Elliot took another small, measured sip of his scotch, the liquid gliding across his tongue like liquid amber aged in the bones of empires.
Harold leaned forward, the shift in his posture was small and conversational, pleasantries had expired and the hour for business had arrived, and Elliot registered the change like an old predator noting the first shift in the wind across open savannah.
"Which," Harold said, voice smooth as oiled steel sliding from its sheath, "is why I asked you to make time this evening."
"Yes."
"It is time, Elliot, to begin tying the loose ends."
A brief silence settled between them, thick enough to taste.
"All of them," Harold added, the words falling with the quiet finality of a guillotine blade finding its groove.
Elliot's hand remained motionless on the crystal.
"You mean what is left of them," he answered quietly, "after Danton vaporized one of mine on Heavenchild grounds."
