Werewolves of Chicago: Xavier

by Faleena Hopkins

  “Bye Mr. Wolfman!” “BYE!”

  They scoot down and reach out their little arms to me. One after the other I help them down, hugging each of them really hard before I say, “Run to the sidewalk! Go go go! It’s not safe on the street.”

  When my daughter joins my son there and reaches for his hand, I sigh and glance to my dangerously rebellious chauffeur. “You’re free of any more responsibility. Happy now?”

  “Have a nice day, Mrs. Foster.”

  I want to tell him exactly where to shove that fucking tone, but I slam the door instead. Let that be my voice! Glaring at him, I step back into the street.

  He’s glaring back at me but then his eyes change to fear and he shouts, “EMILY!”

  I look over and scream. An enormous, blue Dodge truck is barreling toward me. Horns blast. I go white. Glass shatters on the side of my face and rough hands grab me by my shirt, pulling me flat against the Jeep’s passenger door. Gasping, I meet Xavier’s eyes, stunned. His face is inches from mine with nothing between us. I can feel the warmth of his breath as he pants. We blink at each other. I don’t know what just happened. Why is there no window? A wet feeling on one of my shoulders makes me look down. He’s got fistfuls of my blouse and next to his elbows glass shards shoot jaggedly up from inside the frame.

  “Did you just punch through the glass?” My heart picks up speed now. Suddenly I can hear Michael and Sofia shouting, “MOMMY!” They’re voices sound so far away.

  “You need to be more careful,” Xavier mutters, releasing me. “You have children who need you.”

  Blinking from his bloody knuckles to my likewise shirt, I straighten it, along with my spine, and walk away. How dare he tell me what my children need?

  Confused and irritated, I join them and kneel down to reassure them, “I’m okay! It’s okay. That’s why you have to stay out of the street, guys, right? Mommy was being careless.” I look behind me as the Jeep speeds off. Sofia and Michael are staring after him, too.

  Sofia tells me, “He’s a superhero, Mommy!” in her forever-twinkly voice.

  “No, honey, he’s just a man.”

  “A wolf man!” Michael corrects with fervor.

  Sighing and feeling like this day has been the strangest of my life, I kiss them both on their smooth foreheads and whisper, “C’mon. Let’s get you inside.”

  As we head up the dirty stairs to the second floor where we live, Michael asks, “Is he a friend of Daddy’s?”

  Sighing, I pull out the key. “No, baby. Daddy never met that man. He was just giving us a ride because his friend knew we needed one. That’s all.”

  “Will we see him again?”

  I was just wondering the same thing, but after the way I talked to him, I know the answer to that question. “No. We won’t.”

  Disappointed they file into the apartment that I wish to God I never had to see again.

  Xavier

  Draik sits spread eagle on our couch with a phone in his hands, pale brown eyes focused on it. “Where’ve you been? You watch War autopsy that piece of shit Foster?”

  “No. Got sidetracked,” I mutter, throwing my keys on the small, raw wood table by our front door, and glancing down at my hand. Heading for the bathroom, I wash my knuckles out and wince against the sting of cold water on my naked wounds. A shard of glass glitters in the low lamplight. I yank it out of there and toss it in the toilet. This middle knuckle is the biggest and took the greatest hit. The others are on lockdown, dark and red.

  Maybe he won’t notice.

  I don’t feel like telling him about the woman and her offspring. That’s the last thing I want to open a discussion about. I’m disturbed by my reaction to that woman. And even more to what her kids called me.

  Wolfman. Fuck.

  Normally I’d relay everything to Draik since we’re so closely tied to that family’s current situation. But she had an impact on me I don’t want to think about. And I certainly don’t want to tell him about the kids seeing what I really am.

  How did they know?

  What did they really see?

  Best to leave that in the past where it will shrivel up and die a quick death. No need to drag it out.

  “What are you lookin’ at on that thing?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Draik chuckles on a smirk.

  “Porn.”

