Butterfly Assassin Read online

  Butterfly Assassin

  By

  Annabelle Jacobs

  Copyright

  Cover artist: Garrett Leigh

  Editor: Labyrinth Bound Edits

  Butterfly Assassin © 2018 Annabelle Jacobs

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:

  This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

  The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  WARNING

  This book contains material that maybe offensive to some and is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, graphic violence, explicit sexual content and adult situations.

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to everyone who helped with this, especially my proofers who stepped in at the last minute.

  Table Of Contents

  Character List

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Also By Annabelle Jacobs

  List of Characters

  Clapham Common Pack

  Alpha – Sam Thomas

  Beta – Isaac Lax

  Pack member – Aaron Harper (aka Al Hunter)

  Pack member – Harry Nash

  Shifter Crimes Task Force

  Detective Chief Inspector Max Arlington

  Detective Sergeant Michael Archer

  Detective Sergeant Frank Coldwell

  Detective Sergeant Callum Bridgford

  Metropolitan Police

  Detective Sergeant Ian Miller

  Forensic Pathologist – Dr. Clive Peters

  Illegal Boxing

  Organiser – Mr Smith (aka Daryl White)

  Bodyguard – Simon Blake

  Boxer – Charlie Cross (aka Charles Crossford)

  Boxer – Mac Martin

  Spectator – Gavin Foster (mate of Charles Crossford)

  Alpha Council Members

  Alpha Karin Wallace

  Alpha Curtis Jones

  Clumber Park Pack

  Alpha – Tom Yates

  Pack member – Dale Wilson

  PROLOGUE

  In London, 2010, the rising numbers of shifters had reached an all-time high. Rival packs throughout the city swelled their ranks with both willing and forced bitings, causing widespread panic amongst the population. In a move to combat growing crime in the city and to alleviate public concerns, the government introduced Karel’s Law.

  Karel’s Law

  All existing shifters will be required to submit to DNA registering. Failure to do so will be considered a criminal act and render the perpetrator liable to prosecution. Furthermore, any and all new bitings must first be proposed and submitted to the Department of Shifter Relations for consideration, with a signed agreement from both the hosting pack and the human proposer. Failure to do this will result in the change being classed as non-consensual. Verbal agreement will no longer be considered binding. All acts of non-consensual change will be subject to prosecution under the Right to Choose Act (1995).

  Right to Choose Act

  If a human is bitten without consent, regardless of whether the change takes and holds, the punishment of the accused shifter will be decided at the discretion of the injured party—up to and including the death penalty. If the injured party is unable to make the decision themselves, it will be decided by the courts.

  With a new surge in shifters being snatched off the street and forced to bite, any shifter unable to produce the correct signed papers of proposal and/or DNA registration card and pack membership—corroborated by the alpha—will immediately be arrested and placed in Krillick Hall pending further investigation. The police reserve the right to carry out random identity checks.

  In 2014, underground boxing matches reached an all-time high. With both shifters and humans taking part in unlicensed fights, serious injuries became a regular occurrence. Following a boxing-related death in Aug 2014, the Illegal Fighting Act was introduced.

  Illegal Fighting Act

  All shifters are prohibited from taking part in boxing matches unless fully licenced and organised by a recognised body. Bare-knuckle fights are also prohibited for both humans and shifters. The punishment for anyone found guilty of either taking part in or organising an illegal fight will be anything up to fifteen years in prison—for shifters, this would mean Krillick Hall.

  CHAPTER ONE

  March 2017

  Aaron finished wrapping his hands and cracked his neck from side to side.

  Ten minutes to showtime.

  Showtime? What a fucking joke.

  This was an illegal fight. No licence, no safety protocols in place.

  Luckily he didn’t need them.

  His ring was the dirty underground car park of an abandoned office building in the City of London, and the crowd a mix of bloodthirsty spectators and high-stake gamblers.

  Their loud, sometimes drunken chatter filtered in through the double doors separating his makeshift dressing room—a two-cubicle bathroom with a row of three lockers—from the large open-plan car park.

  The place was packed tonight, he could tell from the volume of voices. Three fights down and they were hungry for blood, whipped up into a frenzy by what they’d already witnessed.

  Resting his hands on the edge of the sink, Aaron let his head hang down. White tape covered his knuckles—the only protection allowed. He didn’t need it. His shifter DNA would take care of any injuries sustained, but it helped cover up the evidence if he healed too soon. Occasionally his concentration slipped, and he couldn’t afford to be discovered while surrounded by so many of Smith’s men.

  Shifters weren’t allowed to take part in Smith’s fights—house rules. Betting was fine, welcomed even. Shifters tended to have more money than the majority of humans who came to watch. But the unfair advantage shifters held in the ring prohibited them from taking part in the fights themselves.

