Different could mean anything. It might have meant dangerous. This stuff had killed him once before, and mixing it with whatever the Orchid had sold him tonight might have unpredictable results. Different could have meant less satisfying of a high, which was dangerous in a different way; dangerous because he'd know it wasn't working and might keep chasing it past the point where it would have been wise to stop. But Griffith had something back in his workshop that could sober him up, so what was the point of offering to let him mix vices? The question wasn't whether Don Juan wanted it; of course he did. The question, really, was what are we doing here? Griffith had waited for him tonight. Don Juan had picked the Orchid. Hudson wasn't waiting for him any more.

He licked his lips, eyes on the vial, then flicked his gaze back to Griffith, still terribly close. "An hour at your place and it'd be out of my system again," he pointed out, about the opium. He'd only barely started smoking, and Griffith could have expedited the process if he'd wanted to. There was an offer in his words, buried in the tone, but Don Juan wasn't sure he'd even decided exactly what it was yet.

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