Chapter 24.

"Namely; sour milk... aerated with jabrokah."

Naturally, this pronouncement resulted in a brief-but-awkward silence of amazement for the first five seconds. After which, it was Daniel T. Verdugo. the local spokesman for the Trimerez Cartel, who was first to regain his voice.

"Seriously? Won't a cocktail like that prove a terminal double-whammy to your people?"

"No more so than narcotics, such as heroin and cocaine, are to Earthlings, Senor Verdugo," Harcourt replied. "Provided, of course, that it is similarly distributed. Which is, to say, in precisely-measured _small_ quantities! And that is where you come in. If you agree to this partnership, it will be your organization which controls distribution. While my organization does the supplying!"

"What about the cops?" insisted Verdugo. "Don't you think they'll notice a sudden wave of Newcomer junkies?"

"Eventually, perhaps. But, not right away! Not with my 'cocktail', as you call it, disguised accordingly."

Whereupon, Harcourt snapped his fingers. His bodyguard, Rudyard Kipling, then stepped forward with a briefcase. He put the case down immediately to Harcourt's right. Following which, the latter opened it up to reveal... a black foam rubber lining. One with six cut-out compartments for an equal number of hermetically sealed test tubes. With each tube containing some kind of ice-blue gel. Harcourt then picked up the nearest of these test tubes, with his left hand, before handing it to Verdugo.

"Is this the stuff?" he asked.

Harcourt grinned and nodded.

"Heh!" Verdugo grunted. "Looks more like one of those gooey dish-washing detergents."

Whereupon, he exerted some of his vampiric strength to withdraw the test tube's cork. After which, he dipped his right finger into the gel... and promptly spit out.

"Pfaugh! It tastes like, too!"

Harcourt could not help laughing a little bit.

"The gelatinous appearance is due to an admixture of an emulsifying alginate. As to the taste? Well, I did say that this drug was being designed strictly for _my_ people's consumption! And, to the non-Kleetzatsun among them? It will taste just like chemical bliss. But, with a suitably fast-acting rate of addiction! And the more addicts it creates, the more money both our organizations will make."

"I don't know," said Verdugo. "It sounds like a sweet deal, alright. But, Prince Cyrus will most likely react to that sweetness like a diabetic!"

"As a matter of fact," admitted Harcourt. "He's already made his feelings, on this subject, quite clear to me! But, rest assured, he will soon have no further objections, whatsoever."

"Guaranteed?" inquired Verdugo.

"Guaranteed," assured the Newcomer leader.

"In that case," said the Latino vampire. "You got a deal!"

The two beings then stood up and shook hands.

SUNNYDALE, CALIF.

(14 HOURS LATER)

Harry Martin- -nee Harlevon Martinescue- -walked into Willy's Bar. The voicemail he had gotten from Angel had instructed him to meet the brooding Caitiff here. So, he went up the bar and ordered a "Bovine Mary." The bartender- -presumably Willy, himself- -frowned a little bit. But, he still made the requested beverage without any comment or complaint, otherwise.

"That looks pretty good!" exclaimed an overly cheery voice. "Make me one, too."

Harry sipped his drink before looking at his old acquaintance.

"Isn't five o'clock a little early for you?"

Angel grinned. "Depends on how you look at it. On the East Coast, it's eight o' clock! Nice outfit, by the way. How many identical sets of it do you own?"

He pointed to Harry's powder-blue business suit.

"Let's just say that's a journalistic secret."

"Oh! You mean, you still work for the LONG BEACH GAZETTE?"

"As if you didn't know. Now, what do you want, Angel?"

The angry growl in Harry's voice made the brooding Caitiff sit up straight in mild amazement.

"Was it something I said?"

"It's been a hectic day!" snapped Harry in a harsh whisper. "Jeff Burns' funeral was this morning. Closed casket! And, while he might not have been my favorite co-worker, even he didn't deserve what happened to him! So, for the last time, I repeat: what do you want?"

"I want to know why Prince Cyrus has put out a contract against the Newcomer William Harcourt," replied Angel, his voice suddenly softer and much more serious. "What's he been doing that merits the Order of Teraka's attention?"

"How am I supposed to know?" countered the Carpathian-American reporter.

"Your Uncle Eli is still primogen of the local Gangrel Clan. Isn't he?"

"Yes. But, he and I haven't exactly been on good speaking terms since I went vegetarian!"

"Then try getting his attention with this bit of info. Tell him you've heard rumors that Harcourt is fronting for a Tremere antitribu working for the Mexican branch of the Sabbat. And if you can find out why, you can pass that information on to the proper Mexican authorities. Thereby avoiding a gang war that could endanger the Masquerade!"

LOS ANGELES, CALIF.

(JUNE 21, 1996)

The image was a relatively simple one. A droopy-eared empath demon seated between two skepsi-icheion demons (who remained standing).*

"Now hear this! Now hear this! To whom it may concern: word has reached Prince Cyrus of the Brujah Clan that a Slag named Harcourt has made a deal with the Mexican Sabbat out of Tijuana. He helps them overthrow the L.A. Conclave? They help him improve his (or, should I say 'his people's?') socio-political standing in this country. So, as of this moment, there is an open contract on Harcourt! Whichever one of you out there, listening to this little psi-cast, is the first to bring His Highness that Slag's head on a stick... will get a very hefty reward. In whatever denomination you wish! Mark my words, though. You'll have to work hard to earn it! Because, Harcourt is bound to be guarded from the shadows by the Sabbat's finest. This is Barney, signing off."

The telepathic vision faded to black. Whereupon, Lissa reopened her eyes and grinned at her lover.

"Did you hear that? This could finally be the chance we've been waiting for!"

"To do what?" replied "Razor Danny" Verdugo. "Commit suicide?"

"No! To have a Sabbat-free Mexico, once and for all!"

"Yeah, right. Just from killing one Slag?"

"You heard the terms. We can name our price!"

"Yeah. But, only if we're the _first_ to get Harcourt's head. What's your little brainstorm for accomplishing that?"

"We start by looking for skeletons in the closets of his employees."

The next day, that particular line of research was assigned to a Ratkin Shadow Seer of the Borrachon Plague. One that Verdugo, himself, had ghouled as a servant, a year earlier, after rescuing him from a pair of Nagas angered by his devouring of two of their freshly laid eggs. A few hours later, though, that Shadow Seer was ironically devoured, himself. By a giant Ratkin of a type he had never seen before!

Fortunately, for the Shadow Seer, his mind initially proved dominant. Allowing him to complete his "research" by discovering the name and whereabouts of Rosita Cruz. What he could not have anticipated, however, was his devouring of Rosita's body allowing the female consciousness of the Abomination to reassert full control of their shared form!

All of these bizarre facts flashing through the mind of Tara Maclay, as she and Amy Madison jointly psychometrized the ice-encased Sil, three years later, in Sunnydale.

tbc

Glossary

Skepsi-icheion: Greek for "thought-speaker." My own term of convenience for the previously unnamed, bat-eared, telepathic demons first seen in "Earshot" (BTVS ep.3,18).

Plague: Ratkin slang term for any one of their tribes.

Nagas: collective name for all the were-snake tribes of the world.