She Sings by Night Her Mournful Song

"I’m very proud of how you handled the trade charter, Iain," Seamus O’Flaherty told his only son as they stepped onto the main road. The mud from a fortnight of winter rains splattered on their boots as they walked.

"Ta, Father," he replied, his shoulders slumped with fatigue and sorrow. He turned up his collar against the northerly gales that blew between the low buildings. A dense, freezing fog began to swirl around them as it moved in to enshroud the city. "’Tis bitter cold out. I could use a bowl of hot stew. You?"

"Sounds good. Then you should rest for the journey home. We’ll leave once you receive Wentworth’s papers."

Without warning, a woman ran out of a nearby tavern toward the closest alley. The hem of her blue and white velvet dress, richly embroidered with pearls, dragged through the mud. Her powdered wig threatened to topple off her head as she fled her pursuer. A tall man, dressed in a heavy, velvet coat with fine well-tailored lines and expensive gold trim, yelled for her return as he gave chase.

Seamus nodded to his son. Iain, eighteen years younger and two stones lighter than his father, sprinted ahead. Turning down the side street, he heard sounds of a minor scuffle ahead in the dark. He slowed and continued at a more cautious rate, readying himself to fight if need be. Seamus neared, less than twenty paces behind, before he halted in fear and horror.

As he watched, a hand reached out of the black, frigid night air and grabbed Iain by the neck, simultaneously snapping it and baring it to reveal a set of inhuman fangs.

"Sweet–" he gasped as he spun around to face the woman from the tavern.

"Surprise!"

~~~*~~~

"It was terribly nice of Angel to lend you his, ah," she fumbled for the right words, "really big car. He’s definitely compensating for something. What on earth possessed that vampire to get a convertible, anyway?"

Wesley chuckled, then hauled the first piece of extraordinarily heavy luggage into the trunk. Lydia put her carry-on next to it and watched fretfully as he then turned toward the second.

"Oh, oh, be careful! That one has Waterford in it. The other only has antique Wedgwood."

With a loud grunt, he lifted the cumbersome suitcase. "No doubt I’ve ripped open my wound again," he groaned.

"Bollocks," she retorted. "You're such a wuss. Besides, if that hasn't healed by now, I’d highly suggest you sue for malpractice." Lydia gave him a look – one of those patented stares he knew all too well from experience meant she had something mischievous planned. "I brought you a present," she sang out.

Wesley scowled and closed the trunk. "Dare I ask?"

"Oh, it's legal. The Department of Antiquities shan't miss it. Well, not for a while. I hope."

Wesley rolled his eyes before he opened the passenger's door and held it for her, closing it only after he was sure she was comfortably inside. Sprinting around the front, he suddenly halted and glared at her.

"What did I do now?"

"You haven’t spoken a word about what you've done since I left."

Wesley pushed the button and jerked the door open. "Put your seat belt on. And stop being so curious. Look what happened to Alice," he teased before he saw her disdainful pout. "Oh, very well," he said with an exaggerated sigh. "I went some place where they treat humans like animals. Reminded me of you." He held back the smile, arched an eyebrow and waited for her reaction.

"Mmmoooooo."

Chuckling, he turned the key in the ignition. "Welcome back, Lydia."

~~~*~~~

Lydia woke up when the smell of spearmint threatened to overwhelm her. Obviously her neighbor’s mint patch had bloomed while she was away and the breeze carried the scent in from his garden. Sleepily, she rose to close the window, ensuring that the latch was secure. She returned to snuggle under the covers and resume her fitful rest.

Amidst the sirens of passing emergency vehicles, the wind keened through the concrete valleys of Los Angeles.

~~~*~~~

"How’s Lydia?" Cordelia asked while pouring coffee. "Did she get over what’s-his-name?" She placed a mug in front of Wesley.

"Ahh, thank you. His name’s Edward," he answered. "And I’d assume so. He has yet to come up in any conversation."

"Who’s Edward?" Gunn asked. "Did I meet Edward?"

"Tall, blond, well-built, Mid-western accent, heavy on the Hugo Boss for Men," Angel answered flatly from a sofa in the lobby. Everyone turned to stare at him. "What? Cordelia talked about him. It’s not like I noticed."

"Uh-huh, sure," Cordelia replied. "Lydia brought him by once while you were out, Gunn. He was absolutely gorgeous and filthy rich, but twitchy. Like we’d bite him or something. So, is Lydia ready to go back to work?"

Wesley shrugged a shoulder and furrowed his brow. "She still seems terribly jet-lagged. And yes, Cordelia, she brought you something." He looked into his coffee before lifting the mug. "Of course, I undoubtedly broke whatever it is when I threw the luggage in the boot."

"Wesley!"

