She Sings by Night Her Mournful Song

The further he walked down the hallway, the more aggressively the perfumed air – so reminiscent of the countryside of his birthplace, so different than that of twenty-first century Los Angeles – bombarded his senses. The knowledge that she was no longer able to harm him, or augur his family’s trip to a graveside, did nothing to squelch the disquiet at the sound of her familiar, haunting melody. The closer to the room, the more acrid the taste in his mouth– the tang of a deserted, but not forgotten, muddy grave – became.

Angel crossed the threshold.

"Come out," he called, closing the door behind him. "I know you’re here. Your signature bouquet permeates this space."

Silence and darkness encircled him; his muscles tensed as he waited in the solitude. Under the constant assault, he was no longer able to suppress the memories and allowed them liberty to flash before his eyes: wells surrounded by fragrant, wild spearmint; white blossoms of nettle scattered along the roadside; silver-gray leaves of meadowsweet in the glens; his then much younger sister gleefully looking for little people in the clumps of fairy grass that grew in meadows and graveyards.

Remembering Lydia’s injunction, made partially in jest but mostly in thinly veiled fear, he slipped back into the accent that belonged in a different place and time, in those same not-forgotten scenes.

"I’ve been dispatched by Lydia Wentworth of the O’Flaherty sept to confront you, bean sidhe." Doomed by Lydia is more like it, he corrected silently.

Still, he waited in the perfumed blackness, his patience wearing thin. "Oh, by the …" he grumbled. "Erin, show yourself! We’ve business to be about!"

She appeared by the window, at first indistinguishable from the sheer, inner curtains billowing in the late evening breeze. Slowly, her form materialised to reveal the perfectly shaped face framed by honey-golden hair, her body draped in white gossamer. She held her hands aloft and opened her mouth.

"Don’t even start with the keening," Angel warned.

She lowered her arms and glared indignantly at him. "What is it you want?" she asked. "Are you of the –"

He waved his hand, dismissing her question. "I’m neither a sidhe nor an O’Flaherty."

"Then who are you to summon me?"

"My name’s Angel."

She sniffed the air and scrunched her face, as if she’d just noticed the foul stench of decay. "A rather bemusing name for the likes of you."

"The name was given to me."

"I’ve nothing to do with the already departed."

"Nor I," he said with a shrug. "Not if I can help it."

"’Tis a bit late for that, vampire," she remarked, the word ‘vampire’ spat out like a malediction.

Time to change tactics, he thought. "Lydia Wentworth beseeches –"

"Lydia has no choice." The spectre looked at him, her blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I’m curious, vampire. Why do you do this, if you aren’t of the family?"

"It’s my responsibility. And she’s a friend."

"Vampires have living friends?" she asked, sitting down on the dresser and resting her chin on her knees. "This is a curious and new development."

"For me, as well," he said. "Look, Erin. Your appearance, away from Ireland, near the Pacific , it’s … unnatural."

She snickered, a light, wispy laugh. "And vampires are in accord with the laws of nature?"

"You’re evading the issue." Angel sat down with a grunt of frustration. "Bean sidhes don’t leave Ireland. Vampires do. Your sudden arrival frightens Lydia."

"And you."

"And me, to an extent, yes," he acknowledged. "But I and mine are long dead."

"In Ireland from the sounds of it."

"In Ireland. Which you are not."

"No, but Lydia has Ireland here."

He arched an eyebrow in confusion, her meaning alluding him. No answer forthcoming, he steepled his fingers together and continued to peer at her; she sat quietly, forcing him to sort it out alone. Suddenly, he sprang off the bed. "She brought more photographs with her, and you came in them. Now, that is a loophole."

"Aye," she said with a smug smile. "These pho-to-graphs capture more than what the human eye can see. Aren’t science and magic amazing?"

"They can be of great benefit," he agreed. Angel walked past her to the window and gazed outside. "Do I cause you to keen?" he asked softly.

"Why do you insist on ascribing my appearance to your predatory behavior? Why does a vampire even care?"

"I told you before: she’s a friend. But my own situation is complex. The upshot of which is that I choose to accept responsibility, where I can, for those atrocities I committed. And perhaps make small amends along the way."

"That’s a heavy burden to bear, Angel," she said tenderly. "However, I still do not understand why it is you have taken this," she swept her arm out to take in the room as he turned to face her, "upon yourself."

"The first report we have of you is right before the deaths of Seamus and Iain O’Flaherty."

Closing her eyes, the bean sidhe made a mental inventory of several centuries. "Yes, I remember them. Iain lost his wife and a child shortly before he himself was killed." She opened her eyes and looked again at Angel. "Ah, I think I see a connection. You were in the city of Galway at the time?"

"It’s possible, yes ," he said, returning to sit on the bed.

"But what has Lydia’s family to do with you?"

Angel looked at the palm of his hand and traced his lifeline with his thumb. "I don’t remember them, but, there’ve been so many, I’m sure even with the curse I’d forget –"

She stared at him, puzzlement flashing across her delicate face. "What are you on about?"