  Which was fair enough.

  Aaron figured under the circumstances, it was okay to bend the rules a little. Smith wasn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen, and anyway, Aaron was already breaking the law by taking part. As long as he stopped himself from healing and held back on his speed and strength, he figured it was a fair fight. The fighters who faced him were fortunate. He always knew when they’d had too much, could smell it on them, hear it in their breathing, and one well-placed punch would knock them out, ending the fight.

  Others weren’t so lucky. There were no trainers here to throw in the towel.

  And he wasn’t the only shifter who did this.

  Aaron had run into another the second time he’d fought. They’d acknowledged each other with a slight nod but nothing more. They hadn’t had to fight each other yet, and Aaron hoped it stayed that way.


  The shifters who came to watch the fights kept their secrets—like an unwritten rule—but if Smith ever managed to get a shifter on his payroll, they’d both be screwed.

  A sharp rap on the door sounded, followed by a gruff “Two minutes.”

  With a sigh and one last look at his reflection, Aaron turned and opened the doors.

  Even from one floor up, the smell hit him like a wall—sweat and alcohol laying heavy over whatever artificial scents the patrons wore. Blocking it out as best he could, Aaron followed Blake—Smith’s main minion—as he led him from the toilets, through a set of double doors, down the stone steps to where a crude ring of people waited, chanting the nickname they’d labelled him with.

  They rounded the corner and Aaron rolled his shoulders, attempting to settle his wolf and get into the headspace required to fight. Movement caught his eye, left and right, as money changed hands. Despite his efforts not to, he scanned the crowd for one familiar face. There, over by one of the concrete pillars and thankfully standing on his own, was Harry—Aaron’s best friend and the reason he’d started coming here in the first place.

  Blake made a grab for his arm, and Aaron fought back a snarl, curling his lip in a grimace instead. As minions went, Blake wasn’t so bad. Aaron didn’t want to piss him off unnecessarily, and snarling like the shifter he was would certainly do that.

  “Calm the fuck down, Princess. I was just gonna lead you through the fucking crowd.” Blake rolled his eyes and gripped Aaron’s bicep harder than necessary, probably thinking he was intimidating.

  Aaron fantasised about shifting on the spot and ripping his throat out.

  Try calling me Princess then.

  The crowd parted, allowing Blake through to the middle, and Aaron got a look at his opponent for the first time. The guy appeared to have a couple of inches on him at least. Aaron was no shortarse at almost six feet, but he’d be looking up when they faced each other in a few minutes.

  He took a moment to analyse the rest of him—bulky shoulders, not overly broad, but well-muscled. Aaron had faced worse. The guy was bare-chested like Aaron, dressed in only dark blue jeans and a pair of ratty-looking trainers. He gave Aaron a once-over in return, obviously not troubled by what he saw judging by the sneer that followed.

  Aaron smirked.

  Bring it.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. Smith was in the crowd somewhere. Aaron hadn’t spotted him, had no chance of picking out his scent amidst everything else, but he knew he was around. Big money would change hands tonight.

  Aaron hoped Harry took his advice and didn’t bet on his fight. He didn’t want them connected in any way.

  The noise quietened to murmurs and whispers as the referee for the night moved to the centre of the ring. He pointed to each fighter, introducing them in turn and announcing their past wins and losses.

  Aaron had only lost once.

  That had been his very first fight—too focused on not coming off as too strong or too fast. He’d honed his technique since that night, sometimes ending the fight after a couple of rounds, sometimes extending it way past that. But he always won.

  He’d have to switch that up soon.

  Charlie Cross.

  That was the man looking at him as though he wanted to crush Aaron under the sole of his ripped Nikes. No nickname. Charlie was probably too new to have earned one.

  Bouncing on the spot, Aaron only half listened to the ref spell out the rules. They were basic—ten rounds, each lasting roughly three minutes. The ref would give a count of ten for knocked-down fighters to regain their senses, and he had the power to stop the fight at any time if necessary.

  Aaron stifled a snort. The ref always glanced over to wherever Smith sat before he made a decision. In Aaron’s experience, a fighter needed to be half-dead before the ref was given the nod to stop the fight. It was probably only the inevitable complications a death would create that made him stop them at all.

  The ref glanced over at him. “Ready?”

  Aaron rolled his shoulders and brought his guard up. He nodded.

  Stepping out of the way, the ref yelled, “Fight!” and the rowdy onlookers roared in response.

  The sound fell away, pushed to the edges of Aaron’s awareness as Charlie made a beeline for him, fists raised. Aaron’s focus narrowed. He clenched his fists once, letting the tiniest tip of claw out—the pinpricks against his palm enough to ready him.

