~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lover,
Feeling restless.
Gone out for some slayage,
be home after you're gone.
Catch ya tonight.
Christina
P.S. Only 2 more months
before she's out! Yay!
XOXO
He took down the note on the fridge. The baby must have been keeping her up again. He hoped it was the baby.
Sitting over his coffee alone, Angel thought about last night and his story. Not a story but a tale from his life. She seemed to understand but . . . he had a hard time believing she could believe in him. He'd meant it when he called her his redemption. Angel couldn't imagine what it would be like without her; without her off-center smile; without her ever-mobile face and the strange cat-like sounds she made when she stretched in the morning. How would he live without their child?
Angel stood up and went to the window. If she were here she'd chastise him for being too moody. "Hey, brood-man, can I have my lover back now," he could hear her behind him, "the one who doesn't stare into his kava," he could almost feel her turning him, pulling him down to her level, pulling him into an almost chaste kiss.
She'd posted the note next to the calendar. The calendar that marked off the months and days till their child's birth . . . among other things. Somewhere it marked their wedding anniversary. This would be their seventh. Music drifted in from the living room. Must be six-thirty, Angel thought. Take it like a man he said/Take your medicine . . . It was one of his old CD's. Martin Sexton he thought. She'd set the house computer to play music every morning at six-thirty. If she heard it and she still wasn't up and about she'd know that was her last warning. Or at least that's what she told him. It wasn't always effective. Sometimes the system chose something throbbing from her more modern collection that would wake the neighbors -- if they had any -- sometimes it chose from the softer side of his collection.
Here they were, the pregnancy seven months along, seven years into their marriage, Angel wasn't sure, but it sounded ominious.
§§§
Christina walked through the not-so-fair city of Los Angeles. "And I went and married the most lost angel of them all," she said to herself, smiling. No one looked at her strangely. There weren't very many people out to look at her strangely. Without realizing it she lay a hand on her belly. She was only beginning to show which was wanted it. No need to give the bump-in-the-nights incentive to come after her or her growing family. She giggled at the thought of her "growing" family and her growing belly. Her sense of humor was ever expanding as her body changed without changing. Sometimes she didn't even feel pregnant, she certainly didn't look it. She often felt out of place in her Lamaze classes but they'd discussed it with her doctor. Emily said she was fine so long as she kept a healthy lifestyle. "You do realize gaining weight is part of pregnancy, right?" Of course she had, it just didn't seem to be happening for her. "That's all right actually. The baby's growing properly, I suppose with your lifestyle you're burning off the excess fat as soon as you put it on. I'm sure there are a lot of jealous mothers-to-be in your class. I would have been."
Christina was the jealous one. Why couldn't she share in something so normal and natural as gaining pregnancy weight? Because her craving for normalcy paled in comparision to her almost animal need to protect her child. Most Slayers didn't live long enough to have children. In truth, only two others had.
§§§
He shook his head and with it shook off the oppressive thought. In the living room the music changed as per her instructions. It chose up to five mini-discs and randomly selected songs from them. Every morning was different and between their music collections -- everything Angel owned had had to be converted to mini-disc and/or MP3 -- the variations seemed endless. Take me down, 6 underground/the ground beneath your feet. Sneaker Pimps, one of her selections actually. They'd found it years ago going through his stuff. Angel intended to trash it but she'd fallen in love with the lead singer's strange voice. "She's great, how can you not like her?" She'd wanted it, he gave it to her. That had been a long time ago, before they were married, before they anything more than friends when the most Angel could have said he felt for her was filial protectiveness.
A different song, Sneaker Pimps still. She would have been happy with the computer's selections. You're heart is served cold/You're sights are set in perfect stone. That sounded like him, before when they had been Teacher and Student. You wore the cross/you made your own. Maybe she'd asked for the disc because she felt someone sympathised.
There he was again, brooding. Resolutely he took his coffee into the living room. Setting it on the desk he turned on the computer and called up his wife's music program. He asked for the next selection. It was one of her neo-classical punk fusion bands, easily unemotional, very hard to brood to.
