Chapter 2: Dancing in my Dreams
“It’s all right,” Buffy called to Spike. “It’s just Alberto.” She allowed her host to help her out of her sodden coat and scarf before pulling off her boots.
“Who the bloody hell’s Alberto?” Spike thundered.
Alberto poured Buffy a glass of wine from the open bottle on the coffee table, and motioned her to a chair beside the fireplace before returning to the doorway. "Signor Sanguinari. Che piacevole sorpresa". He bowed slightly to Spike, holding the door wider.
“Where is he?” Spike growled. “In English, I know you speak it.”
“’Ee is not ‘ere.”
Spike pursed his lips. “We saw him sneak in the back, you git.”
“’Ee is not ‘ere,” repeated Alberto, waving his hands indicating the room behind. “'Ee does not sneak. I invite you in. You look for yourself.”
Spike stepped inside, sweeping past the large oak dining table that filled half the room, and squinting into the darkened kitchen area set off to the right. He scanned his surroundings, noting the evident wealth that furnished them; the polished parquet floor and Levantine rugs, sumptuous white leather sofa and matching armchairs, the delicate china figurines, leather-bound books, and exquisitely cut Italian glass; all denoted a sense of elegance and taste absent in the man standing before him in old-fashioned nightclothes.
“Right. So the Poncy Bugger’s scarpered again, Bertie.” He picked a book from the shelf and opened it. “You know where he might be found?”
Illyria appeared from the corridor leading off from the second of two doorways. “He is gone. But I know not where,” she said, surveying the room’s contents as she moved towards Buffy. “Nor how.”
Buffy sank into the soft leather armchair, resting her head against its high back and warming her feet on the tiled hearth. She drained her glass and gazed into the embers of the wood fire. “So wrong.”
“That he should dare usurp the power of the gods will not go unpunished.”
“What?” Buffy spun her head. “Oh, no. Not that.”
Illyria lowered herself stiffly onto the second fireside chair. “You mourn the diminution of your own power, as I once did mine.”
“Not even that,” Buffy replied wearily, taking a log from the basket and throwing it onto the glowing embers. She glanced at Spike. “The fire went out,” she whispered.
Spike looked up from his reading. “Looks all right to me,” he said, crossing the room.
“I thought if I could escape, dance with someone else – someone, anyone - that I’d finally be me. Be Buffy. Be baked.”
“Baked?” Spike knelt on the rug and took her hands between his. “So that’s where Angel’s cookie-dough ramblings come from.”
“He told you?” Buffy’s voice rose hopefully.
“Not exactly. There was an incident. In Rome.” Spike dropped her hands and picked the bellows from the brass box. “Andrew was there.” He pumped air under the dying embers, watching the sparks spiraling upwards before fading and falling to the hearth.
Buffy lay back against the headrest and closed her eyes, the warmth of the fire and effects of the wine flushing her face. She dozed for a few minutes while Spike coaxed new life into the smouldering wood.
“Come on,” he grumbled. “You’re not dead yet.” He re-positioned the nose of the bellows, sending short puffs of air beneath the sharpened edge of the split log. It flared as the flame caught the seasoned wood, sending a flash of light across Buffy’s closed lids.
Her eyes shot open and she stared uncertainly at him.
“The fire can’t go out love,” he told her quietly. “Not ‘til you’re dead.” He stood up and stretched, placing the bellows back in the box. “Then you’re baked, finished. You know that.”
“Life isn’t bliss?”
“Recall telling you once before.” Spike rubbed his hands over his jeans, sending the cold ash that covered the front of them back to the hearth. “So. Where do we go from here?”
“Tonight is the Winter Solstice.” Illyria reached a hand toward the fire.
“It is.”
“A time of great significance for the warriors of Light and Dark.”
“If you say so, Highness.”
Illyria walked the perimeter of the room inspecting the pictures hanging on the walls; each paiting was simply framed and evidently by the same artist. “These three show the battle between the Winter King of Darkness and Summer King of Light.”
“’is best pieces,” Alberto said proudly. “You see the chiaroscuro? It come easy to ‘im. But Leonardo, ‘ee was so slow to learn the making of the light.”
“Da Vinci was a pupil?” Spike shook his head, snorting in disbelief.
“It is not my concern how this fabrication came about, but the story they tell,” said Illyria.
“Ritual. Dates back to pagan times. Guarantees the rising of the new sun if memory serves,” said Spike. “Winter King refuses to give up his throne. Big fight ensues. Summer King wins. Yule log burns all night and everyone goes home happy with a chunk of charcoal.”
“Look closer, vampire.” Illyria pointed to the last of the three scenes. In it, the holly-crowned Winter King, stood over the body of the fallen Summer King. Behind them, the dying remains of a bonfire guttered under a black sky.
“Shit!” Spike swallowed hard. “Morty could pull this off if he had a mind to. Send the world back to the Dark Times when...”
“When such as I once ruled,” Illyria finished.
“Why would he?” asked Buffy flatly. “And what does this have to do with Angel?” She rose from the armchair and gazed at the picture.
