Disclaimer: Oz and Cordelia are the property of Joss Whedon and the WB. The World of Darkness mythos is owned by White Wolf. And Someone owns the ideas in the "American Werewolf" mythos. No copyright infringement is intended or should be inferred.(New characters are my own invention. For their use, please ask first.)
Yep, folks, it's a crossover. It's actually more of a blending of two concepts of lycanthropy: one, the Joss version, and the other, the Werewolf: The Apocalypse version. I like the second better, so here's my take.
Summary? You want a summary? I'm cruel. Suffer. Mwa ha ha ha!
Oz was grateful for the new moon. He could enjoy his vacation in peace, and not have to worry about changing into a werewolf here in Europe. He wouldn't have been able to go if the moon had been waxing.
So here he was, in the cemetary with his guitar, sitting on Jim Morrison's grave. He had been hoping that the gravesite would give him some inspiration, some kind of musical push, but it hadn't. It was lulling him into a sense of security.
"Oz?" a female voice called.
Oz groaned. Cordelia had found him again. It wasn't that he didn't like her -- actually, it was that he didn't like her. He didn't appreciate her hiding from Harmony behind him. He supposed that he was the only link she had on this trip to her real friends and her boyfriend, but her presence was really tiresome sometimes.
"Hey, Oz." she said, and sat down on the stones at his feet.
"Cordelia." he ran his hands through his hair and tried to smile. "What's up?"
"What are you doing in the graveyard in the middle of the night?" she asked as she fidgeted with the sweater looped around her neck.
"Looking for some solitude." he said pointedly.
"Oh." She frowned, and stood up. "Sorry."
He felt sorry for her in that moment, having not seen until that moment how much she'd changed from the bitchy snob to the slightly-less-bitchy-and-sometimes-even-nice-and-helpful snob. He'd only known her as that freaky chic that hung on Dylan. It had come as a huge surprise to everyone when she'd started dating Xander. [Especially Xander,] he mused.
She'd even been known to exibit some brains now and then, Oz recalled. He put a hand out to stop her from leaving.
"Cordelia. Sit down."
"What?" she said.
"Stick around. I could use some company." He smiled at her then, and she sat.
She said, "I'm glad I'm not the only one who wanders cemetaries by night out of habit."
They laughed together as Oz strummed his guitar, the cool breeze drifting through the balmy Paris night.
"What kind of music do you like, Cordelia?" Oz asked.
"I like almost everything -- except country. I'm not a big Garth fan." she said.
"Oh." he said. "What's your favorite song?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I've never really thought about it."
"Oh." Oz said. Then a scent...something on the wind... caught his nose and he stood up.
"What's that?" he said.
"What's what?" Cordelia asked, standing to look around. "I don't see anyone."
There was a rustling noise in the copse of foliage off to their right, and Cordelia continued, "Why do I not like this scenario?"
"I don't think we should stick around to find out what that is. It looks big." Oz said, turning on his heels to run, grabbing Cordy's hand in the process.
A giant dog burst out of the bushes and ran straight towards the pair of teenagers, barreling forward so fast that it was a giant white blur in the dimly lit cemetary.
Oz and Cordelia ran away from the dog, who gave chase, nipping at their heels as they ran. Soon, two more dogs joined the chase, then another, and finally a fifth. The animals ran the teenagers around the cemetary for several minutes, finally cornering them as they clambered on top of a tall mausoleum.
Oz looked down at the dogs, realizing for the first time that they weren't exactly dogs...they were wolves! "Oh my god..." he panted.
"What?" rasped Cordelia.
Oz pointed down at the animals. "Wolves."
"Wolves! In the city?! Here?!"
One of them looked up at Cordelia and Oz, the darkness swirling around it until finally, it turned into a tall woman with waist-length brown hair and gleaming yellow eyes, her delicate features etched into lines of concern. "Why do you run from your brethren, cubling?"