Buffy came home to blood. Splattered on the floor, dried in streaks down the door, licked off of the fingers of the woman walking down the stairs.
Buffy froze, staring at her. “Darla. You’re dust.”
“Used to be.” Darla shrugged. “Not anymore. Angel didn’t mention you had a sister. She tasted like mint.” She frowned, rubbing her abdomen. Drinking the child had felt strange, and she didn’t like the rush of power that had crashed through her after the last heartbeat. Turning her had been a whim.
“Angel knows you’re back?”
“And he didn’t tell you. Fancy that.” Darla smirked.
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