"To my wife!" Thorsten said, and drained his glass.
I drank out of my own. It was good Burgundy—cold and dry in my mouth, and warm as it came down my throat. I set the glass gently down. If Thorsten was expecting me to react, he was disappointed.
But he was laughing, the sound echoing through the burrow, none of the men paying any attention to it. I looked at Pat.
"Another toast!" Thorsten's glass had been refilled.
"To Ash Holcomb—hired gun and angel of death!" He was laughing at me, and at Pat. He knew, or guessed, and death was lightly hidden by his laughter.
"Don't do it, Holcomb!"
Thorsten's voice was ice. I looked at my hands. They were hooked into talons, and I realized that there wasn't a muscle in my body that wasn't tensed and ready to cannon me across the table. I could even hear the snarl rumbling at the base of my throat.
I looked to the side. A man with an open holster flap was standing there, his eyes locked on me.
"Do what, Harry," I asked casually, "propose another toast?"