"I'm an instigator from a dead man's town So when did the whole world turn upside down When did you change your mind, when did you lose the juice Now where did you get your attitude When did you give it away, what did the old man say And how many babies did you kick today" Oingo Boingo "Water"

Oz led Angel to the large house tucked in the back of the woods, moving through the throngs of pilgrims, supplicants, worshippers. He walked to the porch, draped in mosquito net, and gestured towards a simple wicker chair. "Please," he said, his voice still soft, calm, eerie. "Sit."

Angel sat down, staring at the other man.

Oz matched his gaze, staring at the vampire evenly. "I suppose you have many questions."

Angel broke the gaze, cursing under his breath as he looked down at his feet. "Oz..." He looked up. "What is this?"

Oz smiled faintly. "Blan Bwa."

"'White Woods', yes. I was told that. But what are you doing? What is this place?" Angel stared at Oz in amazement. "Why are you doing this?"

Oz continued to hold that enigmatic smile, his green eyes barely masking amusement. "Plen Lenin was a small town run by a powerful vampire lord...put Baby Doc to shame when it came to controlling a crowd by vodou." His voice was calm, educational, soothing. "He kept alligators, and quite enjoyed feeding the townspeople to them, until, as I've been told, 'a brown-haired loud girl stuck a piece of wood into him and he turned to dust.'" Oz paused, his smile widening. "I'm suspecting that was Faith," he said dryly.

Angel frowned. "What does this--"

Oz held up his hand for silence. "After the death of the vampire, Plen Lenin was a lost town. They had gotten so used to having a leader, civilly, spiritually, right down to their very essence." He paused, looking out at the small groups of people congregating the yard, laughing, talking, dancing to the drums lightly booming in the background. "I was in a nearby town, with Ancient Spirits, a group I was traveling with. I came into the town when I was...transformed." Oz looked back at Angel. "Gran Bwa filled me, changed me, took me as his own." He smiled. "Maite mo quenne..." he said in a soft whisper, opening his palms in beatitude, looking heavenwards with worship, with grace, with rapture.

Angel stared at him in shock. "Oz...I...I don't..." He tried to find the words. "I don't understand..."

Oz continued to smile, that soft, amused, rapturous smile. "Of course not," he said softly. "You haven't seen him..." He looked away, waving his hand at a lone man standing by the doorway, who came to stand beside Oz. "Will you stay until tomorrow night?" he asked Angel. "It's a particularly special night...the feast of Gran Bwa." His green eyes caught Angel's. "You will want to stay for that..."

Angel tried to look away, trapped by the power within the pale eyes. He willed his legs to run, to escape, but lassitude and surrender took him, relaxing him back into the chair. He heard himself say "Of course," before he could protest, before he could escape.

Oz smiled matter-of-factly. "Excellent." He turned towards the man standing next to him. "Theophile, take Angel to one of the northern guest rooms, away from the sun. Make sure the drapes are drawn tightly, just in case." He turned back to Angel. "Have you eaten recently?"

Angel shook his head without thinking, reacting purely to the sound of Oz's voice.

Oz turned back to Theophile. "And have Jean-Baptiste slaughter one of the pigs for tomorrow night. Make certain he collects all the blood, and carry it up to Angel for dinner." He stood up, and looked at Angel. "I'm afraid I have many things to do tonight to prepare for tomorrow's festivities. Theophile here will take care of you, and I will see you tomorrow at the feast." He straightened. "Until then..." He began to walk away.

Angel sat there for a second, staring off into oblivion, then suddenly bolted out of his chair. "Oz!" he shouted.

Oz stopped and turned to face Angel. "Yes?"

Angel's mouth opened. "I...." He tried to speak, tried to shout out his pleas for help, for rescue, for action.

Oz raised a single white-blonde eyebrow up, staring at him. "Yes, Angel?"

Angel closed his mouth and straightened. "Nothing," he said quietly. "Nothing at all..."

Angel paced the carpet of the room, winding around the various objects in his way -- the large bed, the chair, the dresser, the chaise, the dressing table, all Louis XIV, stifling in their opulence. Angel paused for a moment, staring at the thick wooden door, locked from the outside, then resumed pacing.

He should have known better, should have never agreed to stay, should have never gulped down the blood, so glad to have nourishment that he didn't even notice the sedative -- Angel! who had prided himself on his palate back during the epic highs of Angelus, not noticing the oily taste of opium nestled within the rank sweetness of porcine. He had fallen asleep quickly, collapsing against the softness of the feather bed, wrapped unconscious within the gentle petals of a poppy.

