Oz didn’t even like
zoos. Particularly not zoos like this – built in the 1920s or thereabouts,
little cramped brick and concrete cells with nowhere for the animals to hide.
Beasts in the zoo were meant to be looked at, weren’t they? Out in the open.
Pushed out and exposed where the humans could peer and see every aspect of the
animal’s life. He hated zoos; they stank of despair. But he’d been drawn to
this one. Something...called to him from the muggy streets of New Orleans,
whispered to the wolf hidden deep in his blood and beckoned out an answering
snarl.
He ran his fingers
through the tangled mass of charms and necklaces hanging around his neck,
slowly moving through the walkways in the zoo. A sullen looking lion lolled on
the floor of his cage, back turned to the schoolchildren who were clustered
around the iron bar in front of it and chattering excitedly. Oz had to smile
faintly at the kids. He remembered when going to the zoo was this entire big
thing, a momentous event where you could get out of school with your friends
and look at the exhibits. The only difference here was there was more
difference in faces then there had been in Sunnydale, cocoa, caramel, vanilla,
cinnamon, all different flavours and scents and high chirpy voices sweetened
with a southern accent. Creole, Cajun, straight out and out Southern, traces of
east European, British, Yankee accents, Asian, you name it, New Orleans had it.
He loved this city. Of course, a lot of wannabe minions came out and hung here
– he’d been carrying and sharpening stakes since his first night. Well, he
always had stakes; he was a well brought up Sunnydale bonafide Hellmouth boy.
No silver. Silver made him itch. But holy water, charms, hexes, these new
little vodoun talismans called grigris. They worked pretty fine, so far as he’d
been able to tell.
The poorer people
round here didn’t forget what stalked in the night, under the moon and was made
from darkness. They remembered. Sure, the people in the fancier neighbourhoods
lied real well to themselves. But they didn’t go out after dark, except in
crowds. Mardi Gras was a smorgasboard for vampires, and the city’s reputation
for being the place with the highest rate of disappearances per hundred worked
for them just fine too. But the older people, the bayous people, they sure knew
what it was with fangs and yellow eyes that walked around pretending to be
human. He had liked the weeks he’d spent out on the bayous, but he was spending
time in the city today. He’d had beignets at the Café du Monde, drank coffee
with chicory and listened to some really good jazz in a tiny little bar near
Bourbon Street. It had all been quite tourist-y. And here he was, walking the
concrete pathways at the zoo and looking at the animals behind bars.
A disconsolate growl
grabbed his attention away from the lion and his waiting audience of shrieking
children, redirecting it to a black panther lying in a cage. The
eyes...grey-green eyes, they caught and held him in their gaze. Sad, so very,
very sad. Almost without noticing what he was doing, he walked over to the
railing in front of the cage, brushing past an entwined couple and getting a
muttered hiss from the boy whose arm he brushed. The mostly ex-werewolf raised
one hand in apology, his eyes still fixed on the panther’s.
He was pretty sure
she – she? - wasn’t just a panther.
He was more then sure
once he put his hands on the bar in front of her cage and stared into her eyes
from a closer distance. There was always something there in werecreatures. Some
flicker. A gleam. He was pretty sure that most people never saw it, but he
always did. Something that said they weren’t just animals, and he could see it
lurking at the back of her eyes, those grey-green eyes. She got up from her
prone position and moved closer to the bars, putting her muzzle against it and
almost without his will, his hand stretched out to touch her fur.
“Hello, my sister,”
Oz murmured, not really understanding why he did so. Her fur was tough, not as
soft as it appeared. More wiry. She made a pleased rumbling sound and tilted
her head so he could scratch behind her ears. It was getting uncomfortable,
leaning this far over the railing, rusty iron pole digging into his stomach and
pressing his jeans button into his stomach. But he couldn’t just go away and
leave her here. “Why?” He wanted to know why. How. How could someone put
another person in a cage? Was it voluntary, or had someone trapped her? He’d
seen something like that in India, a man who was also a tiger. He’d been put in
a cage and worshipped as a god by a group of villagers. It had never made sense
to Oz when he had offered to show him a way to control the tiger and let him
out of the cage, that the man had said no. But some people were just content
with the way their life was.
“Hey, hey! Get away
from there!”