He was still half asleep, what he needed was a stinging cold shower to wake him up. There was nothing on the Angel Investigations itinerary today, maybe Gunn would like to see him. Maybe he'd heard from Cordelia. Angel marvelled at the ability of two people to forsake a friendship because of pride. He marvelled because he was one of the two and because, at nearly three centuries older, he should know better.
§§§
Nights like this she missed New York City the most. Christina hadn't been home in nearly a decade. Though she kept in constant contact with her mother, it wasn't the same. She'd once vowed never to leave the City so long it utterly changed on her. She'd broken that promise. But she was going home, right after the baby was born. They would all go to visit her mother and stay a while. Only two more months. They'd been clearing their schedules for nearly a year. Christina had been willing to beg her husband -- she still wasn't used to a place that counted rainy and dry as seasons -- to go back. It hadn't taken so much effort. He had a strange affinity, though not as fond, for the City as well. It was the kind of place you either hated or loved. Christina was madly in love.
She longed for the freedom being a Slayer gave and the beauty of a New York night. She wanted to walk through Central Park at midnight. She wanted to take the foot- and way-paths, the places tourists never saw, the places no sane person visited at night. She craved it like she craved a slice of pineapple loaf with ham. Well, she didn't really crave pineapple loaf and ham, just the loaf -- and maybe some Chunky Monkey. Christina didn't even attempt to resist the banana-walnut-dark chocolate mix.
But it was New York that was singing to her. It was home. The stars above her weren't the stars she was longing for. Home, her future, they all lay elsewhere. Her lover was behind and her child was before. Somehow Christina had to find the mid-ground. It seemed she had been searching for her place in reality since it all began, from the beginning. She knew she was meant for more and here she was, a Slayer. She knew she wanted something more stable than what her own mother had been able to give. She was married expecting her first child. There was something else, something pivotal coming next -- and she was the pivot.
§§§
Third cup of coffee of the day . . . Angel really hated mornings without her. She always badgered him about his caffeine consumption. In a few hours he was going to be a jittery wreck.
Angel padded around their apartment barefoot, his steps muffled by deep carpets. The sound changed, becoming gentle slapping; the kitchen, bathrooms and her study were hardwood. He went to her computer, an old fashioned one -- to her -- with a keyboard. Careful not to disturb her methodical mess, he sat in her chair. Her scent was the room, it was in the chair, part of the books and paper that made up her work area. The computer was on, it always was.
Angel browsed through her various files. Many were school related dating from her first year of college through her grad years. The rest . . . The rest were her stories, her poems, her notes, her dream and vision on paper -- or rather screen. He'd read many of the stories. They dated from her childhood. Angel liked to read them, there was so much of her inner life she kept from him; she kept so few things from him. They were all alive in her stories though. She made no secret of it. To be inside her stories, very often, was to be inside her mind Angel'd discovered. Her poetry was even more internal . . .
Taking a sip of coffee, Angel chastised himself. Even in his wife's sunny, cheerily disorganized office he managed to brood. Maybe he should just go back to bed.
But he didn't feel like going back to bed. Scanning the files he found one he hadn't noticed before. The folder was hardly new. Angel tapped the icon on the screen. It opened like a bloom revealing files, documents and assorted notes to herself. One entitled "Names" captured his attention.
It was exactly what it promised to be, a list of names, baby names to be exact. Angel couldn't and didn't resist the smile tugging at his lips. As much as she referred to their unborn as "she" his wife had been very diplomatic about her choices. Some were certainly more interesting than practical like Keturah, Eshe and Haroon. He wasn't quite sure if Eshe was a girl's or boy's name. She'd included a lot of Irish names, for his sake Angel supposed. Enfys, Moira, Grainna -- Envys, Mira and Grayna -- were all quite traditional. His sister . . . He shed the thought like water. Another folder consisted of the notes to her various works.
§§§
They'd had a fight last week . . . if you could call her obstinate silence a fight. Christina kept too many things inside she knew. Sometimes she wanted to scream to scratch and claw and fight and destroy every breakable thing they owned. She was too used to being the nice-girl, too used to propogating the myths that surrounded her.
It'd been a stupid fight: her fault. If there had ever been a reason she'd forgotten it. She was scared. It'd been so long since she was scared, really scared. Christina was scared for the baby, their future.
