Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(48)

The cloud of rage that billowed forth from Scythe Curie was so powerful it was almost a visible thing, and Citra knew she had made a terrible mistake.

“ON THE GROUND!” yelled the scythe, with such volume it echoed back and forth between the brick buildings of the street.

Citra immediately got to her knees.

“FACE TO THE PAVEMENT! NOW!”

Citra complied, fear overcoming her fury. She splayed herself, prostrate on the ground, her right cheek pressed against the pavement, which was searingly hot from the midday sun. Her view was now of the dead man, just a foot away, whose eyes were empty, and yet staring into Citra’s at the same time. How could dead eyes still stare?

“YOU DARE PRESUME TO TELL ME HOW TO ACCOMPLISH MY TASK?”

It seemed the world had frozen around them.

“YOU WILL APOLOGIZE FOR YOUR INSOLENCE, AND BE DISCIPLINED.”

“I’m sorry, Scythe Curie.” At the mention of Scythe Curie’s name, a murmur erupted among the bystanders. She was legendary everywhere.

“CONVINCE ME!”

“I’m truly sorry, Scythe Curie,” Citra said louder, screaming it into the face of the dead man. “I will never disrespect you again.”

“Get up.”

The scythe was no longer raging with earthshaking wrath. Citra rose, furious at the weakness of her own legs, which shook beneath her, and the incontinence of her eyes, which spewed tears she wished would evaporate before Scythe Curie or any of the bystanders could see.

The world-renowned Grande Dame of Death turned to stride away, and Citra followed in her wake, humbled, hobbled, wishing she could take the scythe’s blade and stab it into the woman’s back—and then furious at herself for wishing such a thing.

They got into the car and pulled away from the curb. Only when they were about a block away did the scythe speak to Citra.

“Now then, it will be your task to identify the man, find his immediate family, and invite them to Falling Water so that I may grant them immunity.” She spoke without the slightest hint of the fury of just a few moments ago.

“Wh . . . what?” It was as if the scene on the street had never happened. Citra was caught completely off guard—a bit dizzy, as if all the air had been sucked out of the car.

“I have forty-eight hours to grant them immunity. I’d like them to gather at my home this evening.”

“But . . . but back there . . . when you had me on the ground . . .”

“Yes?”

“And you were so angry . . .”

Scythe Curie sighed. “There is an image to uphold, dear,” she said. “You defied me in public, so I had no choice but to publicly put you in your place. In the future, you need to hold your opinions until we are alone.”

“So you’re not angry?”

The scythe considered the question. “I’m annoyed,” she said. “But then, I should have warned you what I was about to do. ?Your response was . . . justified. And so was the consequence I levied.”

Even at this end of the emotional roller coaster, Citra had to admit that the scythe was right. There was a certain amount of decorum required of an apprentice. Another scythe might have exacted a punishment far worse.

They circled back, and Scythe Curie let Citra off on a side street just a block from where the gleaning had occurred. She would have an hour to find the family and extend them the invitation.

“And if he lives alone, both our jobs will be easy today,” the scythe said.

Citra wondered what about gleaning could possibly be easy.

? ? ?

The man’s name was Barton Breen. He had turned the corner many times, had fathered more than twenty children over the years, some of whom were now over a century old themselves. His current household consisted of his most recent wife and his three youngest children. These were the ones who would receive immunity from gleaning for one year.

“What if they don’t come?” Citra asked Scythe Curie on the way home.

“They always come,” the scythe told her.

And she was right. They arrived a little after eight in the evening, somber and shell-shocked. Scythe Curie had them kneel right at the door to kiss her ring, granting them immunity. Then she and Citra served them dinner, which the scythe had prepared. Comfort food: pot roast, green beans, and garlic mashed potatoes. Clearly the family had no appetite, but they ate out of obligation.

“Tell me about your husband,” Scythe Curie asked, her voice gentle and sincere.

The woman was reluctant to say much at first, but soon she couldn’t stop telling the tale of her husband’s life. Soon the kids joined in with their memories. The man quickly went from an anonymous subject on the street to an individual whose life even Citra now missed, although she had never known him.

And Scythe Curie listened—truly listened—as if she were intent on memorizing everything they said. More than once her eyes moistened, reflecting the tears of the family.

And then the scythe did the oddest thing. She produced from her robe the blade that had taken the man’s life, and set it down on the table.

“You may take my life, if you like,” she told the woman.

The woman just stared at her, not understanding.

“It’s only fair,” the scythe said. “I’ve taken away your husband, robbed your children of their father. You must despise me for it.”