And his mind—so clear. He could see all the errors of his life, especially during the past few weeks, and how things would have been completely different if he’d had a little Loki to clear his vision.

He glanced around the table again.

Brad and Kent… what a pair of losers: the complete wimp and the flabby blowhard. How did I ever let myself become involved with them? And Dragovic—he’s not so tough. Bigger and stronger, perhaps, but brawn carries you only so far. Even in a hand-to-hand fight, he’d be no match for my intellect. Why was I ever afraid of him?

He hated them all and wanted to be rid of them. The carving knives on the table beckoned to him, but no… too crude. Surely someone with his brain could think of a way to dispose of the three of them without drawing suspicion. Perhaps—

A shout interrupted his thoughts. Brad was on his feet, leaning over the table, jabbing his finger at Kent’s face.

“Stop sweating! I can hear you sweating and it makes me sick!”

“ I make you sick?” Kent said, leaping to his feet. “Listen, Twinkle-toes, if anybody around here makes people sick it’s you and your pretty-boy clothes and incessant whining.”

Brad’s jaw dropped. “What? What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying a goddamn thing! I’m telling you you’re—”

“Here!” Dragovic shouted.

He’d grabbed two of the knives and now he slid them down the table. They rotated lazily along their course and stopped between Brad and Kent.

Brad stopped, eyes wide.

“Look at him!” Kent laughed. “What a pussy!”

“Pussy?” Brad’s face contorted with rage. His hand flashed out and snatched up one of the knives. “I’ll show you who’s a pussy!”

He leaped at Kent and they both went down beyond the far end of the table, out of Luc’s line of sight. He heard thumping and thrashing and grunts and cries, saw Kent’s bloody hand appear, watched it feel around, find the other knife, then disappear again.

Luc didn’t stand, didn’t move beyond turning his head toward Dragovic. It sounded as if Brad and Kent were killing each other, and he prayed that was the case. That would leave only Dragovic.

The Serb’s eyes were on the battle playing out on the floor in front of him. He watched it avidly, grinning like a shark who smells blood and is waiting to feed on both the victor and the vanquished.

Then the thrashing stopped and a gasping and very bloody Kent Garrison struggled to his feet. Luc saw Dragovic pick up one of the two remaining knives and palm the handle upside down, rising and approaching Kent with the blade hidden against the underside of his forearm.

“Are you all right?”

Kent grinned. “Better than you’ll be!”

Without warning, he slashed at Dragovic. But the Serb seemed to have expected it. He ducked back, then whipped his own blade across Kent’s throat. Blood sprayed across the table as Kent dropped from view with a bubbling groan.