§§§
Somehow Angel got lost in searching. He'd been sorting through his wife's relatively -- and surprisingly -- ordered computer files. He had gone through and around everything in her hardrive from the games to outdated program files to a few minor hacks. Until he hit the firewall. Technically it wasn't a firewall but a password protected area of the hardrive. Now that was unusual. Angel knew all his wife's passwords though he never used them. They had clearly defined what was personal and what was not, yet he'd go online and she'd casually tell him what password to type for her e-mail or her bank account information. The very thought of sneaking in to see who sent her messages, e-mail being one of those restricted areas, made him uncomfortable. His wife's tactic seemed to be "leave it in plain sight and they won't touch." It worked, she'd shamed Angel into keeping out of her personal stuff.
This was most certainly a surprise, what could she be hiding in there? In the background he heard the player pause before switching minidiscs. Another fusion something-or-other by somebody-or-other. Angel bent the small gray mic to his direction, he'd been working with the touch screen only.
After thinking a moment, he said "RavenSix," one of her more common passwords.
"Incorrect Password," a soft masculine voice answered as the words appeared across the screen.
"Marie," her second-most common password.
"Incorrect Password."
"AngelLove," the password he absolutely despised.
"Incorrect Password."
"Kimberly," her mother's first name.
"Incorrect Password."
"Bishop..."
§§§
Christina stared up at what few stars she could see high over Los Angeles. Right hand over the gentle swell of her belly, left on her schoolbag she contemplated nothing. For the moment she existed in the sensation of laying against the inclined roof over the building's stairs and what her fingers felt. Her fingertips knew her belly better than her Lover. She'd taken to calling him that, her husband. When she found out what the name for love was in his native language -- grá or graw -- she'd stolen a man made word for "beloved" from a book and made the word her own. Imzadi or beloved, but more than beloved. He was as much a part of her as her consciousness to her mind . . . his consciousness was welcome in her mind . . . there were really no words of equivalency and that's why Christina liked it. Imzadi, beloved, her beloved; he was her imza and she was his.
§§§
Angel would just have to give up. His efforts were proving not only futile but tiresome. Checking the LCD over the flatscreen Angel swore under his breath. Something else his wife would have gotten on him about, she detested swearing at least in the conventional sense. He actually had an appointment to keep. Well, the note said she'd be home tonight after patrol, at least this meeting would keep him busy.
§§§
Checking her pocket LCD Christina sighed. The sun would rise in a couple of hours. She imagined her husband was sound asleep, probably lying flat on his stomach. He wouldn't be up till six or six-thirty when the house computer chose that morning's music mix.
Somewhere nearby was a twenty-four hour coffee shop she knew of. In the past month Christina'd become something of a regular and while the employees didn't know her name yet they knew she didn't like coffee. Standing she slid down the side of the rooftop leanto. She had the urge to simply jump off the side of the building to the street below. There was no one to see her and the building wasn't that tall, besides she could do it. In the end she took the fire escape like a good mommy-to-be.
The coffee shop was closer than she'd thought. As Christina walked towards the glass doors a late-night waitress recognizing her waved. About to wave back she felt the presence of darkness. It was to her right. It was smoking. She walked towards the glowing butt.
"I'm not really in the mood for slaying tonight," she said in a low calm meter, "how 'bout you do us both a favor and walk away."
They were both clothed in shadows. It, "he" she was almost certain, could see better she knew. It was taller and it was blonder and it was still smoking. "Are you going to go or are you going to smoke?"
"Don't you recognize me," he asked. Definitely a he, an English he.
"Should I," she asked, cocking her head to one side. Christina's eyes were quickly adjusting to this newest level of darkness. Small featured for a man, narrow face, high cheekbones and a long lean body -- whoever had made him knew a predator's body when it saw one.
"Maybe, maybe not luv."
Cocky too. Wait, there was something familiar about his manner and his look. "You were the Englishman with the wrong address."
"Dead on, pet." They were innocuous enough words but dangerously said. Everything between Vampire and Slayer was deadly serious. He'd ruined her plans and she was intrinsic to his.
"Does this mean you're not going then?"
"Not bad, for a Slayer."
