Banner by kathyh
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.