Dean blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You should know," Dean went on, voice tightening, "that a man like my grandfather isn't going to be stopped by distance."
He did know him. Caelan was the kind of evil that didn't need close oversight. It rotted things through meetings, mail, rumors, and people who wanted to stay in his good graces. He ruined rooms he wasn't even in.
Arion didn't blink. "No," he agreed, "but death has a way of stopping people."
An attendant appeared like a shadow and placed a glass of amber liquid and ice on the table.
Dean stared at Arion. "Caelan is dead?"
Arion's fingers curled around the glass with lazy certainty, his cufflinks catching the cabin light. He took a sip like he'd just been offered water.
"But how?" Dean's mind scrambled, then something clicked with a sick kind of clarity. He leaned forward. "What did you do?"
Arion shrugged. "I killed him."
Arion talked about killing Caelan as if he had signed a document.
Dean went still. "Why?"
