Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(23)

His first emotion was relief, because if he was being revived it meant that the explosion had not gone off. If it had, there wouldn’t be anything left of him to bring back. Being here meant that he had succeeded! He had saved the lives of Scythes Curie and Anastasia!

The next emotion that hit him was a twinge of sorrow . . . because there was no one in the room with him. When a person was rendered deadish, their loved ones were always notified immediately. It was customary for someone to be present upon awakening to welcome the revived back into the world.

No one was there for Greyson. On the screen beside his bed was a goofy greeting card from his sisters, featuring a confused magician looking at the very dead body of his assistant, whom he had just sawed in half.

“Congratulations on your first demise,” the card read.

And that was it. There was nothing from his parents. He should not have been surprised. They were too used to the Thunderhead filling their role—but the Thunderhead was also silent. That troubled him more than anything.

A nurse entered. “Well, look who’s awake!”

“How long did it take?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Barely a day,” she told him. “All considered, a pretty easy revival—and since it’s your first, it’s free!”

Greyson cleared his throat. He felt no worse than if he had taken a midday nap; a little out of sorts, a little cranky, but that was the full extent of it.

“Has there been anyone here to see me at all?”

The nurse pursed her lips. “Sorry, dear.” Then she looked down. It was a simple gesture, but Greyson clearly read that there was something she wasn’t saying.

“So . . . is that it, then? Do I get to go now?”

“As soon as you’re ready, we’ve been instructed to put you into a publicar that will take you back to the Nimbus Academy.”

Again that look, avoiding his eyes. Rather than beating around the bush, Greyson decided to confront her directly. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

The nurse now began to refold towels that were already folded. “It’s our job to revive you, not to comment on whatever you did to leave you deadish.”

“What I did was save two people’s lives.”

“I wasn’t there, I didn’t see it, I don’t know anything about it. All I know is that you’ve been marked unsavory because of it.”

Greyson was convinced he hadn’t heard her right.

“?‘Unsavory’? Me?”

Then she was all smiles and cheer again. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m sure you’ll clean the slate in no time . . . if that’s what you want.”

Then she clapped her hands together as if to wash herself of the situation, and said, “Now how about some ice cream before you go?”

? ? ?

The publicar’s preset destination was not Greyson’s dorm. It was the Nimbus Academy’s administration building. Upon arrival, he was ushered directly into a conference room with a table large enough for about twenty, but there were only three present: the chancellor of the academy, the dean of students, and another administrator whose sole purpose seemed to be glowering at him like an irritated Doberman. This was bad news coming in threes.

“Sit down, Mr. Tolliver,” said the chancellor, a man with perfect black hair, intentionally gray around the edges. The dean tapped her pen on an open folder, and the Doberman just glared.

Greyson took a seat facing them.

“Do you have any idea,” said the chancellor, “the trouble you’ve brought down upon yourself and this academy?”

Greyson did not deny it. Doing so would just drag this on, and he already wanted it over. “What I did was an act of conscience, sir.”

The dean let out a rueful guffaw that was both insulting and belittling.

“Either you’re exceedingly naive, or exceptionally stupid,” spat the Doberman.

The chancellor put up a hand to quiet the man’s vitriol. “A student of this academy willfully engaging scythes, even to save those scythes’ lives, is—”

Greyson finished it for him. “—a violation of the Separation of Scythe and State. Clause fifteen, paragraph three, to be exact.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” said the dean. “It won’t help your case.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, I doubt anything I say will help my case.”

The chancellor leaned closer. “What I want to know is how you knew—because it seems to me the only possible way you could have known would be if you were involved, and then got cold feet. So tell me, Mr. Tolliver, were you involved in this plot to incinerate these scythes?”

The accusation caught Greyson completely off guard. It never occurred to him that he might be perceived as a suspect. “No!” he said. “I would never—how could you even think?—No!” Then he shut his mouth, determined to get himself back under control.

“Then be so kind as to tell us how you knew about the explosives,” said the Doberman. “And don’t you dare lie.”

Greyson could spill everything, but something stopped him. It would defeat the entire purpose of what he had done if he tried to deflect the blame. True, there were some things they would find out if they didn’t already know, but not everything. So he carefully picked what truths he would share.