It wasn’t her first time on the run, and she sincerely doubted it’d be the last.
The only new part to the chase was the sheer determination fuelling her foes. Nobody had ever sought her quite as determinedly as Dean and Sam Winchester. The boys could be complete dolts, but ambition was something they didn’t lack in the slightest. It was annoying. Any other hunter worth his salt would have given up the first sign of something else to go risk his life after—but these two had a mission to save the world, and they weren’t only daft enough to hold onto that idealistic dream, but they actually thought one simple gun could do it for them. No matter how useful the Colt was; it wasn’t going to help them win any war waging their way. Winning was a luxury they just didn’t have. The sooner they picked up on that rather depressive, but true, fact the sooner they’d get on with what was left of their lives and get off of her back.
However, they were no longer even content in just hunting her themselves, oh no. Now they’d teamed up with a trio of butch sisters, a demon—a demon!—and some trite little blonde girl who barely knew the business end of a gun from the butt of it. A crack team. Bela had relied on more than one encounter with her Spirit Board to figure out exactly who it was chasing her, and from there, it was all about the research. The Sterling sisters, a little rag tag of orphans out for some vengeance, hardly a novel story in the world of hunters. Deena (imagine that) was the one with the most impressive criminal record, and her sisters Allison and Sarah had a few scrapings here and there. The demon was the only one without a clear trace, but Bela wasn’t worried. She was the one with a Colt. One step in the wrong direction, and bang. Demon dead.
She’d cleared out of her Queens apartment and had been on the good, solid run for weeks now, even before Dean gathered up a bandit group of hunting rejects. It was almost kind of depressing that they were doing so poorly. Did they not think she’d have more than her fair share of mystical protection? All the amulets and talismans she had to use at her whim, that Mojo Bag that Gordon had given her, all forms of protection. Add into that the Colt, and Bela was a fairly impressive one-man-army. Right then she was in her silver Porsche heading over the state line into North Carolina. There was no particular location she was going for, the only goal being the need for a safe place to stay for the night. Even when on the run, Bela wasn’t the type to take up residence in motels unless she really had to. After stopping in Wilmington, Bela pulled into the first, fancy looking hotel she could find. All weaponry and magical goods was hidden underneath her clothes, sheathed close to her body, with her Spirit Board ducked inside a duffle bag.
With a red wig of wavy hair down to the small of her back, Bela set up in her hotel room (penthouse, thanks), under the name of Emilie Moore (she couldn’t help herself.) When everything was set aside upstairs, she went downstairs into the lightly crowded restaurant, sitting at a for-two-table on her own, still in disguise, and with the Colt naturally on her person. She ordered some Chardonnay and twirled a small, crystal amulet between her fingers, watching the light reflect onto her hands, the table, and across her face.