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Butterfly Assassin Page 2


  He needed to have another chat with Harry. Maybe it was time for them both to quit this place, and maybe this time Harry would listen.

  Since Aaron’s was the last fight of the night, the crowd dispersed in dribs and drabs. Aaron walked over to where Charlie still sat on the floor, arms resting on his knees, but looking much better than he had a few minutes ago.

  Holding his hand out, Aaron waited for Charlie to shake it before adding, “Good fight.”

  “Yeah, right.” Charlie peered up at him. “You put me on my arse in three rounds, you bastard.”

  Aaron shrugged and cracked his neck. “I was feeling it tonight, that’s all.”

  “Like every other bloody night.” His gaze dropped to the tattoo on Aaron’s chest, a wry smile appearing. “Guess I should’ve expected it with a nickname like that.” He turned and spat on the floor, a mixture of blood and saliva, then pointed at Aaron’s cheek. “At least I got you once.”

  Reaching up, Aaron ran a hand over the side of his face. The skin was tender to the touch, and his fingers came away bloody. “Guess you did.” He helped Charlie to his feet, then bumped his fist. “See you around.”

  “I fucking hope not.” Charlie grinned at him. “No offence.”

  “None taken.” One of Charlie’s front teeth was missing, and Aaron wondered if that was his doing. Probably.

  With a nod, he turned away to find the ref waiting for him with his winnings. Aaron pocketed the money without bothering to count it. It felt the same thickness as always, and he doubted anyone would try to short-change him. Not after the display he’d just put on.

  As Aaron bent to pick up his towel and water, he sensed someone close behind him. They smelt of stale smoke and beer—like pubs used to before the smoking ban—and also a scent he recognised.

  Fuck.

  Two black boots appeared in his line of vision. “Mr Smith wants to see you,” Blake said.

  Aaron sighed.

  I guess it was only a matter of time.

  A lot of the guys who fought there were regulars, and Aaron had heard enough talk to know some of the fights were thrown. He wasn’t naïve enough to think every fight was a fair one. He was a prime example of that, for fuck’s sake, although he tried to keep things as fair as possible. Up until that moment, he’d managed to avoid interaction with the boss, whether by luck or something else, but either way, it seemed as though his luck had run out.

  Straightening, Aaron slung his towel around his neck. “Give me a chance to clean up?”

  “Five minutes. We’ll wait outside for you.”

  Aaron nodded and set off towards the toilets where the rest of his stuff was locked away, ignoring the two hulking guys behind him.

  They did as promised and didn’t follow him inside, for which he was grateful. His hands had taken a battering, and by rights should be in a pretty bad state, though Aaron never knew quite what to expect until he peeled off the tape. After so much practice, he’d got better at forcing his body not to heal, but a sliver of doubt remained and he’d prefer not to have an audience.

  He’d also prefer to have a shower before walking out of there—sweat clung to his bare skin along with dust from the shitty environment—but he was lucky the sink had running water, cold as it was.

  Aaron carefully peeled off the tape from his hands and shoved it in the side pocket of his bag. His knuckles were a little red, but nothing like he imagined Charlie’s were. After rinsing off as best he could, Aaron patted himself dry and grabbed his T-shirt and jacket out of the locker. For occasions like this, where his body refused to play ball, he kept a set of thin, wool gloves in his pocket.

  But first, he searched for his phone and sent a quick text to Harry.

  Got to see the bossman. Hopefully won’t be too long.

  Bossman? Everything ok?

  Aaron hoped so. As far as he knew, he hadn’t broken any of the rules. Except for the no-shifter one, of course, but if they’d found out about that, they wouldn’t be asking so nicely.

  Yeah, I’m sure it’s nothing. Meet you at the bar in Lycanis?

  Harry had a thing for the barman who usually worked one of the upstairs bars, so Harry’s response came as no great surprise.

  Upstairs?

  Aaron smiled at his screen and shook his head. Yeah, that’s fine. See you in a bit.