Oz blinked his eyes
and turned, fingers still buried in tough black fur and the panther rumbling
with enjoyment. The man striding up to him was wearing the zoo uniform,
handsome in a conventional way and sandy hair. He felt like an exotic specimen
comparing himself with the older man, hair streaked with black and red this
time, standing up in stiff spikes and dressed in almost hippy clothing. Hemp
jeans, jangling charms and a washed out band t-shirt. It was too muggy in New
Orleans to wear much more, and hemp breathed so much easier then denim.
Slowly, reluctantly
he let his fingers loosen their grip on her fur. It felt like dying. It felt
like breathing, after drowning and disappearing under grey-green water, staring
up at sunlit circles. Sorrow. He drew his hand out of the cage gradually, her
eyes fixed on him. Knowing. Cats had such knowing eyes, like they saw beyond
what was there to what was true. She growled softly and turned away, tail
brushing against the bars of her cage and stalking moodily to the back wall of
brick.
“What did you think
you were doing? She’s dangerous!”
Oz just looked at the
man, and turned to go. He’d come back tonight. He could still feel her eyes on
his back, pleading for something, for understanding perhaps? Freedom. He could
feel that in her like a physical ache. He wished that he could just open the
bars of her cage and let her out, a physical shadow loping at his side with the
grey-green of her eyes gleaming. He loped
away, wolf gracefulness and predator sense shadowing his strides, but a very
inoffensive wolf for all that. Small men, it was often hard to see how and why
they were dangerous.
“Damn kids...”
Sitting at a bar
later, Oz was nursing a cup of the bourbon they seemed to just down by the pint
around here, when a woman came up to him. Her eyes were smoky and dark, and she
smelt of wildness as she murmured in husky Spanish.
“Mi hermano...” My brother.
Oz turned, catching her gaze with his own. Something not quite
human looked back at him from her gaze, limpid eyes still holding menace. She
reminded him of the lazy canals that wound through the bayous, holding
cottonmouths and alligators besides other more insidious mortalities. “¿Por qué
me llama usted eso?” (Why do you call me that?)
“Porque eso es lo que usted es,” she replied simply. (Because
that is what you are.)
He shook his head slowly. Obviously, she was crazy. “Usted se
equivoca. Yo no soy su hermano,” he denied again, gently. (You are mistaken. I
am not your brother.) You had to tread carefully around crazy people. He
remembered Drusilla. Not to say this woman was Drusilla, but still being
careful was probably the best policy he had.
“Usted es uno de nosotros. Usted es uno que lleva otra forma que
no es humano. Pero usted ha domesticado su otro ser, lobo pequeño de hermano,”
her voice purred through the Spanish like Kahlua in milk, smooth but with a
bite lurking beneath it. (You are one of us. You are one who wears another
shape that is not human. But you have tamed your other self, little brother
wolf.)
Oz sucked in a breath, uneasy. She knew what he was, sidled up
to his side in this bar and started talking cryptic. His Hellmouth senses were
going haywire.
“¿Usted vio su hoy, le hizo no? ¿La pantera?” she continued
almost wistfully. (You saw her today, did you not? The panther?) Like she was
talking about someone dead and gone.
“Sí, hice. ¿Por qué?” Oz answered quietly, his voice sounding
rough even to his own ears. (Yes, I did. Why?) He sounded rattled, and was
mildly irritated by that fact. He was usually better at hiding what he was
feeling then this. Maybe it was just the heat, or the bourbon he’d been
drinking.
“Ella es una mujer, debajo de la piel. Su línea viene de Africa,
donde la pantera se venera como un dios. Ellos alimentaron a sus niños a la
pantera, y eventualmente. las almas ..de los niños hicieron la pantera un
humano pequeño. Diole la habilidad de cambiar la forma y la caminata en dos
piernas. Eso es donde ella viene de, esa hermana nuestro,” the dark eyed woman purred,
reaching out for his abandoned drink and sipping from it. Oz didn’t object.
(She is a woman, underneath the fur. Her line comes from Africa, where the
panther is worshipped as a god. They fed their children to the panther, and
eventually...the souls of the children made the panther a little human. Gave it
the ability to change shape and walk on two legs. That is where she comes from,
that sister of ours.)
Her voice seemed to cast a spell of immobility over him,
forbidding him to interrupt as her voice moved huskily on through the story she
had to tell.
