The midwife gathered herself, focusing her energy through meditation in an effort to contact the spirit realm. Concern for her friend had driven her to this, though curiosity had also taken hold, now. A morbid curiosity.

The child held an evil that she hadn’t encountered before. Not necessarily greater, but stranger. The child’s soul was not even in the body, not merely smothered by a demon squatter. No, the soul was gone completely, replaced with a demonic force that was growing as it fed off the Slayer.

Millicent hadn’t mentioned that part to Buffy. Partly because the shock had wiped it from her mind, but also partly because while it was inconsequential, it would cause Buffy unneeded distress. But as the pregnancy progressed, the baby drew more and more nutrients from its mother. It grew strong and plump with Slayer blood, and it became gorged with what pieces of her soul it could feed from.

Just the thought of it, living inside her like a devious parasite, hiding in her womb, in her baby, feeding off of her without a care in the world....it made her sick. And she would do what she could to destroy this disgusting menace.

She drew herself up, her breasts jutting out and her shoulders squared. Sliding into the spirit world was like slipping into a warm bathtub. They welcomed her with a gaiety only the dead could have, and her own spirit embraced them. Yes. I’m here.

They brushed around her playfully. They all seemed the same to her, but she knew there was a difference. Just like she knew that the spirit she was waiting for would eventually come, and she would recognize her when she did. In the meantime, she waited. She let her essence be buoyed up by the ethereal wind billowing through, and she was suffused by the warmth of love and peace. This place is a regular hippie-fest, she thought, giggling to herself. The humor rippled through the other spirits, and their tinkling kind of laughter permeated the air.

Just then, her attention was caught. She followed the sense of her discomfort, and found the one, milling about with the others, that was different.

She was easily distinguishable from the others. Where they were a sort of blue color, she was a blaring red. Though it wasn’t easily transmutable to colors, Milli liked to think of it in those terms, to simplify the sensations that really made her stand out.

Milli drifted purposefully toward the spirit. Sensing her coming, the undefined blob of spirit began to take on borders and shapes. She became a beautiful woman, as like to herself in life as she could remember. Eyes, nose, mouth, fingers, toes. Everything fully formed and molded into human form. She was glowing a gentle magenta color, and floated in her new form serenely.

“What do you wish to know, kitten?” It was different, the way she spoke. Of course, it really had to be. Her vocal chords had been consumed with natural rot centuries ago. Only her soul lived on.

“A friend is carrying a baby. The child has no human soul. I come seeking a solution.” Milli made sure not to let her fear show. The spirit realm was not nearly as welcoming a place as it first seemed. Any sign of hesitation, and the spirits would fall on her, driving her out. And anything more or less than assertive questioning would get her tossed, also. Not to mention never finding the answers to her questions.

The fear she hid was minimal, though. She’d done this many times before, and each time, her fear had diminished. Now, all she allowed herself to see was glowing lights floating around her head. She turned a blind eye to the potential danger of each of them.

“There are many possible solutions to your problem, kitten. The one who could save the child is long dead, though not gone. She would save the child, but first you must find her. If she cannot be found and revived, the child must be killed, and the mother with it, if necessary.”

Milli took all of this in carefully. Prophecies were tricky things; the words and phrasing could sometimes be of vital importance. She refused to screw this up because she wasn’t listening.

The spirit looked sad. “Hard times have come upon you, kitten. This happening was foretold centuries ago, but I never dreamed it would come to pass so soon. The child is a vessel for a demonic energy of great power. On no condition can that power enter this world. Before you leave, you must promise me that you will not let this evil enter the world.”

Milli looked around herself. Buffy’s child was her own. She had no right to meddle in her affairs, she could not do anything to prevent what was happening to Buffy’s baby girl, and she didn’t think she could ever kill a baby. She pictured herself holding a sword that had speared Buffy’s middle, and she shuddered. The gouts of blood continued to spray over her hands, even though the mental picture had faded.

“Promise me!” The spirit hissed, bringing Millicent back to the present.

“I promise.” She said solemnly. The promise would come first; the means to that end later. When it came down to it, she would do what she had to do. No matter how much she hated it.

Buffy slept with her back to Angel. The baby was making rumbles in her stomach, and she knew that Irene was unhappy. She didn’t care. Angel was hers, her prize, her lover. Irene couldn’t do anything about that. No matter how much she made Buffy hurt.