  He slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, tugged on the black gloves, and grabbed his bag, prepared to face whatever waited for him outside of the bathroom.

  “BASTARD WANKER,” Aaron muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a grimace. The cool night air did nothing to soothe his temper, and Aaron seethed more with each step. Office buildings rose up on either side of him. Even the usually impressive sight of The Gherkin did nothing to improve his mood.

  “That fight cost my friends a lot of money, Aaron. Charlie was supposed to go down in the second round.”

  What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

  Smith had sat in his makeshift office, surrounded by his army of bodyguards like a fucking TV mob boss, tapping his fingers on the old desk in front of him and eyeing Aaron like a prime rump steak. Aaron had said nothing in reply, which seemed to be the right move because Smith just kept on talking.

  “He won’t fight here again.” He paused to glance down at Aaron’s gloved hands. “But you will.”

  Aaron had wanted to deny it, say he was done too. But these were dangerous people, shifter strength or no, and until he got Harry to stop going there, he knew he wouldn’t stop either.

  The walk to Lycanis would take him about thirty minutes at his pace. Hopefully it’d be enough time for him to shake off the anger simmering inside of him. Taking the tube would probably cut that by half, but he needed the exercise to calm down. Stomping into a shifter club full of piss and vinegar wouldn’t be the smartest move. Smith might not have any shifters working for him, but that didn’t mean Aaron wanted to attract attention if he could help it.

  The cut on his cheek would have to stay in case he ran into anyone from the fight over the next few days—well, he’d have to re-create it after the club. If he went in there cut up, he’d stand out like a sore thumb in a sea of perfect shifters. But he could do something about the pain in his ribs now if he was careful.

  Concentrating hard on the pain in his left side, Aaron focused on that spot only, imagined a healing warmth radiating outwards, but not too far. He let himself relax enough for his body to do its thing, and gradually the ache faded to nothing. Aaron let out a sigh of relief. He was used to pain after so many fights, but that didn’t mean he liked it any more now than when he’d first started.

  Using his phone, he quickly checked to make sure the cut was still there on his face, satisfied when he noticed the discoloration of a bruise surrounding it. He’d improved a lot with channelling his body’s healing powers.

  By the time the front of Lycanis came into view, Aaron was somewhat calmer, if not quite back to his usual self. Most of the shifter bars and clubs were near Covent Garden since it was classed as neutral territory. No single pack could claim the territory, so no permission was needed to come and go. The scents of shifters along this stretch of road, while not familiar like pack, were enough to settle his wolf.

  As he got near the entrance, he caught a faint whiff of Harry’s scent, making him smile. Rolling his shoulders, Aaron let go of the tension he’d carried since leaving the underground car park. It was done. No point dwelling on something he couldn’t change.

  He let the cut and bruises on his face heal. No one from the fight would see him in the club. No one who didn’t already know what he was, anyway.

  With a nod of greeting to the guys on the door, Aaron paid his entrance fee and walked into the club.

  At twelve thirty on a Friday night, well, Saturday morning now, the club was packed—a mixture of sweat, alcohol, and wolf met him as he pulled open the double doors. Closing his eyes for a second, he breathed it all in, banishing the scent of the fight fr
om his lungs. In here he didn’t have to hide what he was; no humans allowed.

  Slipping his gloves off, Aaron shoved them in his pocket and headed over to the stairs. Lycanis was a big club—three bars upstairs, two downstairs—full of mated pairs of shifters and those who were open to the idea of bonding. Aaron hadn’t given much thought to the idea of finding a mate, and neither had Harry, as far as he was aware. Plus, he was only twenty-six. Apart from the comfort of being solely among their own kind, one of the main reasons they’d started coming here more was Harry’s interest in a certain bartender.

  Aaron spotted his friend as soon as he reached the top of the stairs, back facing him where Harry sat at the far end of the nearest bar. Aaron made his way over and took an empty stool. “Hey.”

  Harry swivelled to face him and pushed a full bottle of Peroni closer to him.