She was too focused to be goaded by his taunts. She was too intent
on making sure he didn't hear two heartbeats instead of one. She was too
centered on making this a quick battle.
"You know, I've heard about you," he went on, "you went to a different reality and killed a Master. Other than that you're probably the bleedinest boring Slayer in history," she shrugged. "I wonder, can you take on a vampire like me."
"And what's so special about you?"
"I, pet, am William the Bloody. Better known to you, I'm sure, as Spike."
There was still a tenseness in every word passed between them. Spike's flourishing bow didn't alleviate things.
"If you're expecting me to gasp or go the way of the dodo I'm sorry to disappoint."
"Haven't heard of me Pet? I'm hurt."
Smoothing a hair behind her ear she said, "Oh I have. Buffy and the others don't talk about you directly but I've heard of you. I know what you did. I know about Druscilla. I know about Angelus. I know about the chip. I know about the obsession with Buffy and the robot. I know."
"And you aren't scared."
"Should I be? Can we get this on, I have places to be and the sun will be up soon." Through the conversation they had been moving into the alley away from prying eyes. "Oh and don't call me 'Pet'."
"Whatever you say babe."
"That was worse." She surprised him with an upercut.
Spike's head snapped back. Gingerly he touched his jaw. "You weren't expecting that, were you," Christina asked. "See, I also know you like to study your opponents. I don't know whether you've been studying me but if you know where I live," she knocked him down with flying spin kick, "it's a good bet."
Spike growled. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He slid into game face. "Let's play."
He swept her legs from under her. Christina fell on her back but rolled into a crouch. Impulsively she launched herself at him. Spike used her momentum to send them both into a roll. As they came out of it standing he caught her leg before she could back-kick him in the stomach. Off balance she fell to the hard ground. Christina bridged, kicking him in the jaw using its force to flip into a standing position. As he reeled backwards she hit him in quick succession with first her elbow, fist then the flat of her palm.
Spike caught her hand, simply aborbing the blow, and took her along for his downward ride. Righting himself he twisted her arm, exposing her ribs to his punches. Christina tried her best to offer her back and sides to him, keeping him away from her stomach. He didn't notice.
Working out the manuever in her head, she grabbed his hand to stop him from punishing her and viciously kicked the back of his knee. Spike fell hard but with her hand still caught to his chest Christina went with him. Bad plan, Christina thought to herself. Now she too was on her knees and even lower than Spike.
The blond vampire saw his chance. The Slayer saw it too. Another more primal instinct took over. Without thinking she yanked her hand out of his grasp, losing skin in the process, and elbowed Spike in the solar plexus. He bent low gasping in pain.
Christina was on her feet in moments. She desperately wanted to run and protect the baby but if she did she'd never be free of him. Quickly she pulled a stake from the her coat sleeve. She'd plunge it into his back and then she could have her tea and go to school and patrol and go home to a husband who loved her and wait two months to give birth to their child.
She raised the stake, ready to christen it for the night. Yet it seemed the dirty and red stained shard of glass protruding from her chest might stop her. Christina looked at it surprised. Spike had moved with a preternatural speed born of a hatred for the man she loved. Instead of her looking down at his prone body he was looking at hers.
She opened her mouth to speak. Her teeth were pink and it was becoming hard to breath. He'd pierced a lung. "Looks like I've won, luv." Cradling her in his arms, he bent his head to her neck and drank.
The feeling of canines piercing flesh sent her into shock.
Surprisingly there was very little blood flowing from the mortal wound he'd given her. He wasn't ready for the explosion of tastes and sensations and pure elemental power that flowed over his tongue. She was unlike any Slayer Spike had the pleasure of feeding upon. There was no will to die in her. Had there been their struggle would have been over that much sooner. He'd seen the change when he nearly had her. There was no calm acceptance but an intense will to live. He could taste it in her blood. She was fighting for consciousness, fighting to stay alive. It made the blood sweeter, more rich with her power. There were snippets of her life: arousal from her first kiss, fear after her first kill, anguish when her friend died. Spike was going to be drunk off her blood for days. And then there was that indefinable taste, something he hadn't had in a long time. Ah, but she was fighting again. He cradled her closer like a lover. Yes, there were memories of her lover, her only lover and Spike's reason for stalking her at all. Adrenaline intoxicated every gulp...but there was the other flavor. He knew it. It tugged on the edge of his frenetic memory. But her heart was slowing, unable to fight him any longer with an inch thick piece of glass tearing it apart.
