*****

"Now how many nights can the full moon shine How many bottles of water can you turn to wine When the blood has flowed against the tides of time And the water flows forever" Oingo Boingo, "Water"

Angel Investigations had their name on the door, written in clean-cut, no-nonsense gold lettering, with an amorphous shape vaguely looking like an angel above it. Willow looked at the letting for a few seconds longer, straightened, then opened the door.

Cordelia sat at her desk, her head in her hands, cursing under her breath.

Willow slowly stepped in. "Cordelia?" she said in a quiet voice.

"Don't!" Cordelia said loudly, holding up her hand. "Don't say a word!" She breathed a few more curses, then was silent, the only sound in the room her heavy, pained breathing.

Willow bit her lip, confused.

After a minute, Cordelia took a deep breath, grabbed a sheet of paper, scribbled down something, then looked up. "Willow?" she said in a surprised whisper.

"Are you okay?" Willow asked, looking at Cordelia with a mixture of concern and fear, fear often winning out.

Cordelia waved her hand. "Oh yeah, I'm fine, just a migraine again, this whole 'vision' thing that I got dumped with." She looked Willow up and down. "Well, you certainly haven't changed..."

Willow bit her lip again. "Is Angel here?"

"Oh yeah, he's in the back...why? Buffy have another big magical object she picked up and decided she needed her big strong ex-boyfriend to take care of it?"

"Can you get him?" Willow just said.

"Oh, sure..." Cordelia looked towards the doorway. "Angel!" she shouted. "Willow's here to see you!" She looked at Willow again. "And she changed her hair, but she's still wearing those awful clothes, so obviously, there isn't a major crisis in Sunnydale...."

"Cordelia..." Angel said, standing in the office doorway.

"What?" Cordelia said crossly. "You're not the one who just had another blastingly painful migraine!" She held up the notepad. "Oh, by the way, Marisol Delgado, lives in North Long Beach, has a little demon problem, I'm thinking it's probably just another Aztec deity finally realizing that he's been missing out on his daily sacrifices, but I wrote the address down for tonight, and can you possibly see about getting paid this time? My aspirin bill is skyrocketing, and it should be a work expense."

Angel waved his hand weakly at Cordelia, looking at Willow. "Willow..." he said. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

Willow frowned for a second, then shook her head. "Oh! Oh, no, nothing's wrong back home. I just..." She looked towards his office. "Can I talk to you?"

Angel frowned. "Um...Sure..." He gestured towards his office.

Willow walked into the office, with Angel following. "So what's going on?" he asked as he shut the door.

Willow looked directly at him. "Oz left," she said flatly.

Angel stared at her, still frowning. "Huh?"

"Oz left. He got into his van, and drove off." She paused. "Without me."

"Um...why?"

Willow sighed. "I don't know...We, uh...there was this other wolf, and she was bad, and he killed her...and then he said he had to leave."

Angel thought about it for a few minutes, then nodded. "Right. And..."

"I want you to find him. You're a detective. Find him for me."

Angel closed his eyes for a second. "Willow, I..."

"What? Isn't this simple enough?" Her voice grew strained. "Oz left. Find him!"

"Willow, I can't drop everything for this." He gestured towards the office doorway. "There are people who actually need help. You heard what Cordelia said, there are people who might be killed." He paused. "I can't just...not help people so that you can find your ex-boyfriend..."

"He's not my ex!" she said loudly. At Angel's raised eyebrow, she marginally calmed down. "He. Just. Left."

Angel sighed. "Look, Willow...I..." Her eyes were wide, pleading, begging. Angel finally gave in. "Okay, I can't devote my full time to it, but I'll contact a few people, trace a few sources, keep my ears open, all right?"

Willow beamed. "Thank you!" she said, reaching up to hug him tightly.

Angel waited for her to release him, then walked to the front room. "Cordy?" he said. "Can you start a folder for Willow? We're going to start looking for Oz."

Cordelia looked at him. "Sure," she said crisply. "And I guess she isn't going to pay either, right?"

"I can pay," Willow said, glaring at Cordelia. "Name your price and I'll give you a monthly check."

Cordelia stared at Willow and gave her a poison-sweet smile. "Sure thing, Willow. Now...we're finding Oz..." She reached for a clean sheet of paper. "I'm guessing he..." She looked up at Willow. "Left? Decided that the Sunnydale life was a little too..." She looked at Willow's clothing. "Tackily dowdy?"

Angel saw Willow take a deep breath, about to burst into tears, then glared at Cordelia. "Cordelia..." he said quietly. He put an arm around Willow and led her to the door. "We'll keep you updated..." he said.

Willow nodded, then walked out the door.

"Well, that was fun," Cordelia said. "We're not really just supporting her stalker habit, are we?"

