Chapter 3: Dancing in the Dark.
Damp lay on the branches and sparse grass, droplets strung from twig to twig and blade to blade, like a coarse spider's' web. On every stone and rock of the foreshore, wet lay, clammy, clinging and chill. Across the bay, a lone Galway hooker turned slowly on its bows, straining against the anchor chain with each surge of the tide. At the shore's edge, above the high water mark with its mounds of seaweed and piles of driftwood, a squat, square castle turret rose in the darkness, a silhouette against the moonlit ocean. The walls must have taken a constant pounding from wind and wave for centuries, but still appeared whole. Beside it, flanking the rough roadway that ran along the water's edge, was a massive stone portal tomb. A light flared briefly at its entrance.
Spike inhaled deeply on a freshly lit cigarette, shivered, and pulled his coat closer, watching the darkness gathering on the distant horizon speeding across the ocean towards the dolmen, devouring the moonlight as it came. "This is all your fault," he called to Illyria. “You and the Immortal and your soddin' hearts’ desires.”
Illyria paused in her fingering of the rock's surface and turned her glacial stare on Spike. "This place. It reveres the Old Gods still. I hear them in the whispering of the stones and the sound of the sea. This is a place in which I could..."
“Set rollback to 'everlasting darkness'?” Spike interrupted.
"I wish to know more of those that dwell here and of the heart’s desire that is hallowed. Nothing more."
"Yeah. And leopards change their spots for stripes all the time," Spike snorted.
“Breaking the heel on a brand new pair of Pradas on a stupid rock's not my idea of heart’s desire.” Buffy’s complaint wafted towards them through the swirling mist.
“Why do I always get stuck with women who believe it’s all about them all the time?” Spike muttered through gritted teeth.
The sound of off-key singing drifted across the headland and they left the shelter of the rocks and made their way towards the noise. The lyrics became clearer as they neared a farmhouse set back from the roadway.
“For Reilly played on the big brass drum
Reilly had a mind for murder and slaughter,
Reilly had a bright red glittering eye,
And he kept an eye on his lovely daughter.”
They peered in through the open stable doorway at the far end of a small cottage to witness a man dressed in a red frock coat and tan-coloured breeches struggling to pull off his riding boots. He leaned for support against the wooden frame of one of the stalls and continued his raucous rendition.
“Giddy I Ay, Giddy I Ay,
Giddy I Ay for the one eyed Reilly.
Giddy I Ay."
Bang, bang, bang. He stomped his booted-foot rapidly in the rhythm, lost his balance and tumbled into the hay. "Play it on your big brass drum,” he finished, guffawing loudly and rolling out of reach of the hunter's rear hooves.
“Liam – is that you?” a voice called from inside the main part of the dwelling.
“Now who else would it be, Fayther, comin’ home at such a time?”
“I’m surprised you have the nerve to show your face at all in this house today, having missed church this morning.”
“Church!” The sneer in Liam’s voice was audible. “What need do I have of any of that?”
“Your absence was noted,” replied his father. “The whole community starin’ at me. Me with no son at me side to lead the procession. I’m ashamed to call you me son. You’re a disgrace to the name of Reilly. ‘Tis thanks to you we’ve lost this place and are forced to move into the town.”
A middle-aged gentleman appeared through the connecting doorway that led into the living quarters, carrying a candlestick in one hand and a shillelagh in the other.
“Drinkin’ and whorin'. I smell the stink of it on you. Out huntin’ all hours with that young Bowsie from across the water. You’ll roast in Hell, boy. A layabout and a scoundrel is what y’are. You’ll never amount to anything more than that.” He picked the discarded boot from the floor and flung it onto the driveway. “Now get out. And don’t come back until you’re sober!”
Liam stumbled out of the door and lurched up the driveway, colliding with a row of large hollowed-out vegetables lining the edges of the track, their candles lighting the way along the shore road. “Who the hell left those things there?” he stormed hopping on one leg and beating the bottom of his smouldering breeches. “And what sort of eejit grew these turnips?”
“Angel?” Buffy asked incredulously, her eyes widening at the sight of him slumping against the gatepost. “Way to go with the Adam Ant look. And – phew," she wrinkled her nose. “What is that?”
“Lack of drains?” Spike smirked at the prostrate man at his feet. “Oh how the mighty are fallen.”
Liam lifted his head and stared at the three strange images that swam into view. “Jaysus, Mary, and Holy St Joseph,” he yelled, trying unsuccessfully to focus on Illyria. “Demons!” He scrambled to his feet, searching for a weapon at his belt.
“No,” replied Spike. Well technically yes, in my case but they’re not . . . Sod it.” He waved a hand in Illyria’s direction. “Liam – Illyria, former God King of the Primordium. And this is Buffy.” He turned to her. “Slayer, meet the man who made Angel the vampire he once was.”
“Vampire? And fallen angels?” Liam looked round wildly.
“Maybe your Da’ had a point after all, Sunny Jim. Should’ve gone to church with the rest of the Reilly tribe.”
“Him. He’s full o’ the pissogue, that fella.” Liam’s bravado returned with the venom he felt for his father. He squinted at Buffy and slowly looked her up and down. “My but you’re a pretty wee thing aren’t ya’?” He reached out to touch her. “Bit scrawny for my likin’. I like a bit more to grab onto,” he leered, cupping his hands and grinning at Spike.
Spike shoved him angrily back to the floor. “Lay off!”
“No need to get huffy. I was only lookin’. You’re welcome to her.”
“’S not what you said last May,” Spike muttered through clenched teeth.
Buffy stared at Liam. “You’re disgusting!”
Liam staggered to his feet and roared with laughter, falling against her and belching loudly in her face.
“And you’re drunk - and my god what is that smell?” Buffy repeated.
“That’d be the Widda Donnelly’s finest poteen,” replied Liam.” “An’ seein’ as I’m not nearly drunk as I’d like to be an’ the Aul’ One’s just barred me from me own home, I’ll be off to the lightin’ of the Yule fire and to keep warm by joinin’ in the dance.”