“Ellos pueden sólo compañero uno con el otro, de otro modo...se
transforma espalda en la bestia. Y de eso, sólo una matanza los puede volver.
Su hermano murió, y ella permitió su trampa de amante ella en una jaula tan
ella no tendría que matar más entonces el una vez. Y eso es donde ella es, lobo
pequeño. ¿Instruido ahora, usted la libertará? ¿La enseña a domesticar la
pantera? ¿El hombre del zoo la adora y ella lo adora, pero ella vendría con
usted de todos modos por libertad? Eso, usted debe averiguar.” (They can only
mate with each other, otherwise...they transform back into the beast. And from
that, only a killing may return them. Her brother died, and she let her lover
trap her into a cage so she would not have to kill more then the once. And that
is where she is, little wolf. Knowing now, will you free her? Teach her to tame
the panther? The zoo man loves her and she loves him, but would she come with
you anyway for the sake of freedom? That, you must find out.)
She turned and left, leaving the smell of incense and musk
behind her swaying in the air. The black of her hair seemed to help her vanish,
as Oz stumbled to his feet behind her.
“¡Espera, regresa!” he
shouted after her helplessly, wanting to know more of the panther in a cage.
(Wait, come back!) He looked around at the patrons of the bar, who even in
usually unflappable New Orleans had turned to stare at him. He twitched
slightly, then went out blinking into the harsh sunlight. His shirt stuck to
his back almost instantly as he started to sweat, heat driving in through his
pores and warming through to his bones. Something had come in there to touch
him, make him feel again like he had something larger to do then simply try and
control himself. He thought he had left that behind with the Hellmouth, but
even here...even now...somehow he had to help her. He didn’t even know her
name. Just that she was, someone like him. Could have been him. Would he have
let Willow do that? Could he have trusted her that much, would he have given up
that much? He didn’t think he could have done it. Three nights a month, he’d
barely been able to cope with that and he knew what he was when the full moon
shone and the wolf inside stood up and howled. And then he’d left and come
back, and there had been Tara...and then he’d seen Angel and then he’d kept
going off into the wild blue yonder.
He’d seen most of the world by now, except for Australia, most
of Africa and parts of the Middle East that were too dangerous even for him to
walk through. People had to hurt people for some reason, it was some strange
sickness that didn’t exist in wolves and he didn’t understand it. Sure, packs
fought packs but only over issues of territory and it never came to out and out
killing. Eradication. The idea was anathema, and both the man and the wolf
repudiated it utterly, choosing instead to turn away as much as they could.
He’d done refugee camp work down in Pakistan, also in Thailand, and he’d seen
what man could do to man and he had hated it with every part of himself. The
children, scrawny and underfed, and the underage prostitutes who tagged after
him because his skin was white, and that meant money. The women, with dead eyes
and babies too weak to even cry while their men seethed with their inability to
do anything to help their families. Murmurs of hatred and resentment, rumbling
through the camps under the pleas for water, for food, for medicine, clothing,
shelter, all those things which in America he’d taken for granted. Still took
for granted. It wasn’t fair, and there was no way the conditions that had
produced these pits of suffering humanity were going to change anytime soon.
But to get back to the woman...the panther. So beautiful, her
eyes in the shimmering velvet blackness of her pointed cat face. And he didn’t
even really like cats. But there was something there that called to the
musician inside him. He got back into his van, opening the doors and letting
some of the heat that had baked into it out, coughing at the scents that arose
to meet him. Pot, unwashed clothes, fast food, sex and coffee. The smells of
the indigent who get enough money to keep travelling and don’t care so much
about settling down. He knew that Sunnydale had been destroyed, that and the
sun blacking out had been times when he’d gone undercover, settled in with a
super soaker full of holy water and a bundle of stakes, and waited. Vampires
couldn’t get into his van without an invitation, but that didn’t mean they
couldn’t tear it to pieces around him. That would rescind the invitation
barrier sure enough. He wasn’t sure what had happened, and when he’d called
Angel Investigation’s phone number in the hotel, the phone had rung on and on.
So, he had no more links with the Oz of Sunnydale, really. Maybe one day, he’d
cruise back through LA, but otherwise...that was as gone as the town,
disappeared into the vanquished Hellmouth.