"Seamus and Iain," he repeated. "They were killed by vampires. I’ve been around for well over two centuries, and that was early on, but –"

"Angel, do you always prattle on like this?" she asked. "Let me assure you, I witnessed the murders and I have never seen you before."

Angel’s head snapped up. "No?" he asked, surprise mingled with disbelief and an inkling of relief. She shook her head. "Then who?"

"I don’t know their names. There were more than one set of vampires in the country in those days, as well as now. I do know that she was Irish, he was not. I believe he came from a very distant country. He looked nothing like you, in my opinion." Sensing that he was still uncertain, she changed her argument. "Look at me, Angel. You know I am of the sidhe. Do I look like one who would arise from violence?"

"But surely the O’Flaherty family has –"

"I’ve naught to do with violence or vengeance. And in actuality, I was mourning for all their deaths, from the infant to Maude."

Angel nodded, finally convinced. "I’m glad I have nothing to do with your calling. But Erin, who? Now."

She glanced at him, her tearless eyes heavy with bereavement. "Lydia," she answered with a sigh. "Of her various associations, one leads her toward a disastrous future."

"But you said –"

"I stand by that, Angel. You insist on a mantle that is not yours to wear."

"Then what? She’s healthy, I can smell it," he mumbled to himself. Realizing the possibilities, he glanced up at her quiet, melancholy features. "Soon?"

"Not necessarily. As you know, a bean sidhe’s calling is two-fold: to herald a death and to portend a calamitous course. It’s my duty to warn her. Nothing more for now."

"If not me, then who?"

She remained quiet, unyielding any more of her prognostication.

"Will she venture off this path? Can we persuade her to?"

"For the former: perhaps. About the latter: think on it, Angel. If she’s a friend, you must know her well enough by now."

He frowned, having witnessed Wesley’s futile attempts to persuade Lydia to do anything other than her way. "When did these paths converge?"

