A chord of unease settled between us as I grabbed the file, mentally planning my trip to New Orleans.
Without bidding him a farewell, I stood, clutching the leather file to my chest and headed toward the door. My sense of unease grew with each step I took away from Charl. For all I knew, this was a suicide mission and I was the sacrificial lamb offered up to slaughter.
"Hey, Charl?" I called over my shoulder, feigning nonchalance. My pulse thudded heavily in my throat, giving away any semblance of ease that I may have presented.
He quirked a brow at me, the darkly lit bar casting shadows across his face, making it difficult to read.
"What kind of mob are they?"
I wasn’t worried about the junkie behind the bar overhearing us and we were the only ones there.
"Russian," he saluted me with a shot of vodka as I walked away, as if he needed the burning sensation of the fiery liquid just as badly as I did. He was sending me into the Bratva. I tucked that piece of information close and stepped out into the chilled London air, shouldering past shadowy figures that hunkered down against the wall, money exchanged hands as promises of euphoria were bestowed. The thought of Jess sitting outside in our nice sedan in this part of town brought a smile to my lips as I made my way back towards a better part of town. My Magick tended to keep people away, sending off a subconscious signal to others that I was simply unavailable. It tended to make things both easier and difficult simultaneously.