  “Thanks.” The bottle still had condensation on it; Harry must have only just ordered it. Aaron took a long drink, sighing as he set it back on the bar. He glanced at the tall blonde woman serving drinks down at the other end. “Will not on tonight?”

  Instead of answering, Harry grinned and pointed his beer bottle at the door marked STAFF to the right of the bar. Two seconds later, Will Farley came through it, smoothing down the front of his shirt. Aaron appreciated that he was kind of hot, but honestly, with all the trouble his pack had had lately, was it worth it?

  Obviously, Harry thought so. His smile widened, if that was possible, his eyes tracking Will as he ducked behind the bar.

  Aaron picked at the label on his beer before taking another drink.

  “So.” Harry nudged him with his elbow, laughing when Aaron dribbled beer down his T-shirt.

  Aaron glared at him. “You knob.” Grabbing a handful of napkins, he wiped at the wet spot, not that it did much good. At least he was wearing black.

  With his gaze still fixed on Will as he mixed drinks, Harry leaned closer and whispered. “What did the big bossman want?”

  Aaron sighed and had a quick glance around to make sure no one was paying them any particular attention. With the music loud and the place as packed as it was, it wouldn’t be easy for anyone to overhear them, and Aaron didn’t think anyone in there would care, but you never knew. Satisfied no one was listening in, he leant closer to Harry and whispered, “Apparently some friends of his lost money on the fight. Charlie was supposed to go down in the second round.” He shrugged and finished off his beer. “Smith gave him his marching orders. He won’t be fighting there again.” Pushing his bottle away, Aaron narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t bet on my fight, did you?”

  Harry shook his head. “Course not.”

  It was their one rule. No betting on any of Aaron’s fights. It might be overkill, but they didn’t need Smith or anyone else thinking Harry had insider knowledge of how the fight would go, and that seemed like the easiest way. “Good.” When Harry looked away and fidgeted in his seat, it caught Aaron’s attention. “Harry?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “What is?”

  Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I borrowed some money for my last bet.” He mumbled the words, still refusing to face Aaron.

  “From Smith’s people?” He always had at least a couple of men stationed around the ring taking bets. They also offered to lend people money—for an extortionate amount of interest.

  Harry nodded.

  “For fuck’s sake, Harry.”

  “I know.” Glancing up at the ceiling, anywhere but at Aaron, Harry blew out a harsh breath. “It was only a hundred quid, and I thought the outcome was pretty much a sure thing—you should have seen who was fighting, and Rob agreed…”

  “You lost, I take it?”

  “Yeah.” Another sigh. “And I need to pay it Thursday night.”

  That pretty much made Aaron’s mind up for him. No matter how much he’d come to enjoy the thrill of the fight, he needed to stop Harry going there before he got into something he couldn’t get out of. “How much?”

  “One fifty.”

  Aaron gripped his wrist. “Pay the money, and then we’re done there.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. It’s too dangerous to keep going there. Sooner or later one of us is going to get into trouble. You’re on their radar now, and after tonight, so am I. In hindsight, we’ve been stupid to ride our luck this long.” Not to mention what they were both doing was illegal. “If we get caught, it could mean banishment from the pack or even prison.”

  Harry fidgeted with his beer bottle. “I thought you enjoyed fighting?”

  “I do, but not enough to risk being thrown out of the pack or ending up in Krillick Hall. Can you say the same about gambling?” At first he’d hoped Harry would quit going on his own, it wasn’t Aaron’s place to tell his friend what to do, but then Aaron had started fighting there and he hadn’t pressed the issue. But owing Smith, even that small amount, wasn’t something they could ignore.

  “Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I?” Harry gripped his now-empty bottle and finally met Aaron’s gaze. “I don’t want to owe that wanker, and I don’t want to end up in the bloody shifter prison either.”

  “I know.” Aaron gripped Harry’s shoulder. “Me neither. We’ll sort this, don’t worry. I’ll tell Smith I’m not fighting anymore, you pay your debt, and then we never go back.” Squeezing his shoulder, he asked, “Deal?”

  Harry managed a small smile. “Deal.”

