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How it was that Oz had ended up hunting for Giles's books with Xander, he wasn't too sure. With Willow grounded, and Buffy on patrol, they seemed to be pretty much all that was left. Oz was glad once more for his taciturn reputation; it made the fact that he had nothing to say to this guy who held the other part of Willow's heart less awkward.
Of course, Xander was as far from taciturn as you could get, so his constant stream of chatter kept things pretty awkward, but Oz didn't really listen, so it was all good in the end.
They managed to find the books, even though they were locked up too tight to get at, and reported back to Giles in the library. With Buffy's realization that no one knew the names of the two dead children, Oz contacted Willow online and together they found the truth, tracing the children's deaths back, a new incident every fifty years.
And then Willow disappeared, as though her computer had been taken away. Her mom was getting hard-core, it seemed. In some ways, Oz hoped that maybe that was a good thing; maybe her mom was coming closer to taking an interest in Willow and her life. But it was going to be a long week if she stayed grounded. A long week, or more.
Further discussion and research revealed the names and identities of the children—Hansel and Gretel. Well, of course. Werewolves were real, that was unquestionable, so fairy tales must be, too. It only made sense.
Buffy grabbed her coat, ready to head home and try to talk some sense into her mother. Oz wished her luck; logic rarely worked on the hysterical, and the mothers of Sunnydale had delved pretty deep into the box of Hysteria Crispies. His own mother had been immune—being mother and aunt to a werewolf made the rest of the supernatural a bit less freaksome—but their neighbors had all gone off the deep end about it.
Before Buffy got to the doors, they burst open, and Michael ran in. His face was covered with blood.
"What happened?" Buffy asked.
"I was attacked."
Xander, who had been cracking an endless stream of fairy tale jokes, muttered, "Officially not funny."
"By whom?"
Michael had his arms crossed protectively over his chest, as though he were trying to hide. "My dad, his friends. They're taking people out of their homes. They're talking about a trial down at city hall."
Out of their homes? Oz's thoughts immediately went to Willow, locked away in her bedroom, helpless, her mother as much under Hansel and Gretel's sway as anyone.
"They got Amy," Michael added.
Giles said, "Michael, stay here and hide."
Oz didn't think twice. He reached for Xander, knowing that this once they both had the same thought. Xander nodded. "Willow."
"Tell her to get out of her house!" Michael called after them.
The run from the school to Willow's house had never seemed so long. Oz felt he was never going to get there, the sidewalks seeming to stick to the soles of his shoes like glue.
They rushed into her house, shouting her name, but the house was empty. Her bedroom, usually immaculate, was a mess. Willow would never have left it like this willingly—she hadn't left it willingly. Oz could still smell traces of her fear in the air, and he felt that black, consuming rage sweeping over him like a fire. He and Xander turned and ran from the room, heading for the city hall.