Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(28)

Regardless, he was a formidable presence, and Citra felt out of her league. Then she remembered she was not Citra Terranova anymore; she was Scythe Anastasia. Recalling that transformed her, and allowed her to stand up to him. Now his grin seemed more calculating than intimidating.

“I’m pleased that you’re taking an interest in our investigation,” he said. “But I wish you would have let us know you were coming. We would have prepared refreshments for you.”

? ? ?

Greyson Tolliver was well aware that Scythe Anastasia might have just hurled herself in front of a speeding vehicle for him—because clearly Scythe Constantine was just as dangerous as a hurtling hunk of metal. Greyson knew very little about the structure and complexities of the scythedom, but it was obvious that Scythe Anastasia was putting herself on the line by standing up to a senior scythe.

Still, she projected such a commanding presence, it made Greyson wonder if she was actually much older than she appeared.

“Are you aware that this boy saved my and Scythe Curie’s lives?” she asked Constantine.

“Under questionable circumstances,” he responded.

“Are you planning to inflict some sort of bodily harm on him?”

“And if we are?”

“Then I’d have to remind you that the intentional infliction of pain goes against everything we stand for, and I will bring you up for discipline in conclave.”

The cool expression on Scythe Constantine’s face faded, but only a little. Greyson didn’t know if this was a good thing or bad. Constantine regarded Scythe Anastasia a moment more, then turned to one of the guards.

“Be so kind as to tell Scythe Anastasia what I ordered you to do.”

The guard glanced at Scythe Anastasia, met her eye, but Greyson could see he was unable to hold the gaze for more than a moment.

“You instructed us to cuff the suspect, turn off his pain nanites, then threaten him with several forms of physical pain.”

“Precisely!” said Scythe Constantine, then he turned back to Anastasia. “You see, there is no malfeasance whatsoever.”

Scythe Anastasia’s indignation mirrored what Greyson was feeling, but would not dare express.

“No malfeasance? You were planning to beat him until he told you whatever you wanted to hear.”

Constantine sighed again, and turned back to the guard. “What did I instruct you to do if your threats yielded no results? Were you instructed to follow through on any of those threats?”

“No, Your Honor. We were to come get you if his story didn’t change.”

Constantine spread his arms in a beatific gesture of innocence. It made the draping red sleeves of his robe look like the wings of some firebird ready to engulf the younger scythe. “There, you see?” he said. “There was never any intent to hurt the boy. I have found that in this painless world, the mere threat of pain is always enough to coerce a guilty party to confess wrongdoing. But this young man sticks to his story against the most unpleasant of threats. I am thus convinced he is telling the truth—and had you allowed me to complete the interrogation, you would have seen this for yourself.”

Greyson was sure they could all feel the relief flow from him like an electrical charge. Was Constantine telling the truth? Greyson was in no position to judge. He always found scythes to be inscrutable. They lived their lives on a plane above, greasing the gearwork of the world. He had never heard of a scythe who intentionally inflicted suffering beyond the suffering that comes with gleaning—but just because he hadn’t heard of it didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.

“I am an honorable scythe and hold to the same ideals that you do, Anastasia,” Scythe Constantine said. “As for the boy, he was never in any danger. Although now I’m tempted to glean him just to spite you.” He let that sit for a moment. Greyson’s heart missed a beat or two. Scythe Anastasia’s face, which had gone righteously red, paled a few degrees.

“But I won’t,” Scythe Constantine said, “for I am not a spiteful man.”

“Then what kind of man are you, Scythe Constantine?” asked Anastasia.

He tossed her the key to the handcuffs. “The kind who won’t soon forget what happened here today.” ?Then he left with a flutter of his robe, his guards following in his wake.

Once they were gone, Scythe Anastasia wasted no time in removing Greyson’s cuffs. “Did they hurt you?”

“No,” Greyson had to admit. “Like he said, it was all threats.” But now that it was over, he realized he was no better off than when they had come. His relief was quickly flooded with the same bitterness that had plagued him since the moment he was kicked to the Nimbus Academy’s proverbial curb.

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asked her.

“I suppose I just wanted to thank you for what you did. I know it cost you a lot.”

“Yes,” Greyson admitted flatly. “It did.”

“So . . . with that in mind, I’m offering you a year of immunity from gleaning. It’s the least I can do.”

She held out her ring to him. He’d never had immunity from gleaning before. He’d never even been this close to a scythe before this hellish week, much less a scythe’s ring. It shined even in the diffused light of the room, but its center was oddly dark. Although he wanted to keep staring at it, he found he had no desire to accept the immunity the ring would give.