"I'll keep a few things open, but that's about it..." He looked at the notepad. "So North Long Beach, huh?"

The news trickled in slowly, every few months or so. A journalist down in New Mexico saw him chained to a fence with half a dozen geriatric Navajo in front of an old archaeological site about to be paved over. A sacred cow deity, living the retired life on a large ranch in Montana, sent word of a pale, redheaded ranchhand who ran into the forest every full moon. A siren-turned-DJ sent a picture of a New York club kid, synthastatic electric eyeliner glowing around his shaded green eyes, a fiber optic boa around his neck, and a painting of a wolf across his chest. The lone ghost of Monticello sent a thin piece of parchment, words skittering across it in a pale ink, tellling of a young man whose howls rivalled his own during the full moon.

Every two or three months, the letters, messages, phone calls, and emails would appear, coming in from all over the U.S., Arizona, Idaho, Minnesota, Vermont, Kentucky, Utah, and more, with tales of a pale young man who disappeared every full moon and returned smelling of the woods and of something else -- something more primal and underlying.

Angel relayed the info to Willow whenever he got it, always making sure that by the time she got the messages Oz was gone, hoping that the pain of their break-up would heal and she'd move on, but with every bit of information he sent, Willow returned a check and a note telling him to continue. The cycle continued for five years, Angel hoping that, each time he mailed something, it would be the last. It never was.

Until, after one last report saying that he was touring as a roadie for a small swamp-folk-goth band in the deep South, there was nothing.

No messages, no phone calls, no sightings. Nothing.

He was alive -- the spirit world knew that much. Angel contacted them after the first three months passed without a word. Then the next. Then the next. Willow's checks continued to come in, the address occasionally changing, but the same. Angel would contact the spirit world, know that Oz was alive, and a check would come from Willow.

Before Angel knew it, five years had passed. Five years of waiting, five years of listening, five years of reaching out and trying to grab a hold of *something*, but failing.

And it was the tenth anniversary of Oz's departure when they finally heard something.

***
Part 2:

"Have you heard what they say, did you read the news Said the old man's coming home a-singing the blues" Oingo Boingo, "Water"

Cordelia had her workday down to an exact schedule. The standard secretarial skills of answering phones and making coffee were only a small part. There were ancient languages to learn. Ingredients for spells to acquire, demons to fight. And, of course, the mail.

She walked slowly down to the mailbox, swaying her hips just a little in front of the mailman, and pulled out the usual pile of bills and "return to sender" letters. She looked in the box, frowned, then pulled out an envelope, the sharp, crisp edges pressing into the pads of her fingers. She studied the envelope with a concerned look on her face, studying the stiff, design-school lettering, the postal bar code with "New Orleans" etched into it, the texture of finely pressed linen and wood pulp.

She walked back into the office, forgetting the mailman. "Angel?" she called out as soon as she shut the door. "There's..."

"What?" Angel said, looking up from a large ancient tome on his desk.

She held up the envelope. "From somebody in New Orleans," she said, tossing it on his desk. "Do we know anyone there?"

Angel frowned. "No one that would send me anything..." he said, reaching into his desk for a letter opener. He slid the dagger into the envelope, slicing the paper, then pulled out the card inside.

It was plain, white, a thick sheet of paper about the size of a postcard. On the front, painted in blue ink with a fine, elegant brush, was a wolf -- sharp, detailed, deadly even through the flatness of the ink. Angel stared at it for a few seconds, then slowly turned the card over.

Rough, scratchy lettering, three short lines. A town, a parish, a state.

"What's in Louisiana?" Cordelia said, looking over his shoulder.

Angel turned the card back over, staring at the wolf. "Oz."

Cordelia frowned. "Oz? After all these years, Oz decides 'Oh, I think I'll send Angel a postcard'?"

Angel set the card down on the desk, slowly pushing his chair away. "I need to go there."

Cordelia stared at him in shock. "What? Why? You didn't go all the other times we heard about him. It could not be him....it could be an impostor, trying to trap you. Or it could be something totally unrelated." As he walked away, she followed him. "It could be a...a...a spirit demon disguised as a wolf! It could be...one of those male encounter groups that got you on their mailing list!" As she saw Angel pull out a suitcase, she grabbed his arm, hinting of desperation. "Angel, please, think about this..."

"It's him, Cordy," Angel said as he quickly packed some clothes. "I'm sure of it."

"But what if it's a trap?" she asked. "What if you go away and I never see you again?"

Angel paused, then looked at the woman who had stood by him for 10 years. She still had the same elegant beauty she had all those years ago, but so much had hit her, seeping through the skin. She had lost so much these past years -- her friends, her family, Doyle, Wesley -- burning away the dross and leaving the basic, dignified beauty behind, the true Cordelia Chase.