~~~*~~~

She walked in silence, listening to the wind as it moaned through the crumbled ruins. Nettle and meadowsweet blossomed in dilapidated rooms where families used to gather. Fog flowed across the footpath, caressing her legs like wet satin. Trees swayed noiselessly in the background. Something was amiss, but she couldn’t pinpoint what that something was.

"I told you!" Mary cried.

Ten-year old Mary trembled in fear, reaching out for her older sister’s hand. Lydia looked down and smoothed the russet curls from her face.

"Shhh. It’ll be fine."

"It frightens me," Mary begged. "Please, Lydia!"

Lydia stared at her younger sister, then scanned the horizon. The sun was frozen at a thirty-degree angle, pink and orange clouds stretching across the twilight sky. "Take care with the nettle," she warned, reaching out to pat her sister’s arm.

"It won’t work, Lyds," Brandon said calmly. "Nothing will."

"Where’s Mary?" she asked, panicked by her sister’s sudden disappearance and the baying of wolfhounds in the distance.

"At home."

"Should I be home?" she asked.

"It won’t matter," Tomas said. "No body there can help."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know, Lydia," Mike told her, tapping his forefinger against his temple. "Figure it out."

Lydia stood wrapped in a shroud of pink and orange fog as her brothers rode their bicycles away from the setting sun. A melancholy dirge breezed through the trees.

~~~*~~~

"Don’t you have this book already?" Angel skimmed through the pages and admired the quarto’s clean, crisp print. Remarkable, he thought, considering its mid-seventeenth century Central European origins.

"I did, indeed," Wesley acknowledged, "but it was destroyed in the explosion." He watched as Cordelia took the book from Angel and went back to her desk. She turned the pages gently, ignoring the text and concentrating on the diagrams and illustrations. "I don’t recall telling Lydia about it," he added.

"It’s a valuable artifact. She probably noticed it was missing from your bookshelves," Angel suggested and sat down.

Cordelia suddenly burst into a grin. "Hey! I know this one! I used to see him in Sunnydale all the time!"

"Give us a look," Angel taunted, taking the book and opening it to the same page. "Yes, indeed. Always suspected Xander wasn't entirely human. Here’s your proof."

Cordelia mimicked him while Wesley snatched the book from their grasp and placed it gently on the counter. All three heads turned when the hotel's front door opened to allow someone refuge from a late summer thunderstorm.

All three stared in astonished silence while Lydia, trembling from an unnatural chill, frantically looked around the lobby. Wet locks of auburn hair had escaped her ponytail and dripped onto her raincoat. Her eyelids were red and swollen – evidence of countless nights without sleep.

"Lydia?" Wesley ran up to her. "Whatever's the matter?"

"Wesley," she whimpered, collapsing into his open arms. "I, I don't know what to do."

"Whatever it is, it'll be all right. I'm here," he said and searched for a place to seat her. Leading her to the back of the lobby, he glanced helplessly at Angel and Cordelia. Once Wesley took her drenched coat from her, she sat down on the small sofa and began to sob.

"Cordy," Angel whispered. "Make her some tea. I think her favorite is Darjeeling. There's some Twinings in the canister." He saw Cordelia's expression of concern. "My hearing’s better than yours. I'll eavesdrop. I promise."

Placated, Cordelia nodded and left. Angel watched as the sobbing began to subside and Lydia tried to speak between hiccups. After lowering her hands from her face and clasping them in his own, Wesley sat patiently: listening, asking, comforting. Only toward the end, did Lydia calm down enough to be understood from a distance.

"When?"

"Every night."

"And?"

"They're all fine. Why me?"

Wesley shrugged his shoulders. "Anyone else?"

"No."

Cordelia came back with the tea and confirmed with Angel that Lydia took no sugar, only milk. He shook his head to signal that nothing useful had been overheard. She shoved a box of tissues into his hand and dragged him with her.

"Previous accuracy?"

"Spot on. Wesley –"

"Here, Lydia," Cordelia interrupted, holding the steaming mug in front of her. "Have some tea." After she was relieved of the drink, Cordelia wiggled her fingers at Angel, to no avail. Finally, she smacked him on the arm and received the tissues in reply. She put the box on the sofa and stood next to Wesley's chair.

Lydia held onto the cup and tried to steady her shaking hands. Slowly, she took a sip. She balanced the warm mug on her knees, then lifted her eyes. "I seem to have attracted a crowd," she sniffed and swiped at her tears.

"Lydia, please. I've never seen you this unsettled," Wesley said, brushing the remaining tears from her cheeks. Squeezing her hand, he added, "Perhaps you should repeat what you told me."

"I sound hysterical. It's stupid, really."

"Come on," Cordelia interrupted. "Something's upset you. We’ve known you for how long? Just tell us."

Angel sat down beside her. "Lydia," he said quietly. She turned and scanned his face. "We're friends, now. Whatever it is –"

She sighed and looked woefully into her milky tea. "It appears I smuggled something in through customs."

