Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(15)

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie



* * *





5


“But I’m Only Ninety-Six . . .”



While a trip to the market should be an ordinary, everyday occurrence, Citra found that food shopping with a scythe carried its own basket of crazy.

The moment the market doors parted for them and the three of them stepped in, the dread around them was enough to raise gooseflesh on Citra’s arms. Nothing so blatant as gasps or screams—people were used to scythes passing through their daily lives. It was silent, but pervasive, as if they had just accidentally strolled onto some theatrical stage and fouled the performance.

Citra noticed that, in general, there were three types of people.

1) The Deniers: These were the people who forged on and pretended the scythe wasn’t there. It wasn’t just a matter of ignoring him—it was actively, willfully denying his presence. It reminded Citra of the way very small children would play hide and seek, covering their own eyes to hide, thinking that if they couldn’t see you then you couldn’t see them.

2) The Escape Artists: These were the people who ran away but tried to make it look as if they weren’t. They suddenly remembered they forgot to get eggs, or began chasing after a running child that didn’t actually exist. One shopper abandoned a cart, mumbling about a wallet he must have left at home, despite an obvious bulge in his back pocket. He hurried out and didn’t come back.

3) The Scythe’s Pets: These were the people who went out of their way to engage the scythe and offer him something, with the secret (not so secret) hope that he might grant them immunity, or at least glean the person to their right instead of them some day. “Here, Your Honor, take my melon, it’s bigger. I insist.” Did these people know that such sycophantic behavior would make a scythe want to glean them even more? Not that Citra would want to level a death penalty for such a thing, but if she were given a choice between some innocent bystander and someone who was being nauseatingly obsequious about their produce, she’d choose the melon-giver.

There was one shopper who didn’t seem to fit the other three profiles. A woman who actually seemed pleased to see him.

“Good morning, Scythe Faraday,” she said as they passed her near the deli counter, then looked at Citra and Rowan, curious. “Your niece and nephew?”

“Hardly,” he said, with a bit of disdain in his voice for relatives Citra had no interest in knowing about. “I’ve taken apprentices.”

Her eyes widened a bit. “Such a thing!” She said in a way that made it unclear whether she thought it a good or bad idea. “Do they have a penchant for the work?”

“Not the slightest.”

She nodded. “Well then, I guess it’s all right. You know what they say: ‘Have not a hand in the blade with abandon.’”

The scythe smiled. “I hope I can introduce them to your strudel sometime.”

She nodded at the two of them. “Well, that goes without saying.”

After she had moved on, Scythe Faraday explained that she was a long-time friend. “She cooks for me from time to time—and she works in the coroner’s office. In my line of work it’s always good to have a friend there.”

“Do you grant her immunity?” Citra asked. Rowan thought the scythe might be indignant at the question, but instead he answered:

“The Scythedom frowns upon those who play favorites, but I’ve found I can grant her immunity on alternate years without raising a red flag.”

“What if another scythe gleans her during the off-years?”

“Then I shall attend her funeral with heartfelt grief,” he told them.

As they shopped, Citra chose some snacks that the scythe eyed dubiously. “Are these really necessary?” he asked.

“Is anything really necessary?” Citra responded.

Rowan found it amusing how Citra gave the scythe attitude—but it worked. He let her keep the chips.

Rowan tried to be more practical, picking out staples like eggs, flour, and various proteins and side dishes to go with them.

“Don’t get chickenoid tenders,” Citra said, looking at his choices. “Trust me, my mother’s a food synthesis engineer. That stuff’s not actual chicken—they grow it in a petri dish.”

Rowan held up another bag of frozen protein. “How about this?”

“SeaSteak? Sure, if you like plankton pressed into meat shapes.”

“Well then, maybe you should pick your own meals instead of grabbing sweets and snacks.”

“Are you always this boring?” she asked.

“Didn’t he say we have to live as he lives? I don’t think cookie dough ice cream is a part of his lifestyle.”

She sneered at him, but switched out the flavor for vanilla.

As they continued to shop, it was Citra who first noticed two suspicious-looking teens who seemed to be tracking them through the store, lingering behind them, trying to look like they were just shopping. They were probably unsavories—people who found enjoyment in activities that bordered on the fringe of the law. Sometimes unsavories actually broke the law in minor ways, although most lost interest eventually, because they were always caught by the Thunderhead and reprimanded by peace officers. The more troublesome offenders were tweaked with shock nanites in their blood, just powerful enough to deter any scoffing of the law. And if that didn’t work, you got your own personal peace officer 24/7. Citra had an uncle like that. He called his officer his guardian angel, and eventually married her.