Prologue: Dancing Alone

The sound of music drifted on the chilly night air, the melody of ‘Tu scendi dalle stelle’ rising and falling as the musicians wove their way through the crowded market place. The small band of Zampognari, wearing traditional criss-crossed leather leggings, short bulky trousers buckled below the knee, velvet jackets and peaked caps, disappeared into the mist as the last notes of their pipes died away. From the distance, a new tune called the two travellers onward towards the heart of the square.

The piazza was alive with movement and noise, the carousel at its centre a blur of colour, brass poles glowing beneath a myriad of festive lights. Sixty-eight horses whirled in unison, four rows of ‘gallopers’ rising and falling to the rhythm of ‘Applesauce’ belting out from the Wurlitzer. Around the perimeter, gaudily decorated stalls creaked beneath jars of preserves, pots of poinsettias, bunches of holly, trinkets and sparkling baubles. From the food booths came cries of "Il miglior torrone di Roma!" and the aromas of spun sugar, roasting nuts, and porcetta.

On the edge of the toy-stall canopy a life-sized puppet of La Befana dangled her legs over the side, resting her bare feet on the head of an enormous stuffed bear. Children tugged at their parents’ sleeves, pleading for another addition to their growing piles of purchases. A market trader came out from behind the mountain of chocolate-covered nougat, pressing small pieces of confectionery into the children’s hands. He motioned to his assistant to guard the takings, studied the two strangers for a second from under heavily hooded lids, and approached them cautiously.

The leather-clad male picked a wooden Angel from a stall peddling Nativity scenes and examined the gilded halo and hand-painted robes, tracing its ornately carved wings with his fingers. “Reckon a pair of these would have come in handy with that dragon,” he told the statue, placing it back with the other crib figurines. “Not sure ‘bout the dress.”

“Still don’t get why you brought me here to look for him, Blue.” Spike called to his companion, shaking his head and waving the approaching street vendor away with a glare. “Or, how you pulled off the teleportation trick if it comes to that,” he muttered, scanning the upper windows of the apartment block.

“Someone has interfered in that which belongs to the gods.” Illyria turned and strode away from the stall, following the route the musicians had taken out of the square.

“And that matters because?” Spike hurried after her, his gaze still fixed on the lights emanating from the third floor. “Hang on a minute, does this have something to do with…..umph!” he grunted as he collided with a pedestrian laden with parcels. “Buffy!”

“Spike? Is that really you?” Buffy dropped her shopping and reached out a gloved hand to his face. “Andrew told me. But I didn’t dare believe...” She gazed into his eyes, her own filling with tears. “And then Giles told me what happened in LA.” She gulped, forcing back a sob. “And I couldn’t bear the thought I’d lost both of you. And then Ambrogio told me... And now he’s gone and...”

“Hey. Slow down, Slayer, you’re making me dizzy with all the telling.” Spike caught her arms and steadied her, narrowing his eyes, searching over her shoulder for a glimpse of Illyria, then snapping them wide. “Who’s Ambrogio?”
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Chapter 1: Dancing in the Moonlight

The long-night moon hung high above the mountains, grinning through a gap in the scurrying clouds. In the valley below, a river of mist rose and surged on the wind-tide, swallowing the tail lights of vehicles thundering along the autostrada, drowning the noise from their engines, muffling the church bells sounding the Angelus in the village.

The motorway crossing, a single-tracked link between the village and the Castello five hundred metres above the valley was closed to traffic; a hand-written notice giving directions to an alternative route hanging limply from the works sign propped against the barrier. Buffy moved it to one side and stepped onto the bridge. A thin dusting of snow rose in a flurry of glistening crystals as she skidded across its frozen surface and landed with a thump against the safety rail.

“The Immortal!” Spike exploded for the third time in as many minutes. “I knew the bugger had it in for us all along. Never thought he’d go this far.”

“To the Apennines? They’re not far from Rome. Not as the crow flies anyway.” Buffy gripped the iron railing, pulled herself to her feet, and dusted the snow from the hem of her coat. “Or eagle, or whatever he turned into.”

“Wolf.” Illyria pointed at fresh paw-prints in the snow. “This one did not fly. He travelled much the same way as you and I.”

“Yeah. ‘Bout that,” Spike drawled, staring up at the mountains. “What happened to Rome?”

“You fear the power that brought you here.” Illyria sounded a challenge. “Yet you would go where the wolf is bound.”

“Fear the magical teleportation tour?” Spike shrugged. “Not half as much as whatever Morty’s up to. Adding Drac’s shape-shiftin’ tricks to his repertoire? Knew it was thrall all along.”

“His name’s Ambrogio.” Buffy hugged her coat tighter, thrusting her hands into the warmth of its deep pockets. “And you’re wrong. It wasn’t thrall. It was...” she paused, her mouth quivering.