~~~*~~~

Gunn quietly entered the dimly lit room and glanced over at Lydia’s sleeping figure. Her brow was creased in either confusion or pain; he couldn’t be sure which, having only met the woman once before. But he was certain that Wesley was not comfortable asleep in the wing-backed chair.

"Wesley," he said, gently shaking the other man awake. He watched while the blue eyes opened and focused.

"Gunn," Wesley responded, rubbing his neck. "Thanks for helping."

Gunn nodded curtly. "How’s she doin’?"

"Poorly, I‘d say," Wesley answered and gestured at the bed. "Her sleep is very disturbed. Find anything?"

"We searched the whole apartment. Nada. Just the wind from the canyon. I took Cordelia home."

"Where’s Angel?" Wesley asked with a yawn.

"He went to see if anyone else’d heard anything. He was spooked."

"Spooked?"

"He wouldn’t go into Lydia’s apartment. What’s up with that?"

"Not sure. He does seem terribly unnerved by all this." Wesley yawned again and scrubbed his face with his hands.

"Look, man, Angel’s social phobias are not your problem. Get some sleep." Gunn watched as Wesley looked around the room in search of a place to lie down. "Daaammn!" he exclaimed with a short laugh. "The bed’s big enough for all five of us. She ain’t gonna know."

Wesley arched an eyebrow and nodded. After Gunn left, he lay on top of the covers, bending over Lydia to check her breathing. Wrapping his arm around his oldest friend – to make sure her breathing and heartbeat stayed normal throughout the night, he assured himself – he was faintly aware that he was already drifting back to sleep before his head hit the pillow.

~~~*~~~

"Maybe it's just a ghost," Gunn suggested.

"It’s not," Angel argued again. "These don't travel."

"Well," Gunn snorted, "Someone forgot to tell him."

"Her," Angel and Wesley corrected in unison.

"Her. Whatever. So, you sent Cordelia home with Lydia?"

"Yes. She wanted to go home. She didn’t sleep well here. Too unfamiliar," Wesley explained and rubbed his eyes. "I have never seen her like this. Even during her vivas, when her work was being tossed about by political in-fighting, she was always in control, always –"

"Shook you up, huh?"

"You have no idea, Gunn." Wesley cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief and watched Angel pace.

"Can’t be," Angel repeated and wandered into the reception area. "All wrong," he yelled.

"Okay," Gunn said. "Not to diss your friend or anything, but maybe she's wrong."

"You think she’s imagining this?" Wesley asked.

"No, not saying that. What I mean is, maybe it's just not what she thinks." Wesley shrugged. "But it doesn't matter," Gunn continued, "It's got her frazzled, so we get rid of it. No problem."

"There is a problem," Angel said as he returned with a book covered in marble-board, the gold-leaf lettering having worn off the leather spine at the beginning of the last century. Both men stared at him as he dropped it onto the desk. "They are not supposed to leave the island!"

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Gunn looked at them both. "Guess I do. Maybe it ain't what she thinks!"

Angel leaned against the doorframe. "She's heard one before, Gunn. Once you do, you never mistake it. You never forget it."

"Okay, then." Gunn said. "Tell me what to do to get rid of it."

"We don't," Angel began, then paused. "We can't. You just … can’t."

Wesley looked at Gunn. "They’re family prognosticators."

"They attach themselves to a family until the very last of the family dies," Angel continued. "Very … tenacious."

"Angel, perhaps Gunn is right," Wesley tried to argue. "I certainly don't –"

"Maybe she never told you ‘cause she figured you'd think she was whacked," Gunn interrupted as the phone rang. "I'll get it." He left the office to answer the phone, closing the door behind him.

"I don’t think Lydia is mistaken, but it’s more complicated than that." Angel moved forward and sat next to Wesley. "Wentworth isn't listed as one of the old families."

"Well, no, it wouldn't be. It's an English surname. But they've been in western Ireland for four or five centuries."

Angel shook his head and pointed at the registry. "No, that lists marriages into the families as well. They're not there."

Gunn burst into the room. "I take everything back. They saw her."