  “You got it. That’s what I’m looking at.” He rolls his eyes. “I need porn like a rich kid needs more money.” His eyes fade out, distracted by something on the screen. “War says we need to come up with a zoo alibi. The cops are wondering what the hell. What dya think? Do we pay someone off?”

  “Too suspicious.” I collapse onto one of the two worn leather chairs opposite him. I love these fucking things. Lived in. Rugged. Like us.

  Kicking my boots up on the new coffee table, I kick at a plate that’s got several good-sized chunks of steak left on it. “You sick or something?”

  “Ha. No, forgot all about it. Guess I’m preoccupied. This one is a hard one, X. We normally use guns. Not like what happened to—”

  “—Sam Foster. I know. It got ugly. Couldn’t have anticipated that.” Saying his name and remembering what happened, my stomach tightens. Those kids. Especially now that I’ve seen them in person. They’re cute as hell and well mannered. Little Sofia’s face only makes me want to protect her. Just like her brother wants to. How could he hurt those fucking kids? I can just picture Michael yelling at him to stop, his hands spread out with Sofia cowering behind him as their dad advances with a belt. I don’t know that happened. I’m just guessing.

  And how could he lay a fist on Emily Foster? How could she let him? She’s got fire in her. “How come she didn’t just leave?”

  I don’t realize I said that aloud until Draik answers me, his eyes still on the phone. “Because he threatened to kill her and the kids. Guys like him always do that. And when she tries to leave — and Sandra told me she’d tried two times just since Sandra moved in there — he beats her so badly that she doesn’t dare do it again. He’s a sick fuck.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Draik meets my eyes. “Me too.”

  We both cock our ears to the front door as steps come at it. The door opens and Curragh adds to our conversation as he walks in, “Me too. But now we need damage control.” He was easily able to hear our conversation with his supernatural aural faculties.

  Which reminds me. Why couldn’t I hear Emily Foster’s heart? I didn’t know she was in the morgue with War — our fourth and final packmate — until I saw those curvy hips of hers and that ass I want to bite.

  Fuck me. Now I’m thinking about her body again. That soft feminine figure my hands would love to explore with slow and searching precision.

  Cut it out. She’s off limits. It isn’t right.

  I grit through my teeth, “What do you propose?”

  Draik tosses the phone onto the couch next to him and leans forward. “Remember that I.T. guy who made us the contraption so we could hear the police activity?”

  As soon as he brings up Martin, I know where he’s going. “You want to hire him to pay someone off? Too risky.”

  Curragh grumbles away the idea. “It puts him in danger and he could rat us out if they catch him. No dice.”

  Draik just smiles. “Nah nah nah. He sets up an anonymous email and we do the rest. Something untraceable. He’ll do it because—”

  I finish, liking the idea a little more now, “—he knows we’re fighting to protect this city.”

  “From itself,” Curragh mutters, sitting back. He points at the steak left forgotten. “What the fuck?” Reaching over, he scoops the prime rib up and swallows it down, then burps. “Fucking criminal.”

  Draik’s jaw drops. “I was going to eat that.”

  On a smirk, I tell him, “Move faster next time,” pointing to our beast to my left. “You know he pops in here when he wants to. You should have planned for that.”

  “What, I’m not welcome
just because I moved downstairs?” Curragh cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “No. You’re not. You got married. Traitor.” Chuckling, I amble over to the liquor cabinet in our kitchen. My thoughts immediately bounce back to Mrs. Foster. It’s like she’s a drug and I’m wondering where I can find a needle with a drop of her left in it. Just to tide me over.

  I’m trying to control it. It’s why I keep thinking of her as a ‘Mrs.’ so I can get a grip on myself.

  I slipped when she was in danger. I called her Emily, when I saved her. I felt the floor of my Jeep move, felt the urgent rumble of that oncoming truck. My supernatural senses were able to pick up on it and react just in time. Breaking the glass with my fist was pure instinct. I reached out with my greatest speed. Can’t show that shit in public, but I had no other choice. It was either that or watch her die and that wasn’t going to happen. But having her parted lips so close to my face was hot as hell and now these bottles are reminding me of her curves, her hips, those tits. Fuck!