He picked up the charms that had helped him the first time round
and weighed them thoughtfully in his hand. Bone and metal and wisps of
feathers...all strung around on rawhide thongs, browns and blacks. He closed
his hand on them and stuffed them in a pocket on his jeans, before grabbing the
street directory and starting to flick through it. There had to be a good magic
worker in this town, who could help him with some spells to free this woman cat
he had found. There always was someone. Probably he’d do better talking with
the people who’d picked him up and taught him to hunt ‘gator and go crabbing
out along the bayous. Probably...yes, he knew maybe just the woman who could
help. For some reason, women seemed to do so much better at magic then men.
Something about their connection with the earth. Willow and Tara...the two of
them had just shone with it, their connections visible and green, except Willow
had been so much darker. He scrambled back out of his van, and closed it up
again, resetting the wards and spells that protected it from things mundane and
otherwise. No sense not being careful, and he hadn’t had to pay for most of the
spells. A few days hoeing earth for a garden, chopping wood, a brace of
coneys...he preferred a cashless economy. He still had enough to pay for what
he needed, and worked for it as he had to, but he preferred the roughness and
realness of barter rather then pieces of paper and metal that represented
wealth. Rather then being wealth themselves. He wondered sometimes how humans
had fallen into the trap and deception of money, but shrugged it off aloofly.
He reached the bayous before it was dark, sliding through the
lazy summer afternoon sun and watching his hands dapple with spots of light and
shadow under the hanging trees. Predatory eyes watched him from under the water
as he slowly sculled the oars of the boat, le pirogue was the word he’d
learned, and sent himself gliding slowly over water, grey-green. The slow trill
of marsh birds and crickets greeted his arrival at one of the stilt houses that
were so common out here, raised up above the waters and detached. The shivery
music of wind chimes drifted to him, feathers and pieces of metal swaying in
the breeze where they were strung all along the veranda’s roof timbers. The
house seemed secretive, clutching mysteries to itself and crooning over them
anxiously, as lost in rags and gewgaws as a gypsy fortune-teller. He’d spoken
to a few; desultorily seeking some sort of cure to Angel’s curse. Romany didn’t
write things down, and you had to be very close to them to get them to tell you
anything about their magic. None of the tribes he’d spoken with had been willing
to give anything away.
He tied the boat up at one of the pilings, and then climbed out
and up the stairs; wooden boards creaking under his weight. The paint on the
railing came off on his hand, and he brushed the dried flakes off on his jeans,
dull red against the rough green-brown of his jeans. “Tante?”
“Who is it?” a cracked voice came from behind the torn flyscreen
door. Oz stood there patiently and let her look him over before the door
creaked open and he could step inside. He didn’t have to stoop, but a number of
taller people would have. The hallway inside the house was dim and cool, with
an overwhelming smell of chicken and incense. There was also an undertone of
cat urine, it was just a scent that sank into the floor and never really came
out. The cat in question came out and blinked at him, before meowing
imperiously to be petted. He bent and did so, glancing at the woman who he had
come to see. She was old, and looked it, an ancient black woman with face as
hard as ebony and grey streaked hair swaying with beads. She was an obeah, a
vodoun priestess. Good magic, not bad. He’d checked on that most carefully –
the darker side of magic was often deceptive about what final payment would be
demanded. “Oh, it’s you. Le petit loup-garou.”
“Yes. Oz,” he reminded her. They’d met; once. At a church
picnic, believe it or not. Vodoun tied into Catholic beliefs, but was heavily
flavoured with the beliefs of the African slaves who had been raped away from
their homeland and brought their tribal gods with them.
“Oz. Ouiai. Come in, moon-runner an’ tell me what it is y’
wan’.” She shuffled away into the next room, cat abandoning Oz to follow her
with a flick of its tabby tail. He shrugged slightly and padded after them.
When both he and Tante Thibodeau were ensconced in chairs, mug of chicory
coffee warm in their hands and the cat calmly cleaning itself on another
cushion, she nodded at him to begin.
“You know what I am.” She nodded, sipping from her coffee. “I
need help. A containment and taming spell. For a woman, like me.”
“La panthera?”
“You know her?”
“Ouiai, her and son frere,” Tante sneered slightly. “He killed,
many, many women, American, before he was shot by de homme at de zoo. She
killed a man, and y’ want me t’ free her?”
“She wasn’t in control.” Oz spread his hands slightly, and then
stopped before he spilled his cup of coffee. “I can give her that. And I can
give her freedom.”
