Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(72)

She left, and after she was gone, it occurred to Constantine that not once during their conversation did she thank him.

? ? ?

An hour later, a mysterious note arrived while Citra and Marie had lunch in the restaurant of their hotel. It was the first time in quite a while that they had taken a meal in public. The note came as a surprise to both of them. Scythe Curie reached for it, but the bellhop who had brought it apologized and told them that it was addressed to Scythe Anastasia. He handed it to Citra, who opened it and read it quickly.

“Well, out with it,” Marie said. “Who’s it from, and what do they want?”

“It’s nothing,” she told Scythe Curie, slipping the note into one of the pockets of her robe. “It’s just the family of the man I gleaned last night. They want to know when I’ll be giving them immunity.”

“I thought they were coming here this evening.”

“They are, but weren’t sure of the exact time. The note says they’ll be here at five, unless that’s a problem.”

“Whatever works for you,” Scythe Curie said. “After all, it’s your ring they’ll be kissing, not mine.” Then she returned her attention to her salmon.

Half an hour later, Citra was outside in street clothes, hurrying across the city. The note had not been from the actor’s family. It was from Rowan. It had been scrawled in haste, and said Need your help. Transportation Museum. ASAP. It had been all she could do not to abandon Scythe Curie midmeal—but Citra knew leaving like that would have made Marie suspicious.

She had hidden a set of street clothes in a pocket of her suitcase, just in case she needed to go out incognito. The problem was, she had no coat; it would be too bulky to hide from Marie. So without the thermal coils of her winter robe, she was freezing the instant she slipped outside. After braving the cold for two blocks, she had to put on her ring and show it to a shopkeeper to get herself a coat—he gave her the one she wanted at no charge.

“Immunity would ensure that I don’t mention you were out in public without your robe,” the shopkeeper suggested.

Citra didn’t appreciate the man’s attempt at blackmail, so she said, “How about I just agree not to glean you for making that threat?”

Clearly, the thought had not occurred to him. He stammered for a moment. “Yes, yes, of course, that’s fair, that’s fair.” Then he fumbled with some other accessories. “Gloves to go with your coat?”

She accepted them, and went out into the windswept day.

Her heart had leapt when she first read the note, but she had not let Marie see her excitement. Her concern. So Rowan was here, and he needed her help? Why? Was he in danger, or did he want her to join him in his mission of ending unworthy scythes? Would she do it if he asked? Definitely not. Probably not. Maybe not.

Of course, this could also be some sort of trap. Whoever was behind last night’s attack was most certainly licking their wounds, so the chances that this was another attack were slim. Still, she brought enough concealed weapons to defend herself if necessary.

The Great Plains Transportation Museum was an open-air repository of engines and rolling stock from every era of rail transportation. They even boasted a car from the first maglev train, hovering eternally in the very center. Apparently, Wichita was once a major crossroads between here and there. Now it was just like any other city.? There was a homogeneity to MidMerica that was both comforting and annoying.

At this time of year, there were only scant groups of tourists at the museum, who, for some reason, chose Wichita as a holiday destination. As it was maintained by the Thunderhead, admission was free—a good thing, too. Citra didn’t want to have to show her ring again just to get in. It was one thing to get a coat from a shopkeeper, it was quite another to blow her cover in the very place she was about to have a secret meeting.

With her coat pulled tight against the wind, she wandered between black steam engines and red diesels, searching every corner of the train yard for Rowan. After a while she began to worry that this was a trick after all—maybe to separate her from Scythe Curie. She was turning to leave, when someone called to her.

“I’m over here!”

She followed the voice to a narrow, shady space between two boxcars, where the icy wind whistled as it forced its way through. With the wind in her face, she couldn’t see him clearly until she got close.

“Scythe Anastasia! I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

This wasn’t Rowan. It was Greyson Tolliver.

“You?” Disappointment didn’t begin to describe what she felt. “I should glean you right here and bring your heart to Constantine!”

“He’d probably eat it.”

“Probably,” Citra had to admit. She hated Greyson in this moment. Hated him because of who he was not. It was as if the universe itself had betrayed her and she was nowhere near ready to forgive it. She should have realized that the handwriting on the note wasn’t Rowan’s. But as much as she wanted to take out her frustration on Tolliver, she couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t Rowan—and, as she had pointed out to Constantine, Greyson had saved her life twice.

“I need your help,” he told her, the desperation in his voice very real. “I have nowhere to go. . . .”

“Why is that my problem?”

“Because I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you!”