  “I wish we could just tell them we did it and why,” Draik mutters.

  From across the large and open loft, I huff, “Yeah right. Hey Chicago. Werewolves walk among you. Could be your teacher, boss, lover. But we’re here.” This bottle. It’s got no curves at all. Oban Single Malt Scotch.

  “Let’s do that,” Curragh chuckles. “Shock the shit out of every last one of them.”

  Walking back with the slender bottle held in my right hand, my two packmates throw me an odd glance.

  Curragh’s eyes narrow. “What happened to your hand?”

  Xavier

  Draik’s staring at me, waiting for an answer.

  Damn. I was hoping they wouldn’t notice. And here I forgot to hide it. I stretch out my fingers so I can inspect the damage.

  “Nothing.”

  They both keep staring. I really don’t want to talk about this because then I’ll have to talk about her and I don’t trust myself to act like I don’t give a shit, like she hasn’t had this effect on me. Because she has. And I’m not that good an actor. They know me too well anyway.

  “What?”

  “What happened to your fucking hand?” Draik demands.

  Irritated, I mutter, “You’re just pissed you didn’t see it first,” and pop the top off the bottle. It rolls across our hardwood floor as I drink a healthy gulp, ignoring their glares.

  “Xavier.”

  “Leave it.”

  All heads turn toward the door as footsteps and whistling come at us.

  “Does he have to be so fucking cheerful all the time?” Curragh growls.

  “I heard that!” War calls out before he opens the door and strolls in wearing slacks and the usual workday button-up, lab coat left back at the morgue. “How great is it that I heard that? Even with Curragh’s low baritone.”

  I suppress amusement, but Draik laughs outright at Curragh’s face. These two have a Fozzy Bear/Statler-and-Waldorf thing going on at all times and Draik and I find it amusing. Especially since Draik gave Howard a better name, after he earned one. It’s fun. And we need a little fun.

  “So, War, how’d it go with The Lady Foster today?” Draik leans forward for details, a smile in his pale brown eyes. There is no remorse for what had to be done to that woman’s husband.

  Sam Foster is only one of many domestic abusers who we’ve taken down since we started our little fighting-evil hobby. We normally just hurt and scare the ever-living-shit out of these guys, but this bastard was different. More vile than those we’ve come across. My thoughts get interrupted by Howard’s answer.

  “Did Xavier tell you he couldn’t hear her heartbeat?”

  Curragh and Draik stare at War, then their heads spin toward me, two sets of eyes narrowing in disbelief and suspicion. Now they really want to know what happened to my hand.

  “Oh…I guess he didn’t,” Howard mumbles.

  Inhaling deeply through my nose, I drop the bottle onto the table. Curragh catches it before it lands. “What the fuck, Xavier? You thought that wasn’t important information?”

  “It’s not a big thing. I was in my own head. I walked into the lab, and didn’t listen beforehand. I didn’t say anything incriminating.”

  They stare at me. Draik points out, “But you knew which lab to walk into.”

  “You knew where Howard was,” Curragh adds for clarification as if I need any. “You sick or somethin’?”

  “That’s what I asked Draik about the steak. Nope. Not sick. Just didn’t hear it.”

  War offers, “You heard it later, though, right?” making up for throwing me under the bus. He knows I didn’t. I would have said I did if I had.

  “Yeah…I heard it later,” I mutter. “Calm down. I was just distracted. I heard it later.”

  This seems to appease them and they go back to discussing how to pay off the zoo.

  “It’s not gonna work.” War joins Draik on the couch to explain his logic. “Who there would lie and say a wild animal got out? Blow their reputation? I don’t think anyone would do that and not squawk later.”

  “He’s right. We’re being too optimistic.” Curragh hands the bottle to Howard. “War, want any?”

  We all stare at him. A smirk appears as his green eyes glitter. They’re pale green like Michael and Sofia’s. Not as dark as their hot mother’s. I could just swim in those eyes of hers for years and never ask for a life-vest. Just leave me in there to die a happy wolf.