  Aaron relaxed into his seat. They should’ve done this way before now, but at least they’d made the decision finally. He hoped it was as easy to actually see it through.

  With their bottles obviously empty, Will sidled over and rested his hands on the bar in front of them. “Can I get you guys a refill?”

  Smothering his smile as Harry took a none-too-subtle deep breath, Aaron sat back and let him do the talking.

  Harry smiled up at Will. “Same again, please.” He looked over at Aaron, eyebrow raised in question. Aaron nodded. “And two shots of tequila.”

  “Coming right up.” Will grinned, tapped his fingers on the bar, and shot Harry a wink before turning away to get their drinks.

  Harry’s smile was a mile wide when he faced Aaron, all thoughts of illegal fighting seemingly forgotten. “What?” He hissed when Aaron shook his head at him.

  “He knows,” Aaron mouthed and nodded at Will’s back.

  “Does not,” Harry mouthed in return, but he had a gleam in his eye that said he wouldn’t care if that turned out to be true.

  With their resolutions firmly in place, for the first time in weeks, Aaron felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He spent the rest of the night gossiping about pack goings-on and gently teasing Harry every time he glanced longingly at Will.

  Yeah, he’d miss the thrill of the fight, but it would be worth it to feel like this and to see Harry free from the strain and guilt that place put on him.

  Things were finally moving in the right direction.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Detective Sergeant Michael Archer sighed as he got out of the car. Turning to his partner, he shook his head. “This is going to make it three.”

  “Maybe.”

  Waiting for Frank to lock their car, Michael’s eyebrows rose. “You know they’d never call us unless they were certain.”

  They’d been members of the Shifter Crimes Task Force for almost ten years and still faced animosity from some areas of the police force. Their department was neither part of the metropolitan police nor the City police. Rather, SCTF spanned the two, dealing with shifter-related crimes in both the City of London itself and the thirty-two boroughs surrounding it. There were those in both camps that thought the SCTF was a waste of money and resources. Funded partly by the alpha council and London packs—agreed after the pack wars—the SCTF had a nice, shiny building complete with office space and their very own state-of-the-art forensic lab. Their unit was still relatively small in comparison to the rest of the police forces covering London, though, and most of
the time they relied on either the City police or the Met detectives to collect the evidence for them. Michael didn’t really blame them for getting pissed off when they did all the legwork and then had to hand it over. But then, none of them wanted to deal with the packs and their alphas, so in that respect, the SCTF were doing them a favour.

  Thankfully, the group of haters got smaller each year, but there was still enough to be a pain in the arse.

  Since this crime scene fell just inside the one-mile City of London Police limits, they had the pleasure of dealing with Detective Sergeant Ian Miller, CID, as the Senior Investigating Officer. Miller himself was all right, but in Michael’s experience, his partner could be a bit of a knob.

  Two police cars blocked off the entrance to the alleyway with a line of crime scene tape behind them.

  As soon as Miller saw them approach, he ducked under the tape and met them beside one of the police cars.

  Michael held out his hand. “You the SIO?”

  Shaking hands, Miller nodded. “Yep.” He ran a hand through his hair and offered them a wry smile. “We need to stop meeting like this.”

  The first body had been found near Covent Garden, so was covered by the metropolitan police, but the second hadn’t been all that far from here. Miller had worked that one too. If this was the same as the others, then it’d make three bodies in three weeks, all apparent shifter killings. Michael and Frank had seen their fair share of murders but not with this frequency. “Same as the others?”

  “Looks that way.” He pointed in the direction of an open door, gesturing at the petite, dark-haired woman talking to Miller’s partner, Price. “Samantha Wells works at the café next door. Came out for a cigarette break and found him lying in the alley.”

  “What time?”

  “About half past six this morning.” He sighed. “She called for an ambulance first, and the paramedics called us as soon as they saw the body.”

  Michael glanced at his watch. It was ten to eight now. They’d got the call from Miller about twenty minutes ago. He’d wasted no time contacting them this time. “Coroner been notified?”