He reached over and grasped her shoulder tenderly. "Cordelia, I..." He paused, trying to find the words. "I'll come back. I have to."

Cordelia looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Thank you," she said in a quiet voice. She closed her eyes as he pulled her close in a long hug, then, after a few seconds, stepped back, coolly professional again. "So you'll call?"

Angel nodded. "I'll call."

"And you'll let me know if you find anything?" She paused for a second. "Before Willow, of course. I need to know how much to bill her."

Angel chuckled. "Of course."

Angel pulled into the parking lot of the old, abused hotel, a vestigal "old boys" building next to the garish newness of a Popeye's. He had timed his drive, stopping only one night, giving himself enough time to rest before heading out in his heavily-tinted car, driving during the day so that when he arrived, night had just fallen on the city of original sin, original greed, original lust.

He could hear the loud bass of the bar on the first floor, the tinkling of glasses and loud conversation. He quickly got a room, the office clerk barely giving him a glance, then walked up the three flights of stairs, walking down the smudged, dirty hallway, putting the key in the greasy, fingerprint-covered lock, opening the door to the small, dingy, drab room.

Angel locked the door behind him, and collapsed on the bed, exhausted.

The next day was spent on the phone, reaching old contacts, acquaintances, informants. The sun began to slide down, and Angel went out, driving through the streets of New Orleans, stopping occasionally, only to hear the same thing he had been hearing all day --

Nothing.

There were no stories of wolves, of thin pale young men, aside from the occasional vampire, and above all else, no one knew of the town on the postcard.

Angel stopped at the front desk of the hotel. The tired-looking goth girl stared at him blankly. "Can I help you?" she asked snidely.

"Yeah," Angel said, trying to turn on the charm. "Do you know where..." he looked at the postcard again. "Plen Lelin is?"

The girl stared up at him with vacant eyes, inhaling deeply on her clove cigarette. "You got me," she said, blowing a large puff of smoke directly at him. "I came from Ohio."

An old black man weaved through the hallway, mumbling to himself. He came up to Angel, reeking of urine and cheap gin. "Plen Lelin...dangerous place..." he mumbled as he looked up at Angel.

"You know where it is?" Angel asked.

"S'past Houma...in the swamps..." The man's eyes were wide, bloodshot, cloudy with cataracts, but deadly serious. "Full Moon. They...they say the forest became a man..."

Angel stared in awe as the old man shuffled away, then walked out to his car.

***
Part 3:

"Now how many children gonna lose their minds How many crying girls will be left behind When the dead start walking and the full moon shines" Oingo Boingo "Water"

It took Angel most of the night to reach Plen Lelin, driving through dark swamps and deserted towns, past old woods still filled with tree spirits chuckling at the vampire in the car, and the butchered screams of the ones who had been torn down so a family could have a large lawn to match their ultra-wide trailer.

He kept the radio on, the low mumble of drunken preachers interrupted briefly by flashes of static and the occasional slow jazz tune, a second line for the road.

He pulled into the small town, barely noticing it in time, the weather-beaten sign looking like it had barely survived Hurricane Betsy back in the '60s, faded paint and cracked wood spelling out the town name, with a fat full moon rising behind it.

The town was dark, the lone streetlight casting long shadows against a boarded-up church and a crumbling town hall. On the edge of town was a dirt-covered neon sign, the words "Motel" barely visible. He parked the car, and walked to main office, well light despite the hour.

The middle-aged man behind the counter looked up as Angel entered the room, his eyes narrowing as he took in Angel's pale skin, dark jacket, and foreboding demeanor. "What do you want?" he asked as he glared at Angel.

"A room, if at all possible..." Angel said, trying to be as non-threatening as possible.

"It's four in the morning, what makes you think I have a room available?"

Angel pointed to the "Vacancy" sign glowing in the window.

The man swore under his breath, and grabbed a key from the rack. "That'll be thirty dollars, cash up front," he said. "And only cash. No checks, no credit cards, nothing but cash."

Angel dropped a fifty on the counter. "Keep the change," he said, as he took the key off the counter and walked towards the room.

It was dingy, cheap, a standard room for a small town away from the highways. Angel sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and stretched out his senses, trying to get a supernatural feel for the place.

The hotel had a trace, possibly a ghost or two, but nothing more. The town was also empty, just the usual residues in all small Southern towns...evidence of lynchings long after the blood had washed away. But there was something...something faint, in the distance, a large, silent creature, moving through the woods, something dangerous, barely lurking underneath the surface. Then, suddenly, it was gone, the town quiet, peaceful, without any possible supernatural activity.

Angel frowned, shaking his head. Chalking it up to exhaustion finally creeping in, he drew the drapes closed, turned out the lights and fell asleep.