"Ten years ago, and again last year."

~~~*~~~

"No, English," Lydia argued, winking at Gunn. She tapped the picture she held two inches front of Wesley’s nose. "You are wrong, wrong, wrongity, wrong-o. It’s Sumerian."

"No, Ly-di-a," Wesley retorted, snatching the museum photograph from her hands. "Akkadian. All one has to do is look at the inscription on the side of the vessel. That is, if one had a clear picture of said inscription. You’d think your brother would at least take a suitable photograph, especially for an internationally funded excavation of the earth-shattering significance you’ve implied."

"Y’all are in the Encyclopedia Britannica under boring," Gunn said. He went to join Cordelia on the living room sofa. "It probably says ‘Made in Taiwan,’" he added, with a smirk.

Cordelia chuckled and finished her cake. She’d seated herself as close to the hallway as she could once Angel closed the bedroom door, and remained there the entire two hours he’d been inside. Patience had deserted her within half an hour, but for Lydia’s sake, she’d kept her comments to herself. She jumped in her seat when she heard the doorknob turn, dropping the chocolate covered fork onto the taupe carpet.

"Heads up," Cordelia announced in a whisper, while Gunn leaned over to pick up the fork and follow her stare. "Here he comes."

Angel walked slowly down the short corridor, meeting Cordelia’s eyes before he entered the living room. After she glanced away, he surveyed everyone’s faces, then watched as Wesley fastidiously put an 8 x 10 photograph back into a protective sleeve.

Lydia came up to Angel and put her hand on his arm. "Just tell me it’s not Mary, or Tom’s babies."

Angel shook his head. "It’s not. They’re fine," he reassured her. Nodding, Lydia exhaled the breath she hadn’t known she was holding and returned on shaking legs to sit back down.

"So, who, then?" Gunn asked.

"Me," Lydia answered for him, sinking slowly into the dining room chair that had been pulled out for her. "Isn’t it? Just nod and say yes, Angel."

"But it’s not what you, what we, thought," Angel explained. "Erin says you’ve stepped onto a potentially fatal course. She wanted to warn you. Give you time."

"Stepped when?" Gunn asked, since no one else seemed willing to do so.

"Once she landed in –"

"Her return, right?" Cordelia interrupted. "Right?"

"By the look on Angel’s face," Gunn said, "I’m guessing ‘cause she came to California in the first place."

"Not necessarily," Angel said. "She didn’t say that exactly."

"No. I suspect Gunn’s right, however. This isn’t the first time, is it?" Wesley asked quietly, brushing Lydia’s hair aside and putting his hand on her shoulder. "It suddenly occurs to me that you dashed home your first year in College, for what you laughingly called an ‘intuitive false alarm.’ Am I correct, Angel?"

"That’s what she said. In a fashion."

Wesley went to stand in front of Lydia, straightening his shoulders and putting on a commanding air, despite the fact that he felt a definite lack of any authority. In its stead, all he could sense was dread, fear, loss and guilt. He looked down at his shoes.

"Well, then," he announced after clearing his throat. "It seems to me the solution is quite clear."

Lydia jumped out her chair and stomped over to him. "Are you going to share this solution with them, Sherlock?" she asked, wagging her finger under his nose. "Because I know what you’re planning to say, and you already know my answer."

"You’ve no idea what I’m going to propose, Lydia."

"Well, it isn’t marriage," Lydia quipped and folded her arms over her chest. "So, let me guess again. Group sex?"

"Lydia!" Wesley yelled in exasperation, grabbing her arms and pulling her closer. "This is serious. For God’s sake, woman, this is your life, not a game!"

"Right, my life," she screamed and flung his hands off her. "And I’ll spend the rest of my time with whomever I damned well choose. Look, unless you all are planning some insidiously hostile take-over of planet Earth, I am in considerably good and protective company. I could still take that job in Belfast, you know!"

Angel came to stand beside Wesley and look pointedly at Lydia. "Erin didn’t say you were the one responsible, Wesley. Just that Lydia’s path had crossed a similar one ten years ago."

"Well, who the bloody else did she know then, who just so happens to be in Los Angeles now?"

"Weatherby, for one," Lydia said. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and continued. "I caught up with him at Heathrow. We flew out on the same flight, but he went ecomony. Mike managed to get me a business class ticket." She caught Wesley’s glare. "Don’t you remember? I met him at Pepe’s. You, that friend of yours I haven’t seen since then, and I were having coffee and he told me you three were on the same training course. Cow-pat asked me out when you went to get more coffee. We were in the front booth, by the potted plant …" Wesley continue to stare at her. "Oh, come on, you were so fond of him, too."

"Weatherby is–?" Gunn whispered to Cordelia.

"One of the Watchers who went after Faith," she answered. "The Slayer in jail that Angel goes to visit without us knowing he goes to visit her, last time was on a Tuesday." Gunn shot her a surprised look. Cordelia grinned.

"Lydia –"

"Discussion is over, Wesley." At his continued frown of disapproval, Lydia harumphed and put her arms on her hips. "Oh, for God’s sake. It’s not like I take any unnatural risks. I don’t go hacking demons or staking vampires, or calling up the spirits of the Great Googly-moogly. So, please. I refuse to be budged because of an ‘if.’"

"I just don’t want –" he said, distress evident in his voice.

"I know, Wesley. And I don’t, either." She turned to Angel. "So, do I get stuck with the dolorous repertoire every night or what?

"Now that you know, she’ll stop the keening. But she’s staying with you." Angel smirked. "I think she likes the weather here. Definitely likes the change of scenery."

"Well, the mint’s a tad overbearing, but otherwise she makes the house smell nice. How’d she get here? I thought they couldn’t leave the island."

"Your brother’s photos."

"Ah. She has a good eye, I see." Lydia linked her arm through Angel’s. "So, did you take a nip out of my family?"

"No. I told you so, but does anyone believe me? Nooo."

"Ever so sorry, then." She patted him on the chest. "To make amends, I shall treat you all to oodles of ice cream. My PMT demands an unhealthy sacrifice of Häagen-Dazs. You’ve had ice cream before, right, Angel? Because if not, you’re in for a surprise."

As the others made for the door, Wesley stayed behind, still dismayed at Lydia’s adamant, albeit anticipated, refusal to listen to reason. She turned around and waited for him, while Angel ushered Cordelia and Gunn out of the apartment. Slowly he made his way over and grabbed her into a fierce hug. They stood silently, enjoying the embrace, listening to Gunn complain loudly about Angel’s retention of his "Lucky Charm’s accent."

Knowing Lydia was as resolute as ever, Wesley rested his chin on the top of her head. "Belfast?" he asked, quietly so the others couldn’t overhear if they returned. "When did this happen? And why didn’t you tell me?"

"You were busy not moping over Virginia." She led him by the hand as she continued. "I had a new deadbolt installed, just pull it closed. Do you remember Niall Smuts? He was –"

"An absolute, foul-minded prat who matriculated the same year as you. He was always quite smitten with you. Why?"

"Good heavens, that was over years ago. He’s married and divorced since then. Turns out, he’s in charge of the excavation where that Sumerian vessel came from. He put my name forward for a Fellowship at Queen’s. The idea was that if I felt it wasn’t working out here, I could take it. I’m due to reply shortly."

"And?"

"Now I am going to buy lots of ice cream for my friends. One of my newest friends is a bloody vampire, pun intended, who thinks I am shagging one of my oldest friends."

Wesley pushed the down button and frowned. "He does not."

"Yes, he does. Shall I ask him over chocolate fudge swirl with nuts and whipped cream or do you think he’s strictly the vanilla type?" She snickered and waggled her eyebrows.

"I assure you I would have no idea," Wesley replied with a chuckle. "But let him come to whatever inferences he wishes. Far be it from me to correct a vampire." He hugged her again as the bell dinged and the doors opened. Wesley guided Lydia into the elevator. "You, on the other hand–"

"Sumerian," she said as she pushed the button for the garage.

"Impossible, the color –"

"Don’t make me visit that site and bring it back."