~~~*~~~

"First time?" she pursed her lips and thought carefully. Cordelia's corroboration had had the exact effect Wesley'd anticipated: although the problem was still audibly evident, Lydia had calmed down considerably.

"When my puerile brothers deserted my sister and me in those ruins. I never *saw* her before tonight. Mary did, though."

"Same one?" Angel asked, prying his gaze from the aerial photograph of Lydia's childhood home.

"Well, the song is the same. Cordelia got a better look. I saw her only briefly."

"She was stunning," Cordelia confirmed. "Pale, ivory skin, golden hair, blue eyes, long, toga-like white dress. She was floating in the air, holding her arms out. And wailing like she is now."

"I'm taking it that this is not good," Gunn said, settling himself in the living room next to Lydia. Angel shook his head.

"Young?" Wesley asked from the dining room where he’d set up his books and Lydia's laptop.

"Twenty-ish," Cordelia answered. "Want me to log on?" Wesley nodded.

"Lydia, you know this is wrong," Angel grumbled.

"I know."

"What’s wrong? That she followed you?" Gunn asked. The Internet connection whirred and pinged in the background.

"And that my family is unprotected." Lydia glanced over at the dining table. Idly she pulled on the gold tassels of a throw pillow. "Wesley, we've heard about her as long as I can remember. But she was always just a story, we kids thought. Until Grandfather and Grandmother Wentworth died. Then we knew it wasn't the wind."

"Mmm," Wesley replied. He closed one book, searched through the piles and pulled out a large, leather-bound ledger. "Lyds, how on earth does your family have a Bean Sidhe? You're of English descent."

"Well, not entirely. No family in the area is anymore."

"You inherited this moany thing?" Gunn asked. "Most people get money."

Lydia grinned and nodded. "The O'Flaherty family, we assume. Daniel and Margaret Wentworth took in a local orphan and later she married into the family."

"Daniel, Margaret," Wesley murmured while he flipped through the pages of the book. "Bull's eye! Found her! 1763," he exclaimed, temporarily jubilant. "Oh, dear."

Cordelia typed something into the browser, then leaned over while she waited for the site to load. Wesley directed her gaze to a paragraph on the handwritten page. "Uhhhh-oh," she said softly. They both looked at Angel.

He backed up, hands aloft in repudiation. "I do not know an *O'Flaherty."

Still clinging to the pillow, Lydia walked over to him and narrowed her eyes. Her teeth tugged on her lower lip while Angel stood quietly, his eyes darting between Lydia, Wesley and Cordelia, waiting for the Lydia-esque riposte.

"I'd send a coach 'round for you, but it wouldn't stop because you’re already dead!" she finally screamed, swinging the pillow at him. Gunn chuckled, but remained well out of striking range. Lydia continued to swing the pillow, until Angel caught it and yanked it out of her hands.

"Children, please! May I have your attention?" Wesley yelled. When relative silence resumed, he continued. "It says here that Siobhan O'Flaherty was orphaned after her mother died in childbirth–"

"See, Lydia! I told you so," Angel exclaimed. "I couldn't have been responsible for that. Not in 1763."

Lydia absorbed the information, then scowled and planted her hands on her hips.