He awoke hours later, the room gray-lit with hidden sunlight, the door securely locked from the outside. He could break it down, smashing his body through the oak with the strength of the demonic, but refrained, biding his time, waiting to see what happened next, preparing for any possible danger, pacing back and forth like a wild cat in a cage, anything to keep him from going mad, pacing for hours, the room darkening slowly to complete blackness.

A key rattled in the lock. Angel tensed, ready to attack whoever came through the door. The door slowly opened, revealing a thin coffee-colored girl, her eyes wide with fear. "I told you to go away," she said in a small sad voice. "I begged you..."

Angel relaxed. "Rosalie..." he said relievedly. He frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"He asked me to get you," she said softly, not needing to state who "he" was.

Angel pulled aside the drapes, looking out into the pitch black night, illuminated only by a large bonfire in the center of the clearing and the fat nearly-full moon, rising up golden yellow in the Louisiana sky.

"I --" Rosalie was cut off when Angel held up his hand. "W-What is it?" she stammered.

"Do you hear that?" Angel whispered, looking out into the night. "Someone's screaming....Listen, there it is again..."

Rosalie listened as a low shriek pierced the night air. "Kochon..." she said faintly, staring out at the moon. At Angel's confused glance, she looked back up at him. "Pigs. They're butcherin' the pigs for t'night."

Another shriek echoed before Angel could speak. "Why?"

"Gran Bwa...needs it." She closed her eyes tightly for a second, then turned towards him. "You could run. Now. They are busy with preparations and no one would notice." She ran to the door. "Please. Go. *Now*!"

Angel stared at her for a second, then grabbed his coat as he walked to the door, stopping when Oz suddenly appeared in the doorway, backed by two large coal-colored men.

Oz smiled lightly as he looked up at Angel, then grew menacingly wider as his eyes slid over to Rosalie. "Ah, Rosalie," he said smoothly. "I had been wondering if you hadn't gotten lost along the way..." He beckoned her to him with his hand. "Come on, it's time for you to get ready."

Rosalie grasped the drapery in her hands, cringing against the faded wallpaper.

"Rosalie..." Oz said, his voice becoming parental. "You don't want to repeat what happened before, do you?"

Rosalie shut her eyes tightly, biting down on her lips as if to hold back a scream, then relaxed, her face smoothing blankly, as her eyes opened, never looking directly at Oz. "No," she said softly. "I must get ready..." She straightened, walking out of the room, her back stiff, always looking directly ahead.

Angel watched Rosalie leave, then turned directly to Oz. "What the hell is going on here?"

Oz smiled that faint smug smile. "She has a very important role tonight." He looked up at Angel, his pale green eyes crinkled at the edges with amusement. "As will you, I'm certain."

Angel turned away, unable to match Oz's stare. "Oz, I don't know what you have going here, but I--"

"All the more reason you should come with me now." Oz held out his hand. "The feast is about to begin."

Angel looked towards the window, then towards Oz, then towards the window again. He paused, then resigned, he walked over to Oz.

Oz's smile grew marginally wider. "I thought you would see the way." He gestured towards the hallway.

Angel followed Oz down the spacious hallway to the wide, elegant main stairwell. "Shouldn't you be locked up around now?" Angel asked as they walked down the stairs, Oz leading and the two large men following behind Angel.

Oz gave a soft laugh. "Not anymore," he said quietly.

Angel paused on the stairs. "What, does hopping on the religion bus make the werewolf magically go away?" he asked, his voice mocking Oz's every step.

Oz stopped and turned towards Angel. He held out his forearm between Angel and himself. "Flesh is weak," Oz said, his voice slightly strained as coarse black hair sprouted from his milk-white skin, nails curling into arched black claws, bones snapping as they shifted into new forms. "Flesh does what the soul tells it to do," he growled, canines long and sleek shining in his mouth. "And, in the end..." The hair fell off, shedding onto the carpet as his arm straightened, smoothed, resumed its normal form. "The soul prevails." He looked up at Angel, a slightly bored smile upon his face. "Shall we continue?"

