"Bela, always a pleasure," Constantine lies as the elegant con-woman approaches his table.
"Johnny, baby – knew I'd find you here," she says with a smooth smile. She's one of the world's most skilled supernatural fences and she's sipping cheap champagne in a shabby South London pub. This can't be good.
"Posh bird like you lookin' for me? Must be my lucky day."
John wasn't sure if seeing Bela Talbot was bad luck or good, mind you. But when it came to Bela there always had to be some kind of luck involved. Usually hers.
He is reasonably confident that even she can't get through his anti-theft charms. And he isn't carrying anything she should want anyway. Unless she's taken up smoking again. So he doesn't stop her when she bends over the table to brush a rose scented kiss across his cheek.
He watches suspiciously as she takes the seat opposite him. Places her elbows on the table and leans forward to smile, deliberately seductive. So she wants something then. The only questions are what it is, why now, and why him.
John lights another smoke and waits. Offers her the pack – more to see what she'll do than out of any sense of social obligation.
"I quit, remember?" she says. Looks away for a moment. Something frank and real behind her eyes.
"Why was that?" he presses. He has his suspicions about Bela – the damned recognise the damned. But why quit smoking if you're on a clock?
"Because some of us care what other people think about us, John." The mask is back in place but it's enough of an answer.
John shrugs. Takes another drag of his fag. Another sip of his pint. Watches her almost start to fidget.
"How long you got, luv?" he asks at last. Because that was the last confirmation he needed. And she's here. Looking at him over the peeling wood in a crappy pub in the wrong end of London. It's obvious really. Written in every line of her frame. Every twitch of her lips. Every cut glance and tense look. Damnation and hell-hounds on her heels. He can almost taste it.
"Eight months," she says at last.
"Right," he says. Shit. She must have been a kid when she made that deal. And damn it all, that gets him doesn't it. Even if he wasn't going to try he's going to now isn't he? If he can. "Did you go through a broker? Or…"
"Crossroads," she interrupts him. She sounds defeated. Because she knows what that means as well as he does. Direct deals are almost never broken. And even a Hellblazer isn't going to be able to break those kind of rules. Written into the flesh of the Earth by God his fucking self. All part of the twisted stage He set. And His ego wouldn't handle anyone messing with those laws.
John sighs. "You know a demon named Crowley, luv?"
"No, contrary to popular belief I don't actually consort with demons on a regular basis. Unlike some people."
"Hey, I'm tryin' to help you here pet."
"All right," she says. Flicks her hair out of her eyes. "Go on."
She crosses her arms. Tries to come off brisk but he can see the hope in those grey eyes. And it makes him wish he had more. More than a name. Because it isn't going to help. It's only going to string out that hopeless spark of hope a little longer. But it is all he's got. And they have history. There was that job they pulled in Cannes. And that night in Dublin. So he'll give her this. For whatever it's worth.
"Well, that's who you need. He's in charge and unless you're a big and biblical kinda deal then that's who holds the contract. He's been known to renegotiate - on occasion." John shrugs, plays it off as simple when it never could be.
"That's all you've got? I thought you were some big deal down there."
"I am. More's the pity. But yeah, that's all I got, luv," he says. "That- an' a bottle of Islay single malt back at me flat?" He knows it's a long shot. But hell, they're both damned and her ticket is coming up. Why bloody not? Dublin had been good, right? Even if she had buggered off with his half of the actual score. He could do with the bloody distraction. Forget how much of a sodding idiot he is for a few hours.
"Really, John?" she asks.
He smiles and shrugs.
Bela gives him a speculative look then pushes her glass away from her, still half full. "Okay," she says. "You're on." Her tone leaves no doubt about her intentions. John takes a steadying breath. Expensive rose perfume almost covers even more expensive protective oils.
He finishes his own drink quickly and stands up. Offers her his hand and his best smile. The one with a calculated level of predator to promise. She returns it with one of her own, sweet with sin and twisted with a challenge. The best bloody kind really.
She takes his offered palm and pulls herself up and in close with one graceful move.
"You sure you're up for this, Johnny?" she asks in his ear. Voice so sultry that her lingering terror and ticking timer are almost undetectable.
"We'll just have to find out, won't we luv?"
She kisses him. At least he's pretty sure that's how it happens. This is something he can do. Two liars lying to each other. One night to hide from the consequences and bury themselves is corporeal comforts. It's almost nothing. But it's all he's got to give. She'll already burn so why not scorch her a little more.
He's so caught up in the taste and tragedy of Bela that he doesn't even see Anne-Marie by the bar.