The police station's cold — freezing, even — it's not even summer yet; there's no reason for the fans to be on. But Bela keeps her mouth shut, stays still in her seat by the vending machines, tries to ignore the noise around her.

That's her name now, she's decided. She only has ten years to live, and she doesn't want to spend any of them as Abigail Talbot, only daughter of some wealthy good-for-nothings, perpetually lonely, her father's sex-toy of the past six years. Abigail was weak. Abigail let herself be used and broken and insulted. Abigail couldn't take care of herself — but Bela can. Bela had the nerve to get her parents murdered, and thereby save herself.

Even these clothes feel all wrong, now. Abigail cocooned herself in demure sweaters and her grey school skirts, hid from the world in white stockings and black Mary Janes. Bela requires something bolder. Something befitting a woman, not a scared little girl.

She hears some of what these people say, and it all strikes her funny. Like they're discussing someone else. All the street cops and detectives muttering aboutpoor little Abigail, can you even believe… poor, poor thing. Fifteen and an orphan, I can't even fathom… (That's right, Bela thinks as she buries her nose in a battered copy of The Silver Chair. Of course they have pity for the poor thing who was too spineless to say no, Daddy, stop it.)

She does a good job of pretending to read — it's a skill she perfected all the times she had to play like she couldn't hear her father raging around or getting into the liquor cabinet. She feigns like she's actually interested in the idiot Pevensies and their magical play-land. Like the words going around the real world are some incomprehensible buzzing, and in so doing, she hides all the mental notes she's making.

Foster parents — that phrase sticks out at her first. Leave it to Johnny Law to think putting her in some new home will help. Shunting her off to new parents who will be every bit as horrid as her real ones, if not worse… Not if Bela can help it.

Start investigating the girl comes next, and then: she was the only other person at the home before they left… we're still parsing through the evidence, but if the brake lines really were… And Bela doesn't hang around to hear the rest. The hard soles of her shoes smack the station's floor. She even hesitates at the door, hand hovering over the knob, looking back to see if any of the badge-bedecked morons even noticed her absence or this ever-so-daring escape attempt.

None of them have. Most seem like they haven't heard a thing. The one idling behind the desk hasn't even looked up from his paper.

So much for the police. Bela slips out into the London streets, lets herself get swept up in a crowd. Lets the rush of all this hit her: her parents are dead, she walked out on the cops (who don't have enough proof to go after her, can't get enough of it either, if the demon did its job correctly) — she doesn't notice anything until she crashes into a gentleman, some ten blocks away from where she started.

His suit is crisp, his smile poisonous and sweet, and she only stops stammering out apologies when she sees his eyes flash red.

The chill worms down to her bones. Nausea follows — wrenches around her gut, makes her certain she's going to vomit. But she made a Deal — the other demon said ten years — it's barely even been two days—

"Name's Crowley," he chuckles, slipping his arm around her shoulders and guiding her down the street. "Call me Uncle Alex for the time being, though, love."

She glances up at his too kindly-looking face, memories of the strange, red-eyed girl floating around her mind, a million questions nagging at her to ask them. The only one that makes its way out is a request to know where they're going.

Crowley shrugs and says, "Just for lunch and a chat, darling. I'm representing a power much greater than myself, and my, my, my, do they have an offer for you."

Bela swallows and runs her tongue over her orthodontia-corrected teeth. With a sigh, she whispers, "What sort of offer?"