***
Part 5:

"Now everybody sing to the heavens above
And everybody dance to the sounds of love
Won't you clack your teeth, won't you smack your hands
Won't you dig your little heads right out of the sand
Won't you jiggle your butt, won't you wave your arms
Won't you look like you just came off of the farm
Won't you stop your fighting for a second or two
Won't you help your neighbors, won't you do the do
Won't you taste the sugar, won't you eat the cake
Won't you get your ugly mug right out of my face
Won't you tell your brothers and your sisters tonight,
That you tasted the water and the water was right
Won't you taste the sugar, won't you dance the dance
Won't you wake up please, come on out of your trance"
Oingo Boingo, "Water"

The drums had already begun as Oz and Angel walked into the main courtyard. It was a slow, pulsating beat, thrumming through Angel's body like the pulse that had so long ago abandoned him. A small group had surrounded the drummers, their conversations loud, raucous, animated with the occasional bark of laughter, the stomp of a foot in emphasis, shouts, curses, and prayers blending together into a melody, weaving through the spaces between drumbeats.

It was hypnotic, alluring, slithering against Angel's skin like humidity, like butter-soft leather, like silky flesh, like sex, lust, desire, passion, beating through their bodies with the pulse of the Gods keeping time. "Ange-la," the people whispered.

"Ein Ange..."

"Ange nous quenne..."

"Mouri nous quenne..."

"Mouri so quenne..."

"Mouri Gede...Mouri Samdi..."

"Mouri..." Angel said under his breath, licking dry lips.

"Dead..." a soft voice whispered in his ear. "Dead dead dead dead dead...Ange mouri nous quenne..."

Angel closed his eyes, falling into the rhythm, his head falling back on his shoulders, body growing languid, liquid, melting against the crowd surrounding him. "M'ange mouri..."

The drumming grew louder, faster, echoing through Angel's empty body, becoming his pulse, filling his soul, seeping through his dry, dust-ridden bones. It was like tides, waves, rushes of feeling, of deep primal animal instinct brought forth by fire, by darkness, by the full moon shining above.

"M'ange mouri," he mumbled, speaking Creole without realizing, far beyond the point of caring, far beyond knowledge, reason, sentience, humanity. He was Angel. The Angel. Ange Mouri, the angel of death, the angel of life. Corruption and fecundity, rot and growth, killing and fucking entwined together -- glorious, elegant, poisonous.

The crowd was carrying him, a wave of dark skin underneath his pale body, clothing ripping, tearing, sliding off of his flesh as the crowd -- his crowd, his people -- collected relics. The wave surged, cresting, depositing him on his naked feet in front of a pale man in a pale suit, large pale green eyes staring at him. The drums suddenly silenced, detaching Angel from everything as he focused directly on Oz. "Ange," Oz said in a whisper. "Ange mo quenne?"

Angel stood before Oz, firelight casting shadows against the muscled flesh. "Non," he said in a voice low, harsh, not his own.

Oz raised his face to the moon and howled, a purely wolf howl, his flesh changing as that lone mournful note echoed throughout the woods. He looked back at Angel, not wolf, nor man, but an intricate combination of the two, earth and humanity joined together in the body of a skinny 29 year old werewolf, scarcely old enough to be called a man, but with the hunt, the need, the chase ingrained deep into his shifting bones. Gran Bwa. The great forest. Born again in Oz. "Ange mo quenne?" he asked again, his throat shredded by human syllables.

"Non," Angel replied. He stood before Oz, before the crowd, before all, naked, barren, his hands down at his side, an anatomical model for God, man, and demon. He closed his eyes, his head falling back as he felt the change come over him. Not mortal. Not vampire. Not ensouled. Not demonic. He was other -- a higher, greater power.

His eyes, no longer Angel's, opened. "Mo Gede," he said, his voice low, roughened by cigarettes, sin, rum, sex, apotheosis. Popa Gede laughed. "Mo non c'est Gede!"

"Gede nous quenne!" the crowd shouted. The drums began again, a slow sultry beat. Angel laughed, and began to dance, slipping through the crowd with a slide of his hips, a stamp of his foot, a laugh, a joke, flirting with the women, with the men, with everyone, his erection parading before him. He was sex, sin, decadence, dancing through the crowd with a hard cock and a sly smile.

He stopped, suddenly, the crowd freezing behind him. Angel stood there, staring directly at a single person in the crowd, a woman dressed in red, her face heavily made up. "Ezili?" he asked, looking directly at her. "Ezili, m'amour?"