Angel felt her tension. But every time he touched her, it brought them both pain. As much as it hurt not to touch, he couldn’t bring that on Buffy.

There was so much wrong now. What had started as a joyous thing was slowly mutating into a terror. The baby was taking over, as insane as it sounded. It already could influence Buffy’s body. He said nothing about the likelihood of it influencing her mind, too. He himself didn’t want to think about that possibility. What would he do if the child took over Buffy’s thoughts? He didn’t want to have to hurt her, especially in her condition, but neither could he let the baby control her. He’d have to keep her with him, no matter the cost.

His hands itched for the kill. The dark cloud above his head was growing heavier and heavier, and there was nothing he could do to strike back at it. The more he thought about it, the more his anger rose.

Buffy was asleep now. He could tell by her snoring, a recent development brought on by the pregnancy. She wouldn’t notice if he left now.

All the same, he leaned in to kiss her forehead. And stopped when the pain came again. His lips were centimeters from her face, and he could not force himself to make contact. Disgusted, he turned on his heel and grabbed his coat and boots. He needed some fresh air. And perhaps some violence, if he could fit it in.

The night was dark, and L.A. was almost as Angel remembered it. The shells of the buildings loomed high above, threatening collapse. Angel rebuilt them in his mind, feeling completely at home in the dark and damp alley ways. The high life had never agreed with him; deep down, he always felt like the streets were where he belonged. It helped that he felt most comfortable here, as well.

If he listened, he could hear the steady drip of water from a drainpipe, the squealing of rats over a meal, even, he imagined, the slow grind of the city’s foundation as it slid inexorably toward the sea. He hoped he’d not live to see L.A. fall into the ocean, as scientists all over the world were claiming it would eventually do. He was only two hundred and forty something, and already he felt old. The thought of living on infinitely was greatly depressing.

Tonight, though, he was looking for trouble. Not inviting it in by making noise and being obvious; that was too stupid and tasteless for him. No, he was looking for the kind of trouble he could pick and choose, and then stalk up on and kill. Angelus always had viewed the hunt as the best part of the kill.

Angel caught himself thinking of the taste of human blood, and the smell of fear pheromones, and he mentally backpedaled. He would not go down that road. Not yet. Not tonight.

But demon blood was another story. He picked up the scent of a Skrit demon, and tracked it carefully along the tops of the buildings. The beast was heavy and moving slow, likely fresh from a kill. Angel could only hope it hadn’t been human. Of course, either way, he was planning on eviscerating it, but if it had killed a human from his band, it would reflect badly on his leadership qualities.

He shook his head to clear it of the political drama that was fogging it. He eased himself into hunting mode. To him, killing had always been an art, but there was something to be said for Spike’s method of ‘charge in, ripping and tearing, and hope you don’t die.’ Just like there was something to be said for throwing paint haphazardly and violently on a canvas. But Angel wasn’t in the mood for art tonight.

He trailed the scent like a bloodhound. He didn’t even realize he’d gone into game face until he dropped down into a dark alley and realized how much better he could see. He growled softly. He was catching up. And the slight smell of fear meant that the Skrit knew it.

He flipped a manhole cover open with casual strength, and dropped down into the sewer. The Skrit hadn’t gone far from here. Angel knew these sewers well; the way the Skrit had gone ended in a dead end. He finally had it cornered.

The long hunt left him tense and feeling more violent than ever. He was growling deep in his throat now, involuntarily. His hands fell into natural fists as he slunk toward the turn in the tunnel. The beast was just beyond, and he could hear the triple heads hissing and clacking. He hadn’t brought any weapons. Any, that is, but his teeth.

He swung into the tunnel, revealing himself to the Skrit. It screeched at him, a brazen challenge. He snarled back in answer, a long, drawn out sound that echoed in the tunnels. His canines glinted in the feeble light.

The Skrit charged him. Its heads were lashing back and forth, a mindless motion, but dangerous none the less. It had long, six inch claws that Angel would have to contend with. This made it dangerous, but the small brains in each of the triple heads made it stupid. An unequal match, as far as Angel was concerned, but worth it none the less.

He dodged the charge easily, and spun around to jump to the beast’s back. It didn’t like this, and roared loudly, shaking its body back and forth angrily. Its single tail whipped around madly, but it wasn’t long enough or versatile enough to catch Angel.

