Chapter One
----====Spike====----
All the hotels, in all the world, I had to walk into this one.
It was certainly the last place I ever wanted to be. I might have got myself all soul having and everything, but I still hated the tosser. You would too if you'd been in my wheelchair. But the fact remained that he was the one being on the planet with some idea on just how I deal with 'Return of the Soul - this time it's personal'. Personal torment certainly. Torment, pain, torture: all the pain I inflicted on others for over a century, and all back in full Technicolor every time I closed my eyes or stopped thinking about something else.
I knew the Great Poof had been blown out of the old place - the demon underground loved that story and it caused some great laughs over poker with the boys. The news that he'd bought the home of the old Thesulac demon caused even more. Once I started up with Buffy, and got in deep with the Shark, I stopped playing kitten poker, and I hadn't the heart to re-start when she dumped my sorry arse. And it's not like I avidly followed the git's life from afar - always preferred Passions. But at least I knew where to find him.
I never expected to find him missing.
The place was trashed: bloody enormous pentagram in the middle of the lobby, the scent of blood - a lot of blood, fire, fear, and taco wrappers strewn about the place. The scent of the Cheerleader was faint, different from last time - stronger somehow, and strangely familiar. And other scents that shouldn't have been there, but were, and in strange combinations. There were unfamiliar human and demon aromas, but that's not exactly unexpected in such a detective agency. But most importantly, no recent whiff of Angel - and that scent took a long time to dissipate. It's the super strength hair products, you know - not exactly biodegradable. I think sometimes if someone finally got to dust the git, the hair would survive; all that gunk in it, there was no way it wouldn't.
Unfortunately however, I needed the wanker, and he wasn't present, brooding, and correct as he was supposed to be. Last time he did a runner on me I ended up having to squire Darla around Europe and Asia. Even with Dru along that sucked. 'S not an option this time.
So I had me a trawl through the office.
It was the worst mess I'd seen since Xander's laundry basket. Anya'd have had a fit at the state of the record keeping: the files were a total mess. What moron files 'Morales' under 'Z'? I tried the computer. I may have been in my second century, but I did keep up with the times and the technology. All the useful looking stuff was password protected, and I tried the obvious, but with no luck. I was King Techno-vamp compared to most old vampires, but hacking was, as they said in Sunnydale, so not my thing.
So I avoided the temptations of the web, and reading about the prospects for Man U getting into the Champions League. I'm not even that obsessed with football; I could think about it and still function. If I started thinking about Sunnydale and its inhabitants, I started to gibber, and functioning really wasn't an option. Being able to function was the whole reason for playing Hunt the Angel. It wasn't for fun, that was for sure.
The small drawer in the desk was locked, but good cause and all that. Yes, I picked the lock. I could have broken it. I made the better choice, didn't I? It's why I needed help with all this ethical stuff. It was just too damned bloody hard to work out on my own, especially after doing the wrong thing for over a hundred years.
There wasn't much in the drawer, just a small address book belonging to a W. Wyndam-Pryce, but at least I'd heard of him; and it told me where to find him. Besides, from what I remembered he was less likely than the cheerleader to either stake me on sight for the hot pokers thing, or know about what happened in Sunnydale and, therefore, stake me on sight. Find him, find out what happened to the Magnificent Poof - sounded a good idea at the time. Anyway, it was the only lead I could find, and beggars can't be choosers.
Actually, there was one more thing in the drawer: a credit card. An unsigned Angel Investigations credit card to be specific, and some not so petty cash. Typical of Angel that he'd got money stashed away. He always did keep it close to home and locked away from use. Hangover from the days of being a penniless bogtrotter I guess - I mean only one servant - really. Ok, that's my inner Victorian Imperialist - and that's bad - I think. Bugger. I needed to find the sod and he'd gone AWOL, with the hotel a trashed mess. Something was obviously wrong, and the money and the card could come in handy finding him and sorting this out. Besides, he owed me. So I put them in my pocket.
The soul stung a bit, but not too bad; not with the usual level of pain anyway.
