Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(27)

“I’ll be fine, Marie. Moving target, right?”

For an instant she thought Scythe Curie would insist on coming, but in the end, she didn’t push the issue. “Fine. Just keep your wits about you, and if you see anything that seems remotely suspicious, let me know immediately.”

Citra was sure the only suspicious thing at the moment was herself, because she had lied about where she was going.

? ? ?

In spite of Scythe Curie’s admonition, Citra could not just walk away from the boy who had saved their lives. She had already done the requisite research on him. Greyson Timothy Tolliver. He was about six months older than Citra, although he looked younger. His life record showed absolutely nothing of note, either positive or negative. That wasn’t unusual—he was like most people. He simply lived. His existence had neither highlights nor low points. That is, until now. His tepid, milquetoast existence had now been spiced and broiled in a single day.

When she looked at his life record, the blinking “unsavory” warning juxtaposed with the doe-innocent eyes of his picture almost made her laugh. This kid was about as unsavory as a Popsicle. He lived in a modest town house in Higher Nashville. Two sisters in college, dozens of older half-siblings from whom he was completely disconnected, and absentee parents.

As for his timely appearance in the road, his statement about it was already public record, so Citra was able to review it. She had no reason to doubt his word. Were the situation reversed, she might have done the same.

Now that he was no longer a Nimbus student, contact with him wasn’t forbidden, so paying him a visit violated no law. She wasn’t sure exactly what she hoped to accomplish by seeking him out, but she knew that until she did, the moment of his death would linger with her. Perhaps she just needed to see with her own eyes that he lived again. She had become so used to seeing the light in people’s eyes go out for good, perhaps a part of her needed evidence of his revival.

When she arrived on his street, she saw a squad car belonging to the BladeGuard—the elite police force that served the scythedom—parked out front. For an instant, she considered just leaving, because if officers of the BladeGuard saw her, word of Scythe Anastasia’s appearance here would surely make it back to Scythe Curie. That was one reprimand she wanted to avoid.

What convinced her to stay were the memories of her own experience with the BladeGuard. Unlike peace officers, who answered to the Thunderhead, the BladeGuard had no oversight but the scythedom—which meant they could get away with a whole lot more. Basically, whatever scythes allowed them to get away with.

The door was unlocked, so she let herself in. There, in the living room, Greyson Tolliver sat in a straight-backed chair, and looming over him were two brawny guards. His hands were locked into the same kind of joined steel bracelets that had been put on Citra when she was accused of having killed Scythe Faraday. One of the guards held a device that Citra had never seen before. The other was speaking to the boy.

“ . . . of course none of that has to happen if you tell us the truth,” Citra heard the guard say, although she missed the list of unpleasantries the guard was threatening.

So far, Tolliver seemed unharmed. His hair was mussed a bit, and he looked woefully resigned, but other than that, he seemed fine. He was the first to see her there, and when he did, there was a spark of something in him, lifting him out of that sad, impassive state—as if his revival had somehow not been complete until he saw that she, too, was still alive.

The guards followed his gaze and saw her. She made sure that she spoke first.

“What’s going on here?” Citra asked, in her haughtiest Scythe Anastasia voice.

For an instant the guards looked panicked, but quickly became subservient.

“Your Honor! We didn’t know you’d be here. We were just questioning the suspect.”

“He is not a suspect.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Sorry, Your Honor.”

She took a step toward the boy. “Did they hurt you?”

“Not yet,” he said, then he nodded to the device that the taller guard held, “but they used that thing to shut off my pain nanites.”

She’d never even known such a device existed. She put her hand out to the guard who held it. “Give it to me.” And when he hesitated, she got a little louder. “I am a scythe and you serve me. Hand it over or I will report you.”

Still, he didn’t hand it to her.

That’s when a new piece entered this little game of chess. A scythe stepped in from another room. He must have been there all along listening, gauging the interaction for the right moment to insert himself. He timed it perfectly to catch Citra off guard.

She recognized his robe right away. Crimson silk that hissed as he walked. His face was soft, almost feminine—the result of having set his age back so many times that his basic bone structure had lost its definition, like river stones eroded by a relentless flow.

“Scythe Constantine,” Citra said. “I didn’t know you were in charge of this investigation.” The only good news about this was that if he was investigating the attempt on her and Marie’s lives, then he wasn’t out hunting for Rowan.

Constantine offered her a polite but unsettling grin. “Hello, Scythe Anastasia,” he said. “What a breath of fresh air you are in a toilsome day!” He seemed like a cat that had cornered its prey and was about to play with it. She really didn’t know what to make of him. As she had told Rowan, Scythe Constantine was not one of the terrible scythes of the new order who killed for pleasure. Nor did he align himself with the old guard, who saw gleaning as a noble and almost sacred duty. Like his red silk robe, he was slippery and smooth, siding with whoever’s agenda fit the moment. Citra did not know if that made him impartial in this investigation, or dangerous, because she had no idea where his loyalties lay.