Angel wrapped his arms around the middle neck. The thing changed tactics, trying to bend its neck down to bite at him. Angel tightened his arms, and the demon’s struggles became more frantic. Angel smiled.

A claw came at him, attempting to swat him from his perch. He relinquished his hold on the neck, and grabbed the claw with one hand. In a swift movement, he crushed the bones with his hand, and then broke a claw out of the pulpy mess. The creature shrieked in a sound that could be heard far above the street. Angel didn’t care. With the claw, he slashed a deep trench across the Skrit’s chest. Not settling for a surface wound, he cut deeper, through bone and sinew, until he hit bone.

The thing whirled quickly and caught his arm in its leftmost jaws. Angel roared in pain and anger. He did the only logical thing he could do; he twisted and bit it back, at its throat.

The demon blood was sour and unsavory, but he hung in long enough to tear out its throat. It dropped him immediately, and the head flopped down, limp. Angel spit out as much of the foul-tasting blood as he could, and then turned to face the monster again. His arm had bite marks in it, down to the bone. He ignored the pain and the smell of his own blood. A vessel had popped in one of his eyes, and blood stained the intense yellow on his left side. He blinked it away and charged forward.

He moved fast enough that the thing couldn’t reach at him with its ungainly two necks, or the single stubby arm it had left. He dug into the broad wound, searching for the talon he’d used to inflict it. Blood gushed out over his arms and torso, but he ignored it, and kept digging until he found the claw. From there, not even bothering to remove his arm from the Skrit’s torso, he slashed down, through the belly, spilling intestines all over himself and the floor. The thing’s eyes rolled up into its heads, and it gave a last dying scream, and toppled over backwards. Angel snarled in triumph, holding the bloody claw in his right hand, while his left dripped blood.

Steam rose from the Skrit’s entrails. Angel was a mess, but he felt amazing. Acting on instinct, he brought his ripped arm up to his mouth, and lapped at the wound gently. His own blood tasted salty and familiar. Not his first choice of a meal, but it was blood.

He forced himself to stop and realized that he hadn’t eaten anything in almost a week. No opportunity had presented itself, and he hadn’t been thinking much about his own needs, anyway. But his blood was preciously thin, and he needed something to feed on, and soon. Preferably before the night was out.

He’d gone hungry before, but back then, it was kind of a masochistic self- torture. He ate only enough to keep his brain from shutting down, and the rest of the time, he sat in the gutters and wallowed in the pinching nausea of empty blood vessels and an empty stomach. He’d felt like for each moment he was in pain, he gained another moment of redemption. Of course, now he found it far more efficient to actively reach for redemption, but the old habit was still there. He toyed with just going home and waiting until he couldn’t stand the hunger any longer.

But that, of course, was dangerous. No knowing if he would lose control and attack someone. Never Buffy, but someone else, and that would be almost as bad as letting a man be killed on his watch.

He climbed up the ladder to the open streets. The night seemed unchanged, but Angel could track the movement of the stars, and knew he’d spent more than two hours on this kill. He hoped Buffy hadn’t noticed his absence.

He had a good sense of direction, and he headed in the general direction of home. Or whatever he wanted to call it. ‘Home’ was only appropriate as long as Buffy was there.

Other people thought of homes as places. Not Angel. He’d never, in all his life, known what a home was. But the first time he met Buffy, he started to understand that sense of belonging people had always called ‘home’. He’d tried it out in his mind, and found that it fit. Buffy was home, and it was as simple as that.

His human sense of reasoning was growing stronger. He shifted back into his human mask, and felt the warm blood still wet on his face. He thought about finding somewhere to clean up, but now that he’d made his kill, he was tired. He thought of the warm, welcoming bed waiting for him, and the person in it, and he just wanted to sleep. Clean up could wait till morning.

Then, a sound came from an empty doorframe to his right. His head snapped around and he growled. Another whimper sounded, and he whipped out his good arm to clutch the humanoid demon by the throat. It squealed loudly, obviously in pain. “Please, please don’t hurt me!!”

“You have five seconds to tell me why not,” Angel ground out. He was no longer in the mood for violence, and he just wanted to get back to Buffy. But he was curious as to why this demon was skulking around so close to the colony. Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be anything good.

“Because I know how to save the child!!”