Angel shivered under the fur throw, his fingers frozen round a book. He stared at the last smouldering log in his fireplace and cursed glancing up at the chandelier whose light flickered ominously with the gathering summer storm.

Lightning arced and plunged the room into moonlit night, Angel growled and flung off his cover to investigate his failed generator.

He wrenched the cellar door open and armed with a crowbar he descended to pay homage to his generator. Hours later bathed in sweat, he had taken it apart and reassembled it and now employed the crowbar in persuading it to work.

"Cmon, ya Heathen, Devil–Spawned contraption! Work!" Clang! The sound of metal on metal echoed. He lifted the bar above his head one final time invoking the Lord in all his guises and several lesser deities. He delivered the masterstroke.

The lights flashed on, the generator purred into life and something thudded softly to the floor at his feet. He crouched down to peer at the ragged bundle, he nudged it gently and it uttered a sound.

It cried.

Angel supped from his blood bowl as he eyed the bundle, now placed safely on his couch surrounded by pillows. He had unwrapped the rag surrounding the object and it lay alongside. It was a Christening robe of a long dead infant, embroidered with seed pearls and inlaid with Irish lace.

Angel removed the pillows and sat beside his unexpected gift. He was both fascinated and appalled at the artistry of the books binding, it was the face of a sleeping child it looked as though it would wake at any moment. Angel caressed its soft cheek and the book sighed.

At the touch of his hand he could see the child’s tormented last moments and wept for the captured soul between the leaves of the book. He picked it up and held it close comforting it and cooing gently to it.

"Let me in Darlin’, let me help you. Let me see your secrets, sweet child." The book sighed open and he felt the warm rush of innocent breath enter his lungs, the tiny hands that formed the clasp brushed over his fingers as he turned the pages.

The author, a Demon Mage, wrote in the blood of the slaughtered innocent that formed the books binding . The child’s tiny fist curled round Angel’s finger as he turned the pages until he found an illustration.

It showed a figure in black surrounded by eight oriental symbols. The figure had no face. It carried a wooden stake in one clenched fist. The Drawing was entitled The Silent One on the facing page was a short verse.

In the dawn of the second Millennium She will come,
the Watcher–Slayer, the Silent One.
Through the veil of night and the sunlit play.
Though Her body may die Her soul remains.
The Soul–Catcher shall perish at Her hand.
The Watcher–Slayer reborn, returns.

He turned the next page and saw himself and another figure, also dressed in black. It had Giles’ face. The last time he had been this close to a prophecy he hadn’t enjoyed the outcome.

He read the rest of the slim volume, what he read had alarmed him. The Soul–Catcher could only be defeated by the Watcher–Slayer and he could find no other reference in any of his books. He sighed and shut the volume in his hands, he retrieved the throw and slept peacefully with the babe softly breathing on his chest.

End.

Site Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. own the Buffy characters.
All products, movies, books, songs, etc. are owned by their respective owners.
No copyright infringement is intended.
All ORIGINAL plots and characters on this site are owned by their respective authors.