And he heard it. The sound was inside his head as clearly as his own consciousness, the Slayer's and her heart. Another heartbeat. That was it. That was the flavor he could not place, the underlying spice in them all. She was pregnant. The Slayer was pregnant. Spike's mind reeled. Not only was he drinking some of the most powerful blood in the underworld but she was carrying his godforsaken sire's child. It made sense now, why she'd been so eager to finish the fight, the primal fire that'd come to her eyes. She'd been protecting the kid. He drank deeper. Yes, as the Slayer's heart slowed the sound of a faster one dominated. It was consuming him.
He had to stop. The child could live another day without its mother but he had to stop before he killed her. She was begging him to.
§§§
"Angel, I'm so sorry."
"What about, Bishop?" He'd just come home. The house was dark. "Can it wait a second, I'll be right back." He didn't allow the Englishman to answer but gave the warehouse apartment a cursory check. She wasn't home. Maybe she'd gone out again.
"All right, I'm back. Now, what were you sorry about Bishop?"
§§§
He slid out of her, humanity in place. "What is it Princess," he asked in an almost reverential whisper. Spike didn't know blood like hers existed.
"Turn me." Her eyes were closed.
"What? Why should I?"
Christina didn't have strength enough to talk but she did. "You want to get back at your sire, right?"
"Yes."
"What will destroy him, my broken body or knowing that I am his childe's childe?" She coughed. It hurt.
"You're only trying to protect the kid."
"I am," she was too weak to deny it. "But as your childe your will is mine. Think," she coughed again, "think about it. I would be the most powerful fledgeling in creation."
"What if I decide to kill it."
"I have to take the chance." She opened her eyes. "Please Spike, turn me." The water that had built behind closed lids ran down the sides of her face, "Please."
She was dying. If he was going to do something it would have to be now. She was right, there would be no fledgeling more powerful. Ever. What would she be like in a hundred years? His sire would die when he found out and wasn't that the point?
Spike tore his wrist. "Drink," he said pressing the bloody wound to her mouth. When she didn't respond he yelled at her. He had to reopen the wound. "Drink!" He felt the first gentle pull before she tugged all the blood he'd gorged on back into her body.
§§§
Angel took a quick glance at the LCD: 7:22 p.m.
"I have just been informed by the Watcher's Council that a new Slayer has been called."
Angel's face fell. "No, not Mayja. What happened? Was it vampires, a demon . . . do you need me and Chri --"
"You don't seem to understand," Bishop interrupted, pushing his glances up his nose, "though I suppose I'm not being very clear. Angel, Mayja's fine, a little shaken up by the news but she's all right."
"Then --"
"I'm sorry Angel. Christina and the baby are dead."
§§§
Spike sat still for hours. He couldn't remember ever having such patience. He couldn't ever remember feeling so powerful before. Sitting at her side, he listened for the only hearbeat in the room. It was slowly fading. He willed it not to.
Dru would have been proud. Christina was laid out in simple but beautiful white gown surrounded by the flowers of the dead, chrysanthemums. For the first and last time she truly slept the sleep of the dead. Inside the blood was working on her, taking the corpse he'd created and giving it new life. Unlife. Yet even death couldn't rob her of the gold undertones in her cinnamon skin, it couldn't steal the luminosity of her eyes and it couldn't take her Slayer strength and skill. The blood would take it all and make it more. She looked like a child sleeping there. Soon she would be his childe.
With a deliberateness he rarely used Spike picked up the remote at his feet. Without looking he pointed behind and turned on the mini disc player.
Sid Vicious screamed at full volume.
Christina was dead, what did she care.
§§§
There was a long silence.
"No."
"I wish I was there to tell you myself," Bishop went on, "this isn't the sort of news you give over the phone," falling back on English good manners. "But, yes, Angel, its true. A new Slayer would not be called if the old one had not died."
"No."
