I briefly stopped at my hotel room, grabbing the first warm item I could find to shield myself against the London chill. Swapping out my crystal clutch for a small leather backpack, I slid my blue silken wrap with my deck of cards in. My lilac gown, teamed with a black leather jacket was an absurd pairing, but as the comforting weight of my small backpack settled between my shoulder blades, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Jeff was probably stewing in the sedan right now, being chewed out by my mother and her vicious words. When she was angry she got mean. It was something I had inherited from her, and after being on the receiving end of my fair share of tongue lashings over the years, I, myself, tried not to respond in anger. I had effectively evaded him, bundling up and marching down the streets of London, but really, there had been no other way. I wouldn’t have been able to explain the hole in the wall that was The Royal Bar.
The bar did not live up to its name - there was nothing royal about it. The concrete floors seemed to have dirt embedded in its very cracks, a few of the overhead lights were entirely dark, with the one in the corner of the room flickering. The bar itself looked sticky and caked with grime, a shudder rolled down my spine at the thought of drinking from one of those glasses.
The bar was virtually empty by the time I arrived. Urgency pressed upon me, fuelling me towards Charl.
A lone figure hunched at the end of the bar in a dark brown bomber, the lighting cast him partially in the shadows and I had no doubt that it was by design. The barkeep was skinny and gaunt, shadows rested under her eyes, her lips cracked and raw. I wondered when her last hit was. She leaned against the bar, her eyes glued to a shitty brick of a phone as if the answers she sought lay within the confines of that screen. Perhaps they did.
Charlain’s gaze found mine as he turned his head towards me slightly, acknowledging my arrival. His lips curved up, wavering between a grimace and a smile. My trepidation seems to ease, my stomach loosening up as a pool of warmth settles in my core. That’s all Charl of course. I’d like to say that it’s a residual response to the Demon, Cort, but the truth is that Charl has sex appeal. He wasn't traditionally handsome. In fact, his features shouldn't be appealing. His nose was slightly too large for his face. His lips, while the bottom was lush and plump, the top was thin and didn't seem to fit. He had a small scar on his left cheek, and a cleft in his chin. His caramel eyes spoke of far away lands and promises not kept. His messy auburn hair stood at odds with his demeanor, a sure sign that he had been tugging at the roots, the madness of Magick always dancing too close to the surface for him. Perhaps it was that madness - that pure wildfire that was Charl that women found attractive - because it wasn’t just me, it seemed that women gravitated towards him, as if his very essence radiated Magick.
I took the stool next to him. Smiling sweetly up at him, I battered my eyelashes and asked, "Charl, why the fuck are we in London?"
He laughed. "The gala was that bad, huh?"
I glowered at him as he shifted an arm over my shoulder and ruffled my hair. Despite the sexually charged energy that followed him, Charl and I were completely platonic. He was the big brother I didn’t ask for, but needed anyway - he was the family I had chosen for myself, the one that wasn’t as condescending and so damn difficult to please.
There was absolutely nothing sexual or romantic about my relationship with Charl, but just being around him made you wonder what he was like. He was our ringleader. Our handler, as such. He put us all together and gave us our purpose.
Or perhaps it was my pressing innocence. It hovered over me, taunting me with an aching need that I just hadn’t seemed to fulfill. I needed to rip this bandaid off, but the thought of having one of those men from the gala pressed against me was nauseating.
Charl deftly ignored my demanding question, instead ordering two shots of whiskey, and turned to face me.
I couldn’t stop the scowl from creeping onto my face.
“You know,” Charl goaded, “if the clock strikes twelve and you’re pulling that face…”
It was his standard line when he annoyed me. My poker face was non-existent. You could read every emotion - every annoyance on my face, which only made my familial and societal situation worse.
I refused to respond, revelling in the sharpness of my teeth as I bit down on my tongue, the slight pain keeping me centred - grounded even. Because after Cort, my mother, and Andrew, I was inclined to tell Charl to fuck off. I glowered at him, waiting for him to speak - to offer up some sort of explanation.
"Don't be like that," he finally huffed, "this next assignment is important and I couldn't risk delaying this meeting. One of your biggest assets as part of the Club is that you can flit in and out of countries and places because of your societal status." His reminder served as a gentle scolding.
"I know," I responded glumly. Even here, where the Magick thrummed within me, seeking out his own essence, my greatest contribution to the Club was my familial connections. I’d be lying if I said that it didn't sting.
He slid over a black leather bound file. I flicked it open, eager to see what the assignment was. The first thing I saw was New Orleans. That's probably why I received this assignment. I supported a children's organisation in Louisiana that would allow me easy access into the french quarter, raising little suspicion. Every single person within my circle of ‘friends’ supported a charity of some sort, mine happened to be centred on rebuilding communities in New Orleans and greater Louisiana. Sometimes that meant raising funds to repair past destructions from the hurricanes that had ravaged the land, other times it was the act of building a school and securing the right teachers to run the place. It didn’t hurt that New Orleans thrummed with Magick - the entire place was charged with it’s electrical pulse, leaving me feeling both rejuvenated and disorientated each time I went there. It was as if my body didn’t quite know what to do with the additional surge of power, so I always felt slightly off balance there.
I often wondered if my connections were my sole value - the reason I received the assignments that I did. Not because I was good, but because it was easy. Convenient. I gulped down my uncertainties with that shot of whiskey, the burn in the back of my throat an apt reminder to not lift those stones of insecurity just yet.
It looked like a three week job, working with a guy named Dimitri. Advising on shady business dealings. Cards and spells for their not-so legal businesses, and some for the legal enterprises as well. The list of known businesses included a car wash. A fucking car wash.
Unease settled in my stomach, and not even Charl’s magnetism could dissolve the feeling that I was about to walk into something bad. My fingers became numb and heavy as pins and needles weighed down my hands, the urge to run so overwhelming that if I hadn’t already been seated, my knees would have buckled. This wasn’t just an urge, it was an instinctual warning, my mind swirled as I understood what I was looking at.
"Are you contracting me to the mob?" I asked, only half joking, because I still needed the confirmation.
Charl grimaced. He actually fucking grimaced.
Shit. The deal must have been good then - too good, for Charl to not have turned them down outright.
"Only for their business dealings,” he tried to sound reassuring, but the thing about growing up with someone - growing into your own power as they struggled with their own - was that you knew when they were lying.
“Besides, it will also be a great growth opportunity for you. And they're a good client to have on our books."
There it was again. 'Growth opportunity'. The idea that somehow my gifts weren't enough, that I did in fact need growth - left me feeling hollow. Was my only purpose in this godforsaken hole my family and their connections? Because if that was the case, I needed to walk from the Club now. I wasn’t sure how long I would be able to maintain these connections, not when I thought I would be gaining more freedom from my parents with age, when instead, the noose seemed to tighten further with each passing year.
"Fine," I said, plastering a smile on my face. Charl watched me for a beat longer before releasing me from his gaze. If he wanted me to go and read for the mob, then fuck it - I would. It could be my last hurrah before I gave up my freedom entirely to my parents.
A dull throb ached between my eyes as I ignored my instincts and the scream of imminent danger. There was a reason his nickname was the Magician. He captivated your attention in ways you hadn't even realised, leaving remnants of his magic wherever he went.