The woman's voice was timid, shaking. "P-popa Gede..."

"Ezili..." Angel said, his voice paternal. "Ezili, m'pitit..." He switched to English suddenly. "Do you remember when you and I were together in New Orleans? You had the most adorable cheval, and I fucked him until he was bleeding..." He thrust up behind her, his erection poking into the small of her back. "I can still feel his ass around my zouzo, Ezili, after all these years..."

At her gasp, he continued. "Or do you remember Port-au-Prince? It was my feast day...and a baby crawled over my veve, smearing the sand all over until you could no longer make out my face..." He leaned in, his lips near her ear. "Remember what I did to that baby? How I waited -- waited patiently until it had grown to be a man? How I made him my cheval and rode him through the fire?" He bent slightly, kissing her neck. "Or do you remember your cheval in Blan Bwa? The one who pretended to be yours?"

The woman began sobbing. "P-please, m'sieur...please..."

Angel chuckled against her throat. "Shame on you, Rosalie..." he said in a light voice. "You know I am no man..." He kissed her neck again. "It could have been beautiful, m'pitit..." His fangs grew, scraping across her throat. "Beautiful..." he whispered before biting, his fangs slowly pushing into her velvet skin.

He drank from her, rich full blood filling his mouth, thick heavy liquid against his tongue. He groaned, thrusting against her as he drank, reveling in the pleasure of the kill, the pleasure of the girl, the pleasure of immortality. He drank until she was dry, empty, cold, and dropped her on the ground.

Angel slowly straightened, vertebrae positioning one by one. He shouted, a wordless cry of lust, of passion, of eternity, slicing through the night air.

And matching his cry was a low howl, the two sounds weaving together in point and counterpoint, the human and the primal, the civil and the untamed. Gede and Gran Bwa, coming together in one raw sound.

Angel looked directly at Oz, his eyes matching Oz's eyes -- yellow sharp eyes framed in deep sockets. Oz held out a hand, nails long and black, curving inwards, and beckoned towards Angel. "Vini," Oz growled, his voice low and roughened.

Angel tipped his head back and laughed, a deep resonating laugh. The drums softly thrumming in the background grew louder, faster, each beat slapping against their bodies in a subtle sonic urge. Angel took a step back, then moved towards Oz, dancing the entire way, his body thrusting towards the pale creature standing in the middle of the crowd.

Angel thrust his arms out as he approached Oz, arms like Jesus, being crucified towards ecstasy, his followers behind him, pressing him, pushing him to the inevitable conclusion. Angel's arms were outstretched, and Oz stepped into them, his yellow eyes looking up at the man -- not a man, not a vampire, nothing that he was before -- in front of him.

Angel's lips curled into a smile as he cupped Oz's face, bending down to press his lips against Oz's mouth. His tongue pushed into the smaller man's mouth, as his arms snaked around his back, pulling Oz against his nude body. Oz's clothing slid from his body, pulled off by the crowd, darkness surrounding the two pale creatures as they slowly moved to the ground.

Angel chuckled as he slowly turned Oz onto his stomach. "After all this time, Gran Bwa, apres tout l'onnain...I have you..." His hand slid between Oz's lightly furred legs, grasping onto his cock, all too human and all too sensitive. Oz growled through his teeth, shining and sharp in the moonlight, as Angel stroked him. "Mo gain to."

Angel's hand slipped lower, sliding against hair too thick to be human, too thin to be animal, fingers delicately tracing over Oz, rimming the circle of flesh devoid of hair. Oil, thick and sweet-smelling, dripped from above, the slick hands of the crowd rubbing Angel and Oz, covering them, slicking them in holy oil for a sacred fucking.

Angel slowly pushed his way into Oz, and the crowd moaned with him in ecstasy, dancing to the groans wrangled from Oz's throat, counterpoint to the steady rhythm of the drums. He pressed against Oz, his cool smooth skin caressed by fur, as he bent over to whisper in a slightly pointed ear. "Do you feel that, Gran Bwa?" he said. "Ca santi, m'cheri?" His lips pressed against Oz's cheek. "You're mine...Popa Gede has conquered you...conquered the great forest with his zouzo, mo konkeri Gran Bwa..."

"Mo...konkeri...Gede..." Oz growled low in his throat, thrusting back against Angel. "You...are...mine, Gede. I have you within me and you..." He groaned again, his hips moving faster. "Gede mo quenne!" he shouted. "Gede mo!"