"Really Angel --"
"I won't believe it until I see a body." He couldn't comprehend it until he saw a body. He couldn't wrap his mind around the concept until he saw a body. He couldn't fall apart until he saw a body.
"Angel, I'm as upset as you but I understand," Bishop answered quietly. The older man's face seemed to be made of stone. "Would you like me to contact the police, have them file a missing persons --"
He shook his head in a firm negative. "I don't want the cops involved with this. We don't know how she died or even if she's dead."
"We have to consider that this may be a matter for the police."
"I don't want them involved."
The Watcher Emeritus sighed. He undertood the ex-vampire's position. If he were married to a slayer he wouldn't want police investigated her probable death either, nor would he so readily believe it was something they could handle. "As you wish." He crossed his arms then uncrossed them. Something pricked at his eyes. He scratched a corner only to find his fingertips wet. Bloody hell. "If you don't mind I'm going to go now."
Angel nodded, not really paying attention to the older looking man.
"Will you be all right? I or Mayja can come down. Would you prefer one of the Scoobies? You should probably call Gunn and Cordelia. Gunn's granddaughter will be quite upset, I imagine."
The man looked up, "Yes? Oh, right. I'll remember that. And no, you don't have to send anyone." Angel reached for his coat. It lay over the back of a favorite wingchair where he'd left it seemingly hours ago.
"Where are you going?"
"To find my wife."
§§§
Cold. First there was cold. It was a smooth cold, silky. What was silky? Whatever it was it was a bad description. There was a word associated with this tactile feeling. It was just on the edge of knowing, of being.
Satin. First was cold smooth satin under her skin. She was heavy, very heavy as if being pressed from above.
Limbs. Second were the parts of her body. They felt stiff as if she hadn't used them in a long time. Arms, legs, fingers, toes and torso -- she knew them but didn't know how she knew them. She knew what they did but she couldn't figure out how to use them. There was a kind of coordination and balance that seemed just out of reach. The harder she grasped at it the further it went from her. The frustration was becoming frightening
Sensation! Nerves and bio-chemicals were waking, rapid firing to her brain. She could feel the hair on her head, the slight breeze sending tingles along the fine hairs of her arms. She was wearing something. Awareness of every part of her body and its immediate surroundings filled her, overwhelmed her senses. "I'm aware of every cell in my body." Who said that?
Her senses. Her nose awoke first. Scents, smells tastes in the air, some she could identify most she couldn't, flooded her with information. They wanted to tell her about the world outside her closed lids but they all screamed for attention at the same time.
The noise, the noise! Without conscious thought her hands flew to her ears but she couldn't shut them out. Her new highly sensitive ears heard everthing from the throbbing music to a clock ticking outside to a couple have a conversation down the block to a beat she couldn't get rid of. Pain rode along every nerve. She bucked and convulsed against the satin.
"Princess," she heard the voice but it was like a roar. The words were loud and distorted. She opened her eyes to her attacker and immediately closed them. Color suffused everything. Combined with the noise, the sensation of her skin and the smells she could not place the new made vampire was in sensory overload. She cried out and her voice made her cringe.
Spike had witnessed enough crossing, could remember his own, to know what was going on. He never seen a vampire go through it so badly. How much more powerful, sensative, had his blood made her? He laid a hand on her bare shoulder and she scrambled across the room with a speed he almost couldn't track.
Her eyes were open and wild. If he was going to do it he'd have to do it now while she didn't know what she was.
Something inside told her to breathe. It was begging her to breathe. She took a gasping breath and cringed again as even more smells and tastes competed for her attention. She had to get out. Too much noise, too many smells, touches, tastes . . . too much.
He was coming towards her. She didn't know what to do. This body and its abilites were too new. Instinct took over. She stood and ran for the door.
Spike growled. Somehow she knew he was going for the kid. Bloody hell!
There at the end of the hallway was a window. She ran for it --
-- and jumped out the eigth floor of a ten-story building. She landed on her back and stood. It was just as bad out here but different. She looked up, he was coming for her.
She ran. Again instinct lead her.
§§§
Angel pulled on the long black microfiber. He missed the leather though this was easier to clean and lighter and even though it was light it still managed to be warm like how the house stayed warm even in the coldest days which was funny because it was a warehouse and not really meant to keep anything warm or cold or anything but then --
Angel stopped before he could send himself spiralling into madness. That didn't keep it from looking rather comforting.
