Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(68)

“No problem,” Gavin said, and did what he always did when he found himself in an unsettling situation. He smiled and babbled. “I was just noticing your hair—I’ve never seen hair that dark—it’s impressive. And are those horns? I’ve never done any body modifications myself, of course, but I know people who have. . . .”

The unsavory grabbed him by the lapel of his coat, and pushed him against the wall. Not hard enough to activate his nanites but hard enough to make it clear that he wasn’t just going to let Gavin go.

“Are you making fun of me?” the unsavory said loudly.

“No, no, not at all! I would never!” Part of him was terrified, but he couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that was excited to be at the center of anyone’s attention. He quickly took in his surroundings. He was on the corner of a theater, at the mouth of an alley. No one was in front of the theater because the show had already started. The street wasn’t quite deserted, but no one was nearby. People would help, though. Decent people would always assist someone being accosted by an unsavory, and most people were decent.

The unsavory pulled him away from the wall, hooked a foot behind him, and pushed him to the ground.

“Better call for help,” the unsavory said. “Do it!”

“H . . . help,” said Gavin.

“Louder!”

He didn’t need another invitation. “Help!” he called, his voice shaky. “HELP ME!”

Now people a bit farther away had noticed. A man was hurrying toward him from across the street. A couple came from the other direction—but more importantly, from his spot on the ground, Gavin could see several cameras mounted on awnings and light posts turning toward him. Good! The Thunderhead will see. It will take care of this unsavory. It was probably already dispatching peace officers to the spot.

The unsavory looked to the cameras as well. He seemed unsettled by them, as well he should be. Now Gavin felt emboldened under the Thunderhead’s protective eye. “Go on, get out of here,” he told the unsavory, “before the Thunderhead decides to supplant you!”

But the unsavory didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he was looking off down the alley, where people were unloading something from a truck. The unsavory mumbled. Gavin wasn’t quite sure what he said, but he thought he heard the words, “first date,” and “acid.” ?Was this unsavory making some sort of romantic proposition? Something involving hallucinogens? Gavin was both horrified and intrigued.

By now, the pedestrians he had called on for help had reached them. As much as he wanted their help, he also found himself mildly disappointed that they had arrived so quickly.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” one of them said.

Then the unsavory pulled Gavin up off the ground. What was he about to do? Was he going to strike him? Bite him? Unsavories were very unpredictable. “Just let me go,” Gavin said weakly. A part of him was hoping the unsavory might completely ignore the plea.

But he let Gavin go, as if he had suddenly lost all interest in tormenting him, and hurried off down the alley.

“Are you all right?” asked one of the good people who had come to Gavin’s aid from across the street.

“Yeah,” Gavin said. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Which was mildly disappointing.

? ? ?

“Hence! Wilt thou lift up Olympus?”

When that line was spoken onstage, the stage manager gesticulated wildly at Scythe Anastasia. “That was your cue, Your Honor,” he told her. “You may want to go onstage now.”

She glanced over to Scythe Constantine, looking like some sort of absurd butler in his formal tuxedo. He nodded to her. “Do what you’re here to do,” he told her.

She strode onto the stage, letting her robe flare behind her as she walked, for dramatic effect. She couldn’t help but feel that she was in costume. A play within a play.

She heard gasps from the audience as she came onstage. She was not legendary among the general public the way that Scythe Curie was, but her robe made it clear that she was a scythe rather than a member of the Roman Senate. She was an interloper on the stage, an intruder, and the audience began to guess what was coming. The gasps resolved into a low rumble—but she could not see into the audience with the lights in her face. She flinched when Sir Albin spoke in his resonant stage voice, “Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?”

Citra had never been on a theatrical stage before; she had not expected the lights to be so bright and so hot. It made the players shine in sharp focus. The centurions’ armor glinted. The tunics of Caesar and the senators reflected light enough to hurt her eyes.

“Speak, hands, for me!” one of the actors yelled. Then the conspirators drew their daggers, and went about “killing” Caesar.

Scythe Anastasia stood back, a spectator rather than a participant. She glanced to the darkness of the audience, then realized that was a highly unprofessional thing to do, so she returned her attention to the action onstage. It was only when one of the cast members gestured to her that she came forward and pulled out her own dagger. It was stainless steel, but with a black cerakote finish. A gift from Scythe Curie. At the sight of it, the audience got louder. Someone wailed from the darkness.

Aldrich, his face overdone in stage makeup, his tunic covered in fake blood, looked at her, and winked at her with the eye that the audience could not see.