“Ah, but she is imprisoned pour l’amour, homme,” Tante chuckled
softly in her hoarse voice. “Will she give up love for freedom?”
“Love that cages, isn’t really love at all.”
“So wise, petit loupe...I have decided, that I will help y’. It
will take a while t’ get ready, y’understand.”
“Yes.”
“Y’ will help me.”
“Yes.”
“Good boy.”
So that was how Oz found himself back at the cage where the
panther was held, sliver of summer moon above and darkness coating the
buildings like molasses. He could see her eyes, looking out at him curiously as
he climbed the railing in front of the cage and placed his hands on the iron
bars. “I’m going to get you out of here, Irena...” Tante had known her name,
the panther woman. “I’ve got some magic that can help you control it, make sure
you don’t have to kill. You can be free.” He worked methodically to get rid of
the bars, smearing the salve Tante had given him along the brick. Magic might
not work so well on steel, but on bricks it worked just fine. In a few minutes,
he was able to scrape away the brick as easily as he would tear apart a loaf of
bread, setting the bars down on the ground with a quiet clinking sound. Irena
pressed up against the bars, breath hot on his face as he worked as quickly as
he could.
There had to be security here. He didn’t want to be around when
they found out she was gone. They’d be looking for a panther, not a woman. But
better to be gone before they found the empty cage. As he got rid of enough
bars, she dropped to the ground, snarling uneasily.
“Hey, it’s going to be fine. C’mon,” Oz soothed her quietly,
walking towards where he had come in. There was a great gnarled tree next to a
wall, he’d been able to climb it easily enough and it would be a snap for her.
One hand went automatically to rest in the ruff at her neck; her head came up a
little way past his waist as they both walked silently through the shadow-drenched
zoo. None of the animals made a sound as they walked by, sensing perhaps that
the two of them were not quite the same as what they were. Tainted. Not pure
human, not pure animal. Real wolves will tear a lone werewolf to pieces if they
can manage it, shun it if they can’t. Animals know, even if humans don’t. Up
and over the tree, and the two of them were gone.
Oz opened the door to his van and let her in the back, allowing
himself a brief smile when she hung back at the smell before resignedly getting
in. He closed the doors behind her then went around to the front and got in,
starting the old van with a ominous sounding rattle. Don’t you die on me, he
thought at the van fiercely and it coughed, before catching and purring like
the cat that was lying in its belly. He pulled away from the curve carefully
and started driving, planning on heading out of the city and away. He was aware
of the eyes on his back, sensed them and ignored them for the time being. They
needed to get away free before anyone discovered she was gone, and they needed
to get to the circle he had made up so she could change back without having to
kill anyone. Well, kill a chicken rather then a human but anything was better
then the way she’d had to have done it before. He’d read some of the coroner’s
reports on what her and her brother in particular had done. It made for some
gruesome reading. There was no doubt in Oz’s mind that her brother, Paul, was
one of those crazies who should have been drowned at birth. But Irena?
Irena...no, the innocence to her was obvious in the pictures he’d seen. Her
brother looked sly; she looked feline and aloof, pretty and elegant at the same
time she was sweet.
Maybe he was wrong. But he’d take the chance. A woman who could
let her lover do what he had done, had to have more morals then her brother who
had gone out into the world, and killed, and killed, because he couldn’t bear
to be locked up or contained. But didn’t have the discipline not to engage in
the act that led to his transformation, so he slaughtered and ate. He was sure
if he had met Paul, he would have had no trouble delivering the shot. But with
Irena...he would wager she had offered her lover a choice. Shoot me or cage me.
And the lover had chosen the cage. Which was a good thing ultimately, because
now Oz could help her but he couldn’t see any of the Scoobies making the same
choice for him. Maybe, Willow could have made that choice. Xander knew what it
was to be locked up when you’re a wild thing meant to be free, and he would
have voted in the end for the merciful bullet. Buffy, eventually the same.
Giles...well, he’d been Ripper. Tara wouldn’t have been able to understand it
as a choice, he was pretty sure. Now, here and far away in time and distance
from Sunnydale, he could think of her fondly. Where before all he had wanted to
do was rip her heart out and feast on her insides for taking his Willow away
from him into places he could never reach her.