I went to leave, but I heard a footstep in the outer office. Didn't smell like Angel, but it smelt just a bit off, like the little Irish guy he was paling about with last time I was here. So maybe... I checked it out. It wasn't the little Irish guy; it was a bloody huge Latino with gang tattoos, and a very big knife.
He lunged at me. He looked human, which could be unfortunate since the demon from BBC special effects didn't take the chip out when he shoved the soul in. But since I couldn't run as he'd got me cornered against the wall, and he didn't smell quite right, I hadn't got much to lose.
I hit him.
The chip didn't go off. Result! Interesting result, but a result nevertheless. I belted him so hard on the nose that I drove it right into his head, and whoever, or whatever it was, it was dead, or as good as. It was the first human looking thing I'd killed since I went into that cave. It brought the faces of all of those that I've killed back into my mind's eye. If this is what Dru had to suffer even before Angelus got at her, I'm not surprised she went mad; it might be the easier course. But I've never been one for the easier course.
I felt sick though.
It felt like I'd lose the small amount of blood I'd forced down my throat earlier. I hadn't been able to keep anything down much: not blood, not booze. The smokes helped; they always had. Kept my hands steady, when they wanted to flutter; took the taste away, replaced it with the familiar comfort of tobacco.
I lit up. The fragrance of tobacco blanketed me.
The body smelt of menthol though. As I looked down, it made a horrible deep rasping noise and this revolting blue gunk flowed out of its nose. Trust me: I've had Fyrals working for me, my girl left me for a Chaos demon, and I've been on the Hellmouth for the last few years; I know revolting slime - this made the Top Ten.
I searched the body; there wasn't much. The big thing was probably a CD case with a computer disc in it. There was a little nasal spray; no wonder the nose caved so easily - must have been weak, or the thing was on crack. I picked it up though - not overlooking any clues here - along with the big knife, and a packet of fags. Oddly enough, they were Marlboro Reds, not the Menthols, which I'd have expected from the smell. Maybe he could only find Reds, but usually smoked the girlie fags.
Then the body dissolved.
This really was all I needed. All I'd wanted was a nice long chat about the soul thing with the great expert. What did I find? No fresh L' eau de Poof, a trashed office, and dissolving rent-a-thugs with sinus problems. It really could only have happened to me. Yes, I know, it's karma. I ate enough hippies in the sixties to know all about karma - it's why I needed to talk to someone about the soul - otherwise the idea of getting off the wheel by extinction sounded bloody appealing. At least if I started again as a bug, I wouldn't have to remember all I did this time round.
Well, I had one lead: the address book.
I looked through it and went for it. I didn't have a choice really. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce - my last best hope to find the Poof, and maybe save myself. So I checked out the city map that lay on the desk, kicked the motorbike back to life, and headed off to find the Junior Watcher.
It wasn't a bad neighbourhood. Very little scent of shed blood in the area. I parked the bike, and headed up to the Watcher's flat. We'd never met in the flesh, though I'd heard all the stories about the Wimpy Watcher. Recent rumours on the grapevine had sounded quite different, however. Still, the facts were that I needed an invite and not a staking. It was an interesting challenge.
I rang the bell.
He opened the door, took a good, long look at me, and said, "William the Bloody I believe, or should I call you 'Spike'? We haven't been introduced after all. You are still chipped?"
To be honest, he looked a mess. Hadn't been shaving, the clothes were rumpled, he'd got a nasty scar across his neck, and he looked like hell. Not exactly what I'd have expected from a former Watcher. No tweed, even Giles got into jumpers as a gent of leisure, but he still looked tidy. This mess was a surprise. I'd got a soul; I'm not sure what his excuse was, but there was only one way to find out. So...
"Yeah, still chipped. Whichever you want mate. Look sorry to bother and all that, but I need to find Angel."
"Can't help. Don't want to. Bye." Wesley said.
"I wouldn't be here, especially looking for that git, if it wasn't important. Please?"
"And the reason I should care is?"
"I've got a soul now."