“Chin up, Pet. We’ll find him.” Spike pulled the woollen hat further over her ears and wrapped her scarf around her throat, tucking it into the collar of her coat. “Tell me exactly what he said about Angel’s whereabouts.”

“He said Angel had been sent back home – to Shanshu.” Buffy wiped snowflakes from her eyelids. “Dawn looked it up on ‘Googlemaps’ but she couldn’t find it.” She stopped as a look of shock flashed across Spike’s face. “What’s wrong? Shanshu’s not in LA?”

“Not LA,” Spike confirmed through gritted teeth. “Besides, don’t think Angel thought of anywhere in Sunny California as home.”

"Ireland?" Buffy watched Illyria move rapidly into the woods towards the sound of wolves. “Does your... " she waved a hand at the disappearing figure, "whatever she is" expect us to follow her into that on a night like this?”

“Longest night of the year,” reflected Spike. “Gonna need all the dark hours that brings. Don’t reckon there are any handy sewers I can use here once the sun is up.”

Dark clouds raced across the sky driven by the strengthening wind, covering the moon, blotting out the light then releasing it again. Spike linked arms with Buffy and they struggled through the driving snow towards the forest. The respite they found there was short-lived; barely five paces in, they met Illyria, returning along the track.

“A deep gorge lies ahead,” she told them. “We will take the easier path to cross it.” Without breaking stride, she lowered her head against the oncoming blizzard and headed up the narrowing road.

The snow fell faster and thicker, visibility lessening with every step. Finally, the sky fell to ground level, creating a whiteout. Buffy stopped and silently resisted all Spike’s attempts to move her forward.

“You just need to rest. There’s a bit of shelter under that overhang.” Spike squinted into the wind and began leading the way to the foot of the next incline.

Buffy sank down into the snow, her back to the rock-face, her eyes blank.

“Buffy?” Spike crouched beside her. “What’s wrong, love? Time was you’d’ve punched me on the nose ages ago for not lettin’ you know I was back in the land of the undead.”

“Thought,” whispered Buffy.

“What?” Spike frowned.

“Angel never thought California was home.”

Spike sighed and joined her on the ground. “And that means...” He turned his head towards her.

Buffy didn’t respond, her face empty, eyes unresponsive to his questioning stare.

“We gonna sit here all night ‘til you work your feelings for your ex out?” Spike clenched his jaw and rose to his feet. “Or we gonna follow Frosty the Ice-Queen and track the missing hero down?” He held out his hand to her, shaking his head in frustration as she continued to ignore it.

“I can’t do this any more,” Buffy said finally. “I thought now I’m not ‘The One’, I’d have a chance to be...”

“Normal?” Spike snapped. “You want normal, you don’t date the first Immortal that crosses your strada.”

“There is a light ahead.” Illyria re-appeared from the whirling snowstorm, as Spike pulled Buffy from the icy ground. “The wolf is heading that way.” She guided them round the hairpin bend of the narrow mountain track.

The wind dropped as suddenly as it had risen, the snow stopped and the moon reappeared. As they climbed the steep incline past a ruined church, the wolf bounded from the forest, disappearing round the corner of a wall beside the rear driveway of the three-storey building that towered above them.

Buffy raised her eyes to the top floor window. Ancient bricks herringboned across the glass, diffusing the light from within, forming a criss-cross pattern on the snow below.

"Pietra Grezza," said Illria.

"You say something, Highness?" asked Spike.

"This dwelling. It is named La Pietra Grezza." She indicated the name plate attached to the wall.

"It means 'raw stone'," Buffy murmured. She walked the length of the building, searching for an entrance. The lower floors were in darkness; the French doors beside where they stood barred and gated on the inside. “No doorbell.”

“We follow where the wolf leads,” Illyria insisted, turning the corner.

At the back of the house, they climbed the stone steps in silence, pausing at the small walled-terrace on the second level. A generous woodpile leaned along one side, beneath the eves of a low outbuilding. Beside the logs stood an old stone trough, its pump dangling icicles of fine feathery hoarfrost that sparkled in the glare of the security light. Beyond the trough, a spiral staircase led them upwards again, to the entrance of the topmost part of the house; a heavy oak-panelled door surmounted by a leaded light window and sporting a wolf’s head doorknocker. Spike ignored it, hammering on the wood with his fist, stopping only when he heard sound of bolts being drawn.

The door opened, revealing a short, balding man in his late fifties. He was dressed as though ready for bed, in a heavy woollen dressing gown, striped pyjamas and slippers.

“Signorina Summers. Benvenuta nella mia casa.”

“Thank you,” Buffy replied, taking the hand he offered and following him inside.

Spike stepped forward and bounced off the invisible barrier blocking his entrance. “Hey!” he shouted. “What’s goin’ on? Buffy? Who is that?” He craned his neck, trying to glimpse behind the half-open door through which Illyria slipped unnoticed.