Sometimes he felt it might even have been better if she’d turned
to Xander. He could have coped with that, known how to deal with it and maybe
win her back. But Tara? He could never understand her, she was too unknowable
and too different from anyone he’d ever known. Well, maybe his aunt, but he was
pretty sure Tara didn’t grow pot in her backyard. He still had a few bags, he
was pretty sure. Wondered absently if Irena did a little grass from time to
time, or if she’d object.
He slid a cassette tape into the ancient tape deck and nodded
along with the music as it started to play. Irena voiced no complaint, so he
left it on as they left the boundaries of New Orleans and moved out into the
country between it and the next town. It was strangely empty as he pulled up
off the road, tires bumping over the guttering and making noises of grievance. The
panther’s eyes just regarded him calmly as he turned the engine off and then
climbed out, moving around the back to open the doors and let her out.
“You need to stand in the circle,” he told her quietly, pointing
at the chalk outlines on the ground. “Mind the chalk.” He had clothes for her
to wear afterwards, once she’d changed back. The panther picked her way
carefully through the elaborate swirlings and designs of the chalk, settling
inside the circle on her haunches and watching Oz gravely. The chicken was
still in the cage near by, a black rooster clucking mournfully to himself and
tail feathers drooping unhappily. Well, Oz couldn’t blame the chicken for being
depressed. He was just about to die in a magic ritual. It couldn’t be a good
ending for a chicken. He spread his hands, then sighed quietly before dragging
his tee-shirt over his head. Skyclad. It was always skyclad with this type of
magic for some reason; at least this place was reasonably deserted and he
didn’t expect anyone to drive by. Naked was not something he wanted to have to
explain.
He ran through the ritual quickly and easily, not feeling overly
exposed in front of Irena while he chanted and sang the words he had memorised
from Tante when he had seen her. He had a good memory. Musicians had to. He
knew over five hundred songs, chords and lyrics. This was just one more thing
to remember; he worked at it steadily and had it down word perfect before he
left her. Then he passed Irena the chicken and she took it carefully in her
velvety looking jaws. The rooster didn’t have a chance to squawk more then once
before her fangs crushed down on it and she gulped it down, feathers sticking
out of her mouth. And then it was over. She hissed and spat, skin splitting and
decaying as it fell off her. Oz watched nervously, wondering if his
transformation were as painful to watch as hers was to him. She was as pretty
as her photograph and Oz turned his eyes away as he passed her a pair of
panties, a bra and a long dress.
“Tante Thibodeau just dressed at your size. Hope everything
fits.” He started to get dressed himself, pulling his jeans up over his lean
hips and charms still tangled around his neck. “I’ve got a few charms you’ll
need to wear.”
“Why...why did you do this?” she asked in a voice hoarse with
disuse. It still held more then a hint of a growl to it, something feline and
rough.
“I wanted to.” He paused, shirt dangling from his hand before he
pulled it over his head and settled his necklaces outside it again. “And I know
what it’s like. I’m a werewolf.”
“Were...wolf? Really?”
“Yeah.” He was talking more today then he had in years. “You
want to come with me?” He indicated the van with a hand, tilting his head
slightly and regarding her still grey-green eyes with his green ones. “Ain’t
much...but I go places. I wouldn’t ask you for anything.”
“I’m dead, according to the world. Aren’t I?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he said honestly. He could see the wheels
turning over in her head. Waited for her patiently to choose. He would take her
back, if that’s what she wanted. She’d be safe now, she could love and live.
But having kids was probably right out of the question. He’d gotten those
charms from a yogi in India, and he doubted anything the obeahs had here would
be anywhere close in power. Not to disparage them, but their magic didn’t work
that way. Her kids would have the same curse as she did, and he found that
quite...sad. Women should have the choice to make babies, if they wanted them.
But only if they wanted them. An unwanted child was one of the unhappiest
beings in the world, because everyone wants to be wanted by the people around
them.
“Why not?” And Irena laughed, a soft pretty sound that Oz found
himself smiling to hear. She reminded him, a little, of Willow. Just in the way
she held herself. “I’ll come with you. What is your name?”
“Oz.” He walked over to her and held out the handful of jangling
necklaces she would need. She bent her head so he could put them on and his
fingers touched briefly the wispy pieces of hair at the back of her skull as he
made sure the knots on the necklaces wouldn’t scratch her. She shivered and he
bit his lip. “Daniel Osbourn, but everyone calls me Oz.”
