At first Oz caught the scent of Willow on her skin, but then he smelled her, rich and dark with earth, and crackling with something that made him dizzy with wind and sky.

He fled her, drove without thinking, tearing himself from her pull, driving on to cities where overpowering flash and color and scent struggled to push her from his mind.

He finally gave in one afternoon, flipping through the cheap books, self imposed sensory overload preventing more than the occasional word to slip through.

Vitiate. Thaumaturgy. Quiet valiancy.

Wings.

He turned back west, compelled by her otherworldly strength.