  Fuck. What the hell? Cut it out.

  “I like to throw you off balance,” Curragh chuckles to himself.

  She was just as distracted by me as I was by her. That’s what floors me. I saw the look as she stared back at me. She wouldn’t have turned me away if I’d have kissed her.

  As War goes to take it, he jerks it back for one last gulp, a grin on his face.

  Or maybe she would have, but only because her kids were watching. I should have tried it. I could have tasted those lips.

  War sighs and shakes his head, waiting until he gets the bottle before he grumbles, “You love me, Curragh. You just don’t know it.”

  The near death experience was a gift.

  “I love to fuck with you is what I love.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Whatever.”

  It took her wall down and electricity sparked between us like flame held to a finale-worthy firecracker.

  “Xavier.”

  It took everything I had to set her down. The kids screaming for her helped. Kids.

  “Xavier.”

  She has kids. What am I thinking?

  “Xavier!”

  The loft blinks into focus. Three pair of eyes are on me. “What?”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Here. I’m here.” I point to the bottle. “Hand that over.”

  Draik passes it to me. “We were calling your name for five minutes.”

  “Exaggeration,” I grumble, staring at the whiskey and not drinking. “I’m just bored of this conversation.”

  “Valid.” Curragh exhales and runs his hands through his hair as he looks toward the window. “We have to let time take care of what happened to the sick fuck. Time is the only way.”

  They all agree, and I nod my assent as well. Then they start talking about food and I set the bottle down, distracted. I can’t stop wondering what she tastes like, how good it would feel to have her pussy trembling against my tongue as she begs for me to fuck her, clawing those clean, self-manicured nails into the back of my neck as she cums.

  Jumping to my feet and heading for my keys, I mutter, “I’m going for a ride.”

  As soon as I shut the door, I hear Draik ask, “What the fuck happened in the morgue today?” and War answer, “He’s feeling guilty. It’s normal.”

  “He can hear us,” Curragh mutters.

  Under the circumstances I guess I should feel guilty. But I don’t. There are lots of things stopping me from making a move on her. I don’t like how strong my desire for her is. It also isn’t right to
move in there after us being the cause of her loss, even if he was a disgusting waste of oxygen. Also, those kids called me Wolfman and the world can’t find out we’re real. And then there’s the fact that Emily Foster is not some woman in a bar I can pick up, take home and fuck like crazy and then leave without ever calling her again. Money or no money, this one’s a lady.

  A lady with children to look after, who love her.

  And we took their father away.

  I have to stop saying that.

  Reality is this: we found out about the situation. It fell in our laps. We researched it, as a pack. We listened in and when we heard what went on just a few short nights ago, the decision was made that we had to put a stop to it. It took a couple days for him to go to his usual bar. We followed him. We baited him. We bought him drinks and kept him there late.

  But we didn’t kill Sam Foster. I did.

  Emily

  As I tuck the peach comforter around my daughter, Sofia watches me with sleepy eyes. As soon as I’m done, she asks, “Is Daddy coming back late?” My chest twists painfully, but I keep my face placid.

  “When you’re sleeping, honey. He won’t be coming home until then.”

  She frowns and buries her face into her pillow like she’s mad. “I don’t want him to!”

  I touch her shiny hair, all clean of orange juice now. After her bath, I brushed it for a very long time while the three of us watched our favorite T.V. show, all cuddled up together on our old couch.

  It doesn’t surprise me that she’s mad at his absence. He’s hardly ever here. The children must miss him. And now they’ll never see him again. I have no idea how to tell them that. Gently, I ask her, “You want to see him now, don’t you, baby?”

  She shakes her head. “No!”

  Surprised and saddened, I pick up my little girl and cradle her in my arms, the blanket coming with her. When they say things like that it only reminds me of how scared they are of him. Sometimes they act like they love him – other times they hate him. And it’s all my fault. If I had just…but I couldn’t leave. He would have hurt us. He did hurt me whenever I tried. And so badly, too. I knew he meant it when he said if I ever succeeded, he’d kill me. Or them. Or all of us.