Cordelia looked up from the page. "Angel, you might want to not speak."

Wesley glared over the rim of his glasses. "Siobhan was nine and then some."

"Oh," Angel mumbled. "What was her mother's maiden name?"

"Like you'd remember, or even bother to know, the name of every woman you laid when you were human?" Lydia shouted.

"Downey," Wesley answered with a frown.

"Doesn't ring a bell," Angel said.

Unexpectedly, Lydia laughed and turned to Gunn. "This is actually quite funny. A banshee is chasing me probably because a vampire was horny when he was alive. What’ll they think of next, eh?"

"It's good to keep a sense of humor about these things," Angel tried.

"Angel, I really would shut up, if I were you," Cordelia reiterated her warning. He glared at her.

"'Siobhan O'Flaherty, aged nine and three months,'" Wesley read, "was left orphaned and in her grandparents', Seamus and Maude O'Flaherty, care after her mother, Maeve, nee Downey, died in childbirth. The infant, a male, died two days later. The cause was determined to be pneumonia in both cases.' " He looked up. "Terribly detailed, Lydia. Do you know why?"

Lydia shrugged. "No. No one kept her situation a secret, but no one ever read that book, either. It's dull as dishwater." She turned and glared at Angel. "Until now, no sex, whatsoever. Shame I wasn’t able to deconstruct the text. I could have skipped all those Gothic romances."

"Did you say Maeve?" Angel asked, tearing his eyes away from Lydia’s glower. Wesley nodded. "I really don't remember a Maeve Downey."

"Angel," Cordelia said, "trust me on this one."

Wesley glanced impatiently around the room. "May I continue?"

"Oh, please do, headmaster," Lydia taunted. "Let Angel hear the rest."

Wesley frowned. "Right. ‘Siobhan's father, Iain,'" he paused to notice Angel shake his head, "'was away in Galway at the time, having received employment as my financial representative for trade with the Colonies. Seamus traveled to Galway to inform Iain of the double tragedy. A week after his departure, an eccentric wailing was heard outside the O'Flaherty home. Witnesses reported the noise, as well as sightings of a young woman hiding in the bushes on the perimeter of the property.' So, we know of her first recorded appearance at least," Wesley noted before resuming. "'The wailing continued, relentlessly, until news of the murders of Iain and Seamus were brought back to Maude. She took to her bed and died of grief three days later. At Margaret's request, Siobhan was brought to the estate and raised with our children.' There's more, but–"

"Okay, so where does it say they were killed by a vampire?" Angel asked.

"That's the more." Wesley heaved a sigh and returned to the manuscript. "'Preliminary reports of Iain and Seamus' murders indicated that a dog or beast of a similar nature had attacked them just outside the inn. Their bodies were found discarded in an alley, throats ripped and blood drained. The absence of any blood, but the bodies still intact, plagues my mind to this day. I have written to an acquaintance of mine in Belfast, who assures me that dogs, be they rabid or healthy, do not attack in such a discretionary manner. His suggestion, however, must be dismissed as ludicrous, as I am firmly of the belief that vampires are simply a myth with which to scare children, despite local tales purportedly attesting to their reality.'"

"Helloooo! I lived in County Vampire," Lydia snorted.

"She's young and pretty, hence no evidence of either violence or vengeance," Angel reminded them. "She has nothing to do with me."

"She is blonde, though," Cordelia quipped.

"Actually, Angel may have a valid point," Wesley admitted. "While she may not have arisen directly from his actions–"

"Excuse me," Angel interrupted. "It may not have been me at all."

"Methinks the vampire doth protest too much," Gunn teased, joining Wesley and Cordelia at the table to look at the book.

"I need to either get rid of her or know who her announcement is for," Lydia said. "Therefore, I decree that since Angel ate those men, Angel gets to tell her to go."

"But –" Angel started to repeat his argument.

Lydia snorted. "Look, matey. I'm terrified someone I love is going to die and I'm absolutely knackered because of her endless moaning. On top of that, I'm in the midst of mighty serious PMT. Do you really want to argue with me?"

Angel watched as Wesley’s eyes widened and he shook his head emphatically. He sighed, "Guess not."

"So." Lydia pushed Angel toward the hallway. "Put on your best brogue and tell her to soddin' shut up or shove off!"