“This might tell us something,” Spike said indicating a fourth painting, an 18th century hunting scene; a young man crouched over the inert body of an adolescent wolf while a red-coated figure, flanked by two Irish wolfhounds, watched from the shadows of a massive limestone dolmen.
Alberto cleared his throat. “’is Eminence was not ‘appy about that kill. Since then is no more wolves in the green country. It is making ‘im need to do the penance.”
Spike stared at the hunter and his dogs. “Irish wolfhounds.” He screwed his eyes in concentration. “Bloody hell. Don’t tell me he killed the last Irish wolf.”
“And is the only one who is paying with the praying one hundred and fifty years...” Alberto sidled towards the exit.
“That’s why he locked himself away in a Tibetan Monastery! Bleedin’ street cred slipped," Spike chortled.
“I still don’t understand where Angel fits.” Buffy’s tired voice ended Spike’s laughter.
“The immortal one seeks to punish you through another,” said Illyria blocking Alberto’s passage towards the door.
“Goin’ somewhere, Jeeves?” Spike yanked him by the collar of his dressing gown and pushed him onto a dining chair. “Might want to change into something warmer. It’s parky out there.”
“It’s my fault Angel died in LA.” Buffy’s voice was barely a whisper.
“A dragon killed Angel, not your soddin’ boyfriend.” Spike threw Alberto a ‘stay there’ glare and returned to the bookshelf.
“He’s not my boyfriend. He broke up with me last night.” Buffy took a deep breath. “What did Andrew tell you?”
“For starters, there was snuggling.” Spike scowled, skimming the book he'd found earlier, flicking pages rapidly as he walked back to the dining table. “Didn’t say what the main course was.”
“We never got that far,” said Buffy. “That’s why he broke up with me. Said he was tired of competing with the two of you.”
“That’s it!” Spike jabbed a finger into the page and held it up for her to view.
“A wolf? That’s it? That’s all you have to say after I just told you...”
“The last wolf, the Winter King, the hunt. It’s all about The Immortal. Recognise the hunter in the red coat? Angel.” Spike gripped Buffy’s arm. “Shansu’s not a place, love, it’s a prophecy. Angel died fighting on the side of Light in 'The' Apocalypse. He gets to be a real boy again. Live a normal, mortal life. Trouble is, he seems to be doin’ it in the wrong century." Spike relaxed his grip and pointed at the third painting. "This. It’s wrong on so many counts. No one dies in a ritual. Not for real. But look at the painting. Summer King. Is dead. In the story, the Winter King loses. ‘Cept in this version, The Immortal’s version, he wins.”
“What does he win?”
“You’re asking the wrong question, love. It’s not what’s won that matters, it’s what's lost.” Spike twisted the book and showed her the text facing the picture.
“Samhain is past. Hearts’ desires are cast. Saturn’s time is come at last, and darkness holds mere mortals fast,” Buffy read aloud.
“Summer is lost,” said Illyria.
“He can’t have me, so he’s planning to kill the light - in me?” Buffy asked.
“The Immortal hates to lose. Never has to my knowledge. So yeah – he’s finally going to kill Angel.” Spike took the book from her and placed it on the table. He reached out an arm and dragged Alberto to his feet. “And you're going to show us where your precious Eminence has gone.”
“’Ee is not ‘ere,” Alberto whimpered. “I am the keeper of ‘is Logia, for the hunting. I know nothing.”
“Don’t force me to torture you now, Bert.” Spike slipped into gameface. “Got over a century’s worth of revenge needs working through. I doubt you’d stand up to it.”
“There is no need,” said Illyria, opening the door. “The wolf crossed behind the terrace to the building beyond the outer wall.”
“And you didn’t mention this before because...” Buffy asked scathingly, pulling on her boots.
“We were not in possession of the knowledge we now have.” Illyria stalked down the staircase, crossed the small patio behind the lower terrace, and moved swiftly towards the long low outline of another dwelling.
“Old stones.” She ran her hands over a section of wall. “Brought from further down the valley. Part of a mighty palace there, such as one in which I once dwelt.”
“Feeling homesick, Blue?” Spike struck a match on the stonework, the light flaring briefly in the thick darkness inside the ancient walls. “Maybe you should sit this trip out. Keep old Bert company. He’s got satellite.”
“I, alone, will fathom the mystery of the portal that resides beneath this roof.” She fixed him with an icy stare.
“You think?” asked Buffy, flicking on the torch she carried and shining it on the wolf’s head carved into the stone lintel of the inner doorway. “’Follow where the wolf leads’. Here?” she asked Spike.
He nodded. “So, Illyria. What’s your heart’s desire? Truckload of worshipful subjects? World trembling before your feet. All the Ben and Jerry’s you can eat while treadin’ the Dark Side?”
"The Dark Side?" Ilyyria tilted her head questioningly.
Buffy smiled at him and stepped into the doorway. "Samhain is past.
Hearts’ desires are cast. Saturn’s time is come at last, and darkness holds mere mortals fast,” she chanted.
“And they said my poetry was bloody awful,” Spike chuckled as the world tipped and the moon turned black.