“I am Irena, and I am very glad you came to New Orleans, Oz.”
She smiled at him as she straightened, a few inches taller then him but that
was irrevalent. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Do you ever make a facial expression?”
“Oh...sometimes. On special occasions.” He kept his face
carefully blank, inwardly laughing at her impish sense of humour. He was glad
to see she still had one. Not many people could hold onto something like that
after what she had been through, but it was still there. And being able to
laugh was something so important. Laughter was what the tyrant feared more then
anything else, because if you feared him you at least took him seriously.
Ridicule removed that sense of respect, and people needed to be unafraid to
laugh. She chuckled again, skipping ahead to the passenger side of the car and
opening it to get in. He tilted his head slightly as she gathered up her
skirts, following after her slowly as she swung her legs around and in.
She had nice ankles, he decided.
“So, where to?” Irena asked him as he got into the driver’s seat
and started the car. He turned his head and smiled at her slightly, her
green-grey eyes gleaming back at him as the sun started to rise.
“Wherever the road takes us.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Cool.”
Oz nodded once, then turned the volume up on his tape deck and
manoeuvred the battered up van back onto the road. The charms around their
necks hummed with an indescrible sense of magic and he nodded his head in time
to the music, darting another glance at Irena as she gazed out the window with
a child’s wonder. Behind them, they left the veves and the circle of chalk to
be washed away by the rain, chicken feathers whisked away by the wind as the
weather erased what had happened there. The magic was gone from that, used up
to make a panther back into the woman she had been. But the sense of potential,
of other, still lingered about the both of them.
“Maybe, we’ll find out how to let you transform without worrying
about the curse,” he said out of the blue, once they were about ten minutes
down the road. She nodded, looking at him for a few moments.
“I’d like that. I didn’t mind...being a panther, once I’d gotten
used to it. And the fact I’d never change back, but I didn’t like being
trapped. And if I had known what it would be like...” she broke off, staring
down at her hands where they were clenched tight around the material of her
dress. Oz nodded.
“My girlfriend used to lock me up every three nights of the
month when there was a full moon,” he shared with her, letting her know he knew
a little bit about what she meant. The mood of camaraderie between them grew,
and he felt a quiet sort of contentment about that. “We’ll get some breakfast
at the Denny’s a few miles from here.”
“Oooh, I haven’t eaten at Denny’s for, well, a really long
time!” Her mood swung up again and she lifted her hands in front of her face,
examining them as if not quite believing they weren’t the paws of the cat
anymore. “I liked that food, but it was always so greasy I didn’t eat it often.
Do they still serve those hashbrowns?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. I’ll have some of those...and coffee...I haven’t had a
decent cup of coffee for so long...that’s what I ended up missing, more then
not going where I wanted. Real food. And reading, lord, how I missed reading
books.”
“I’ve got some in the back, if you want to crawl around and
look.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Irena clapped her hands and beamed at him, looking so pleased Oz
was glad he’d kept the paperbacks rather then passing them on when he’d had the
chance. She scrambled back over the seat and he very purposefully kept his eyes
on the road. She moved like a cat, all effortless grace, when she didn’t think
about it. There was power in her alright, very carefully leashed and the charms
hanging around her neck kept the worst of it at bay. But she couldn’t help but
shine. He tapped his fingers along the steering wheel, chipped nailpolish
obvious in the morning sun and felt remotely pleased about the whole business.
New Orleans had been a good place to stop, and he was glad he had, but it was
time to be moving on now. He was still mildly surprised that he was taking someone
with him, but that was just fate. Maybe that’s what had driven the whole thing.
He had had to find this woman, let her out and teach her how to control the
beast she carried in her blood. He was a good teacher, he knew that. And maybe
the Powers That Be had some plan for this whole thing. He wouldn’t rule it out.
Maybe he should see about finding where Willow went after
Sunnydale fell into the middle of the earth. He wanted to get all that tied up
– he wasn’t one for loose ends. As Irena came back to sit in the front seat,
ragged looking paperback firmly clutched in one hand, Oz looked out at the road
as it stretched away in front of him and faded away into the horizon. And
smiled.
Note: I do not speak Spanish. All translations
into Spanish in this story have been taken from an Internet translator. If you
speak Spanish and care to send me the proper translations, I will be very happy
to fix up my story so it has that instead of the probably horrible Spanish I
got off the translator. Thank you.