As a matter of course he checked himself in the mirror. He almost thought he saw her standing in front him fixing his collar or deliberately mussing his hair. With an angry yank Angel opened the elevator door --
-- nearly causing Christina to fall inside. Instead she was caught by an invisible barrier.
"Tina!" He looked her over. She was dressed in a pure white halter dress. Or it had been pure white, now it was dirty and bloodstained. In her hair were flower petals and bits of garbage. Her signature silver necklace glittered in the hall lights. The cat was there but the cross Angel'd given her for her eighteenth birthday was missing. She collapsed in a puddle of torn skirts gasping for air and he forgot about it.
"Let me in, please Angel let me in," she begged, too tired to stand still reeling from the very world around her.
He crossed the threshold and picked her up. "They think you're dead, imzadi," he said into her neck. "I thought you were dead, I was going to look for your body." Angel could feel sobs of unreleased grief and adrenaline hitching his breath. "Oh God. . . I thought you were gone."
"We have to go inside Angel," she whispered. "Please, he's after me."
He backed into their apartment and found he could not bring her with him. "What's going on?"
"I had to let him," she sobbed, "I had to let him turn me or the baby would have died. Please you have to let me in Angel. He wants to kill the baby because its yours. He wanted to kill me because I'm yours but I convinced him to turn me. I was dying." She watched as her human husband's eyes turned cold. "You can hate me but for the sake of my child," she whispered fiercely, "for your child you have to protect me. If you loved me, if you really want this baby you'll let me in."
Two stones looked back at her. Christina searched his face. "Please. I'm begging. You can stake me once I've given birth and if the baby's a vampire you can stake it too but you can't let Spike have us. You can't, you can't, you can't," she descended into incoherent tears.
For a long time he stood there holding the newly made vampiress, the mother of his child. Could he trust her? She couldn't invite another vampire into the house, she had no soul. Angel felt a hand squeeze his heart hard. His favorite childe had created one of his own and now he wanted to destroy what his sire held dear.
Christina had regained some modicum of self control. "If you're not going to protect me," she said quietly, "then please let me go. If I stay too long he'll find me. Spike knows this place. I have to keep running."
"You can stay here on these terms and these terms only. They are nonnegotiable." He saw her nod. "First you will live by my rules, that includes no feeding from humans and whatever else I may impose, et cetera. Secondly when the child is born, if it is still human I will keep it. The baby is mine and you have no rights to it. If, if," he almost couldn't say it, "if it's not then I will have to decide what to do."
"I understand," she said quietly. Every part of her body was singing to her to gorge herself on his blood. Angel still hadn't let her go and the proximity was working on her very limited control.
"Last and most important if your life at all times is in my hands. If I don't approve it is forfeit. Is that understood?"
"Yes."
"Come in." Once again he stepped backward into the apartment, this time bringing her too. For the sake of the baby he set her down gently on her feet.
She collapsed.
Angel caught her. "I need to feed. I fed earlier but the running -- I'm starved and scared and there are too many sights and sounds..." She began to cry again unable to express in words all that was happening to her -- unable to understand it herself.
Angel did. She had vampire eyes on top of Slayer eyes. She had a vampire's sense of smell on top of a Slayer's. She had vampiric hearing on top of Slayer hearing. There was nothing that wasn't causing her some kind of pain and confusion. Normally it lasted a few hours if that long. He couldn't begin to gauge when she'd regain control of her senses.
Picking her up he deposited Christina in the guest room. It had been her bedroom for the first year of their marriage . . . He had to stop thinking along those lines so instead he left.
He watched as she gorged herself on bloodbag after bloodbag. The energy she needed was astounding. When she was full he took them away. She was nearly asleep when he walked back in. "Christina?"
She raised drowsed eyes. "Yes?"
"My first rule," she visibly perked. "You are not my wife. My wife is dead. If I find you any where near my room or her things without my express permission you will die."
For a moment Christina only looked at him. Her expression was unreadable. "I understand," she said before closing her eyes and shutting Angel and the rest of the world out.