"Mine!" Angel shouted, slamming his hips in response. "Mo quenne!" The pressure grew in his body, the beat faster and faster not only in his thrusts, but also his ears as the drummers slapped their hands against the leather, bleeding palms smacking against rough wood. The rhythm built and built, spiraling uncontrollably, the crowd slamming against each other in holy rapture, fainting and falling. There was no end in sight, only death and destruction could follow, but then --

Silence.

The two glorious creatures, holy in their sex, groaned together, the only sound in the woods, a trail of sparkling liquid dripping onto the ground, Angel giving one final long push before falling against the softness of Oz's back.

Angel slowly pulled out of Oz, cradling the smaller man in his arms as he turned him. A gentle nip along the line of his jaw, a feather-light kiss upon the lips, and a whisper echoed through the crowd. "Mo quenne..."

Angel sat straight up in bed, terrified. He looked around the room frantically, trying to place himself.

Oz sat in the corner, his relaxed body seemingly painted onto an overstuffed chair. He looked at Angel quizzically, cocking his head to the side slightly. "Yes?" he asked.

Angel put his hand to his chest. "I..." He looked at Oz. "I was...I did..." He paused, looking directly at Oz. "What did you do to me?"

Oz chuckled softly. "I? I did nothing." He smiled slightly. "Gede took you. As Gran Bwa took me, Gede has taken you. So quenne."

Angel looked down at his body, raked with scratches and still glistening with oil. "I...I don't...I..."

Oz nodded. "You don't remember. Not yet." He stood up and moved to the bed in a fluid movement, sitting next to Angel. "You..." He opened a small flat tin. "You are something very important, Angel. I am the forest, the life, the animal instinct....Zannimo Gran Bwa." He took a small brush from the tin. "You, on the other hand...." He mixed something in the tin with the brush. "You are Gede. Male, strength, laughter, emotion..." His smile grew slightly wider. "Lust." He held up the brush to Angel's face. "Konvwate Gede..."

The brush slowly slid over Angel's face, leaving behind wetness, drying quickly on his skin. "Oz..."

"Shhh..." Oz whispered. "But there is more than the lustful Gede, Angel. There is Popa Gede, and then, there is Baron Samdi..." He continued to paint Angel's face. "Samdi, lord of death, roi mouri..." He mixed something else in the tin and resumed painting. "Baron Samdi te rive men," he said softly. "Baron Samdi came here." He set down the tin and the brush. "Li te balanse kay li." He smiled tenderly. "He balanced our house."

Oz stopped and stared at Angel, admiring his handiwork. Angel's face was completely covered, the makeup outlining a skull. "Roi mouri..." he whispered, then leaned in to delicately kiss Angel, lips pressing against lips.

Angel closed his eyes as Oz kissed him, closed his eyes and accepted the destiny offered to him. He was no longer Angel. He was no longer Angelus.

He was Gede. He was Samdi. He was Angel. He was all three and he was none. He gave up his past in an elegant gentle kiss.

Oz leaned back, that tender smile still on his face, despite the black and white paint lightly streaking his lips. He looked at his new creation, looked at his Angel, and smiled widely. "Come," he said, his voice low and treading towards conspiratorial. "Come see..." He grasped Angel's hand and pulled him off of the bed.

Angel and Oz walked through the house, down several hallways and staircases. "I am Nature," Oz said, his voice trembling with enthusiasm. He pulled out a set of keys and picked a single key. "You are Man..." He unlocked a plain door and slowly opened it. "And she....she will be Ezili."

Angel looked in the small room, dimly lit by candles. "Ezili?"

Oz's face became rapturous. "Ezili. Woman, love, sensuality, femininity...beauty and wonder..." He gestured towards the small shrine sitting on one edge of the wall. "She will be ours, m'Ange...Nous bel Ezili..."

Angel stared at the shrine, looking at the photo in the center, the same expression of rapture slowly seeping onto his face. "Cordelia..." he whispered, touching the polaroid of the gorgeous woman. "Nous Cordelia..."

"Everybody make believe that you disappear
For a second or two, gonna feel so queer
And you left behind all your rage and fear
And it made you feel like water..."

~ end ~

RESOURCES: I could not have created this story without the help of: _Mama Lola_ by Karen McCarthy Brown The Louisiana Creole Dictionary: The Louisiana Creole Dictionary
The Kreyol Word Archive