardly anything but. I was also upset that my greeting hadn’t come out as confidently as I’d wanted it to. It never did. They did not budge.
So I held out my hand with a sheepish smile. I had to reach out, because even with my history, even with my own pack treating me like dog-shit, even with my mom riding my ass every minute she was around, even with all of that…I knew.
I knew it then and I’ve known it every night since that one.
These wolves were going to change my life.
3
Howard
My hand hung in the air waiting to be shaken, getting heavier by the second. So I offered a little more—my name. “I’m Howard.”
The Nordic wolf started laughing his ass off. The bearded one couldn’t suppress a smile. But the one I instantly needed the approval of, his upper lip contorted in a disgusted sneer. He grumbled under his breath, “Howard?” with such deep resonance that most wouldn’t have been able to hear him. “What kind of a name is that for a…” He stopped. His buddies looked his way, surprised. He held my stare and ignored them, but he was very aware of his near slip. He’d been so appalled by my name that he’d almost said in public what we must never say.
What kind of a name is that for a…wolf.
The world doesn’t know we exist. They can’t know. If they did, they’d hunt us down and kill us out of fear and ignorance. There are too many of them and not enough of us. So we hide.
I gave him my lamest smile and said, “Yeah,” though maintaining the façade of casual friendliness was really hard with them being so them. “Howard’s not the best of names. But it’s not like I can change it.”
The Nordic wolf asked, “Why not?” without humor.
“Oh, uh…I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
The bearded one chuckled deep and low. “You have a name like Howard and you never thought of changing it?” He turned toward the pretty female with big breasts who was tending bar all by herself. “Three more Basil Haydens.” She nodded, and his dark eyes focused back on me. “You from Chicago?”
“Outskirts. Norridge. Little suburb—”
“—We know where Norridge is, Howard.” The Nordic wolf interrupted, shaking his head. “Where’re your friends?”
He meant my pack, but couldn’t say that aloud. I wanted to tell him I didn’t really have one anymore, but that would have sounded pathetic. Could I explain to them that it was by choice and have them believe it? Probably not. Even the urge to confess made me realize how lonely I was feeling that night. My pack still existed, I just didn’t want to be part of them, and they didn’t miss me, either.
I wanted these guys to stay and talk to me. It felt good, like it was supposed to be happening, and I didn’t want to scare them off. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I said, “Still there. I’m the only one who moved to the city. We’re pretty close, but I had bigger things to do.”
“What do you do?” the bearded one asked. “For a living.”
The awesome one muttered into the last of his drink, “Yeah, why do you smell like rubbing alcohol and corpses?” He set it down and waited for my answer.
“I’m a coroner.” Three pairs of eyebrows shot up. They stared at me. The awesome one made a face like he didn’t see that one coming, and was reluctantly impressed. My spine straightened. “Yep. Coroner. That’s me.”
With his glass in front of his lips, the bearded one said, “You look pretty young for that kind of job.”
“Finished med. school at twenty-one,” I shrugged. The surprise increased in them, so I hastily added with apology in my tone, “Skipped a lot of grades. I know. It’s lame.” Being good in school wasn’t a quality wolves admired. Just another reason for me to stick out.
My childhood pack loved to razz me about my brain. He’s got all of the brain and none of the muscles so he’ll never get laid. They’d made a rhyme out of it, which was a stretch. Didn’t stop them. But these new guys, finding out what I did for a living made them very interested in me. They were eyeing me like I had some worth. I felt my blood thicken with seeds of hope that grew when the bearded one told the bartender, as she laid down their drinks. “One more Basil Haydens.”
She gave him a saucy smile and said, “You got it,” holding his look a moment before she
left to pour the drink.
His eyes drifted to her ass, then back to me. “A coroner. That’s impressive. The whiskey’s for you, kid.” He rubbed his beard with thick fingers, eyeing me. “I’m Xavier.”
The blonde one tipped his head. “Draik.” Then he glanced over to the awesome one. “And that’s Curragh. He’s real friendly.” He smiled wide, but Curragh just stared at him like he was an idiot.
They didn’t wait for my drink to come to toast, though. Before she returned, they brought their glasses up and clinked them together, then hit them on the bar before they each took a big swig. I could tell they’d done it a thousand times. When my bourbon came, I didn’t hesitate. I just drank it and thanked them. But inwardly I vowed that one day—no matter how long it took—my glass would clink theirs, and they’d give me the same nods of camaraderie they’d just shared. One day…I’d join their pack. It seemed an impossibility, but I didn’t fucking care.
“Do you like it?” Draik asked me after a couple quiet minutes.
“The bourbon? It’s great!”
“Cutting up bodies.”
“Oh. Yeah, I do.” I shrugged. “It’s science. I like seeing how things work. It’s fascinating to me, so yeah. I like to uncover what really happened to them, why their lights went out for good. It’s not about the dead bodies. The actual people aren’t there anymore when I’m working. Only what’s left of them. A tie to the mystery. Clues. I like solving problems, and I’m good at my job.”
“It’s like being a doctor, too, yeah?” Draik asked.
Egged on by their attention, I explained, “I was told to be a doctor by my mom to help our…friends. But it turned out I have an aptitude for it, and it held my interest.”
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