Angel awoke to the sound of a key in the lock. He leapt from the bed, moving away from any direct sunlight that might come through the open door.

A young woman, her skin the color of rich black coffee, stood in the doorway, her eyes wide. "Forgive me, sir," she said in a soft lilting voice. "I did not--"

"It's okay," Angel said quickly. "Just..please...shut the door?"

She quickly closed the door, keeping it open by a crack. Angel relaxed, then looked at the girl again. "Who're you?"

"Rosalie," she said quietly. She held up a bundle of white. "I brought the towels..."

Angel frowned. "Oh. Yes. Um...put them on the bed..." he said, gesturing.

The girl set the towels on the bed, then looked at Angel. "Would you be needin' anyt'ing more?"

Angel frowned, thinking, then looked up. "Yes." He reached into his coat pocket. "Have you seen this person?" He showed the girl the picture.

Rosalie stared at the photo, her eyes wide with horror, then quickly shook her head. "I...I...I don'...N-no." she stammered.

Angel frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Rosalie!" a sharp voice came from the doorway. "Pas parler!"

Rosalie's head lowered in shame as Angel glared at the motel owner standing there. "I'm looking for this man," Angel said, holding out the photo.

The man walked into the room, ignoring Angel and looking at the young girl. "Qui ca to dit?"

"Anyen, Popa!" Rosalie said, her voice frightened. "Anyen!"

"Li vini Nuovo Olean! Li pas connain nous!" He raised his hand to the girl.

Angel grabbed his forearm, stopping him from hitting her. "Don't," Angel said, his voice firm.

The man glared at him. "You should not be here," he said angrily, pushing Angel away. "There is nothing for you here."

"I just want to know one thing," Angel said, holding up the photo again. "Have you seen him?"

"Popa," Rosalie whispered. "Popa, silvouple...."

"Trankil, Rosalie," the man said, his voice still firm. "Anyen dit Blan Bwa." He turned back to Angel. "We have not seen this man," he said, straightening. "There is nothing for you here. Go back where you came from." He walked out of the room.

Angel looked at Rosalie. "What is 'Blan Bwa'?" he asked.

Rosalie looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear. "'White Woods'," she said shakingly. "Outside of town..." She reached out and grasped his sleeve. "Please, sir, go home. Go far away from this place." Her voice grew pleading. "Don't face *him*."

Angel frowned. "Who?"

"Gran Bwa," she said in a whisper. "The great forest."

Angel drove to the edge of town, towards a faint light he saw in the woods. The light grew sharper, more defined as he got closer, the faint scent of woodsmoke sliding creeping its way through the thick heady scent of the swamp.

He parked the car off the side of the road, and walked towards the fire, walking through the woods, animals moving away from him, avoiding the cool chill of his dead flesh. The sound of drumming grew louder as he walked, a deep rhythm reminding him of the pulse, of the blood, of life.

He reached the edge of a clearing, hiding in the shadows and watching. A large bonfire burned in the middle of the clearing, the shadows from the fire playing upon a faded mansion in the corner.

Surrounding the bonfire were people. Dozens of people, silently dancing to the drums grouped around a small side house, feet stomping into the hard, thick, trampled earth. The drummers grinned as their hands slapped against the shiny leather of the drums, glinting in the firelight.

Angel moved closer, out of the darkness of the woods and into the clearing. The dancers continued on, not noticing him, lost in the beat, lost in the movement, lost in the frenzy.

The crowd moved together, mumbling, shrieking, shouting in Creole. "Maite-la, loup-a, popa-a, nous servi..." they chanted, swaying with the sounds, swaying with their voices raised up in perfect unison, raised up as they looked towards the small house. The Master. The Wolf. The Father. We serve.

Angel took a step back, frowning.

"Sove-la, loup-a, popa-a, nous laime." The Savior. The Wolf. The Father. We love.

The small door opened on the house. The crowd swarmed to the door, their chanting growing louder and louder. "Seigneur nous quenne, wa nous quenne, maite nous quenne..." Our Lord. Our King. Our Master. The crowd reached a feverish pitch, screeching out "Messiah nous quenne!" before being silenced by the wave of a pale hand.

Angel stared, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. The man, pale, from his faded reddish blond hair, to the thin blue veins barely visible under cream ivory skin, to the white suit, jacket, vest, shirt, pants, shoes; the pale man moving through swarm of darkness, a single white light in the religiously primal night. The crowd parted, whispering "Sove nous quenne," bowing before him, unable to look at him. Our Savior.

The man walked to Angel, his pale green eyes shining. "Angel," he said in a soft quiet voice.

"Ange-a," the crowd muttered. Angel. "Ange so quenne." His angel.

Angel nodded grimly. "Oz."

*****