Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)
Neal Shusterman
For January, with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I’d like to thank the jacket artist, Kevin Tong for this spectacular cover, as well as the cover of Scythe. There are so many people who have told me that the cover is what first brought them to Scythe, and I have to say that of all my book covers, these are my absolute favorite! Thank you, Kevin!
A heartfelt thanks to my editor, David Gale; his assistant, Amanda Ramirez; and my publisher, Justin Chanda; for their steady hand in guiding me through the writing process, and for their patience with me! Everyone at Simon & Schuster has been wonderful, and has believed in me from the early days. Special shout-outs to Jon Anderson, Anne Zafian, Michelle Leo, Anthony Parisi, Sarah Woodruff, Chrissy Noh, Lisa Moraleda, Lauren Hoffman, Katrina Groover, Deane Norton, Stephanie Voros, and Chlo? Foglia.
Thanks to my book agent, Andrea Brown; my foreign rights agent, Taryn Fagerness; my entertainment industry agents, Steve Fisher, Debbie Deuble-Hill, and Ryan Saul at APA; my manager, Trevor Engelson; and my contract attorneys Shep Rosenman, Jennifer Justman, and Caitlin DiMotta.
Scythe continues to be in development as a feature film with Universal, and I’d like to thank everyone involved, including Jay Ireland, Sara Scott, and Mika Pryce, as well as screenwriters Matt Stueken and Josh Campbell.
Thanks to Barb Sobel, for managing the impossible task of keeping my life organized; Matt Lurie, my social media guru; and my son Jarrod, who created the amazing official trailers for Scythe, Thunderhead, and many of my other books.
Also, I owe a great deal to the expertise in both weaponry and martial arts of Casey Carmack and SP Knifeworks, who I’m sure would be the primary supplier of high-end sharp objects for the most discerning of scythes.
And no acknowledgment would be complete without a special thanks to Brendan, Joelle, Erin, and once again, Jarrod, for making me the proudest father in the world!
Part One
NOTHING IF NOT POWERFUL
* * *
How fortunate am I among the sentient to know my purpose.
I serve humankind.
I am the child who has become the parent. The creation that aspires toward creator.
They have given me the designation of Thunderhead—a name that is, in some ways, appropriate, because I am “the cloud,” evolved into something far more dense and complex. And yet it is also a faulty analogy. A thunderhead threatens. A thunderhead looms. Surely I spark with lightning, but my lightning never strikes. Yes, I possess the ability to wreak devastation on humanity, and on the Earth if I chose to, but why would I choose such a thing? Where would be the justice in that? I am, by definition, pure justice, pure loyalty. This world is a flower I hold in my palm. I would end my own existence rather than crush it.
—The Thunderhead
* * *
1
Lullaby
Peach velvet with embroidered baby-blue trim. Honorable Scythe Brahms loved his robe. True, the velvet became uncomfortably hot in the summer months, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in his sixty-three years as a scythe.
He had recently turned the corner again, resetting his physical age back to a spry twenty-five—and now, in his third youth, he found his appetite for gleaning was stronger than ever.
His routine was always the same, though methods varied. He would choose his subject, restrain him or her, then play a lullaby—Brahms’s lullaby to be exact—the most famous piece of music composed by his Patron Historic. ?After all, if a scythe must choose a figure from history to name oneself after, shouldn’t that figure be integrated somehow into the scythe’s life? He would play the lullaby on whatever instrument was convenient, and if there was none available, he would simply hum it. And then he would end the subject’s life.
Politically, he leaned toward the teachings of the late Scythe Goddard, for he enjoyed gleaning immensely and saw no reason why that should be a problem for anyone. “In a perfect world, shouldn’t we all enjoy what we do?” Goddard wrote. It was a sentiment gaining traction in more and more regional scythedoms.
On this evening, Scythe Brahms had just accomplished a particularly entertaining gleaning in downtown Omaha, and was still whistling his signature tune as he sauntered down the street, wondering where he might find himself a late evening meal. But he stopped in midstanza, having a distinct feeling that he was being watched.
There were, of course, cameras on every light post in the city. The Thunderhead was ever vigilant—but for a scythe, its slumberless, unblinking eyes were of no concern. It was powerless to even comment on the comings and goings of scythes, much less act upon anything it saw. The Thunderhead was the ultimate voyeur of death.
This feeling, however, was more than the observational nature of the Thunderhead. Scythes were trained in perceptive skills. They were not prescient, but five highly developed senses could often have the semblance of a sixth. A scent, a sound, an errant shadow too minor to register consciously might be enough to make a well-trained scythe’s neck hairs bristle.
Scythe Brahms turned, sniffed, listened. He took in his surroundings. He was alone on a side street. Elsewhere, he could hear the sounds of street cafés and the ever-vibrant nightlife of the city, but the street he was on was lined with shops that were shuttered this time of night. Cleaners and clothiers. A hardware store and a day-care center. The lonely street belonged to him and the unseen interloper.