Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(43)

“I am Honorable Scythe Goddard. These are my junior associates, Scythes Volta, Chomsky, and Rand.”

“Sharp robes,” commented the executive, still successfully capping his fear.

“Thank you,” said Scythe Goddard. “I can see you are a man of taste. My compliments to your decorator.”

“That would be my wife,” he said, then inwardly grimaced to have brought her, in any way, to the attention of the life-takers.

Scythe Volta—the one in yellow, with an Afric look about him—strolled around the grand foyer, peering through the archways that led to other areas of the mansion. “Excellent feng shui,” he said. “Energy flow is very important in a home so large.”

“I imagine there’s a good-size pool,” said the one in the flame-colored robe embedded with rubies. Scythe Chomsky. He was blond, pale, and brutish.

The executive wondered if they were enjoying prolonging this encounter. The more he played along, the more power they had, so he cut through the small talk before they could see him crack.

“May I ask your business here?”

Scythe Goddard glanced at him but ignored the question. He gestured to his subordinates, and two of the three left. The one in yellow took the winding stairs, the woman in green went to explore the rest of the first floor. The pale one in orange stayed nearby. He was the largest of them, and perhaps a bodyguard for their leader—as if anyone would actually be stupid enough to strike a scythe.

The executive wondered where his children were at the moment. Out back with the nanny? Upstairs? He wasn’t sure, and the last thing he wanted was to have scythes in the house out of his sight.

“Wait!” he said. “Whatever your purpose, I’m sure we could reach some sort of arrangement. You do know who I am, don’t you?”

Scythe Goddard took in a piece of artwork on display in the foyer, instead of looking at him. “Someone wealthy enough to own a Cézanne.”

Could it be that he didn’t know? That their presence here was not planned, but random? Scythes were supposed to be random in their choices, but this random? He found the dam that held back his fear was fracturing.

“Please,” the executive said, “I’m Maxim Easley—surely the name means something to you?”

The scythe looked at him without a hint of recognition. It was the flame-clad one who reacted. “The guy who runs Regenesis?”

Finally there came recognition from Goddard. “Oh, right—your company is number two in the turncorner industry.”

“Soon to be number one,” Easley reflexively bragged. “Once we release our technology that allows cellular regression beyond the twenty-first year.”

“I have friends who’ve used your services. I myself have yet to turn a corner.”

“You could be the first to officially use our new process.”

Goddard laughed and turned to his associate. “Could you imagine me as a teenager?”

“Not a chance.”

The more amused they were, the more horrified Easley became. No sense in hiding his desperation anymore. “There must be something you want—something of value I can offer you. . . .”

And finally Goddard laid his cards on the table.

“I want your estate.”

Easley resisted the urge to say “Excuse me?” because the statement was not ambiguous in any way. It was an audacious demand. But Maxim Easley was nothing if not a negotiator.

“I have a garage with more than a dozen mortal-age motor vehicles. Priceless, every last one of them. You can have any of them. You can have them all.”

The scythe stepped closer, and Easley suddenly found a blade pressed to his neck, to the right of his Adam’s apple. He never saw the scythe draw it. So quick was he that it seemed to just appear at his jugular

“Let’s clarify,” Goddard said calmly. “We are not here to barter and bargain. We are scythes—which means that by law, anything we want we can take. Any life we wish to end, we will. Simple as that. You have no power here. Do I make myself clear?”

Easley nodded, feeling the blade almost but not quite cut his skin as he did. Satisfied, Goddard removed the blade from his neck.

“An estate like this must require a sizable staff. Housekeepers, gardeners, perhaps even stable personnel. How many do you employ?”

Easley tried to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Twelve,” he said. “Twelve full-time employees.”

Then the woman in green—Scythe Rand—emerged from the kitchen, bringing with her a man Easley’s wife had recently hired. He was in his early twenties, or appeared so. Easley couldn’t remember his name.

“And who is this?” Goddard asked.

“The pool boy.”

“Pool boy,” mimicked Scythe Rand.

Goddard nodded to the musclebound Scythe in orange, who then approached the young man, reached up, and touched his cheek. The pool boy collapsed to the ground, his head hitting the marble. His eyes stayed open, but no life remained in them. He had been gleaned.

“It works!” said Scythe Chomsky, looking at his hand. “Definitely worth what the Weaponsmaster paid.”

“Now then,” said Goddard. “While we are within our rights to take anything we choose, I am a fair man. In exchange for this lovely estate, I will offer you, your family, and your surviving staff full immunity for every year that we choose to remain here.”