  Charlie threw the first punch, aimed at Aaron’s midsection, and Aaron danced out of the way. He aimed a left jab at Charlie’s kidneys, knowing it’d get blocked, but this was the game they played—gauging each other’s defences and trying to find a way in. Most shots were aimed at the body; the hard bones of a human jaw and skull could do a lot of damage to unprotected hands.

  Aaron could dart in lightning quick and get under Charlie’s guard, but not without giving himself away, so he bided his time as they traded punches to the delight and frustration of the crowd.

  They wanted blood.

  It had been a while since Aaron finished a guy off in under two rounds, but tonight he thought he could get away with it. Charlie’s upper body already gleamed with sweat, and his hair stuck to his forehead. He was in worse shape than he appeared, which worked in Aaron’s favour.

  Aaron’s shifter body held no fat, only muscle, and he moved with a sinewy grace around the underground parking area, light on his feet and agile. It wouldn’t be surprising if he made quick work of tonight’s opponent, despite the size advantage Charlie held over him.

  All he needed was a couple of good shots to start the ball rolling.

  Tracking Charlie’s every move, Aaron spotted his opening and took it. Charlie dropped his guard as he started to tire. The end of the round was seconds away, and his mind was clearly already there, focus slipping.

  Aaron snapped a hand out and landed a right uppercut on Charlie’s jaw. Pain exploded in his hand, reverberating up his arm as he connected with bone, but it was worth it for the way Charlie staggered back as his legs gave out. He fell to the floor, catching himself as the ref signalled the end of the round.

  Turning away, Aaron walked over to his bottle of water and towel. His hand throbbed. Stopping his body from doing something as instinctual as healing took superhuman effort, and Aaron struggled to ignore the foreign scents surrounding him as he breathed in and out, calming his racing heart.

  He may have got into boxing to keep an eye on Harry, but the thrill of the fight had grown on him, capturing his wolf’s attention. He could have just joined him as a spectator, but no. Even though he couldn’t let go fully, there was no denying how much Aaron enjoyed the physicality of it all.

  Harry wasn’t the only one drawn here week after week.

  The ref signalled the next round was about to start and walked over to Charlie to give him a quick once-over. Satisfied he wasn’t about to keel over, round two began.

  Aaron’s punch had done some visible damage—split Charlie’s lip. A smear of blood streaked his chin and the back of his taped hand where he’d wiped it away.

  Charlie lasted another round, mainly by dodging Aaron’s punches and dancing out of the way. He didn’t try many attacks of his own, much to the displeasure of the crowd.

  But the blows Aaron landed in that round had taken their toll. When they came out for the third round, the sharpness had disappeared from Charlie’s movements, every step that little bit slower, his reaction time a fraction of what it had been.

  A stab of guilt pricked at Aaron’s conscience, but he ignored it. He hadn’t used anywhere near his full strength, pulling that punch before any real damage could be done. Everyone who came into a ring like this one knew what the consequences might be.

  The seconds ticked by, and Aaron allowed Charlie to land a few punches, sucking in a breath when Charlie connected solidly with his ribs. Pain radiated through his side, made him want to howl with rage. But he shook it off, instead paying close attention to the way Charlie shielded h
is right side.

  Time to end this.

  Aaron was tired—always a recipe for disaster.

  He shot forward, catching Charlie off guard, and landed a quick one-two to his stomach, winding him and dropping him to his knees.

  Easing back, Aaron bounced on his feet as the ref began the count.

  Charlie got up at nine.

  Aaron hadn’t expected him to stay down that time, and as soon as he was on his feet, Aaron was back at him. A jab to the kidneys, which Charlie blocked, but it left him wide open for the follow-up punch, and down he went again—folding to the floor like his strings had been cut.

  Aaron knew it was over despite the slowest ten count ever, and so did the two guys trying valiantly to get Charlie back on his feet again. His jelly-like legs refused to support him, and the ref had no choice but to announce Aaron as the winner.

  He grabbed Aaron’s hand and thrust it into the air to a rousing cheer from the crowd. The odd boo sounded here and there, probably from those who’d been stupid enough to bet against him.

  Again, he got the feeling someone was watching him. As he took his congratulations, he kept an eye out, but it was too difficult to pick anyone out in the throng.

  It had to be Smith. No one else unsettled Aaron to that extent, and a shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

  He might be a shifter with enhanced strength, speed, and senses, but boxing aside, Aaron would never willingly hurt anyone. Not unless they provoked him.

  Mr Smith, though—Aaron rolled his eyes at the ridiculous name—by all accounts, had no such qualms. Aaron had never spoken to him face-to-face, but he’d heard the rumours like everyone else. Some were no doubt exaggerated, but too many of them suggested horrible crimes against those who betrayed him or got in his way for them not to hold at least a grain of truth.