Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(73)

She knew there was truth to that. She thought back to the time that he told her—or more accurately, didn’t tell her—that he was working undercover on the Thunderhead’s behalf. If she was important enough for the Thunderhead to use Greyson to circumnavigate scythe-state separation, shouldn’t she at least help him out of this corner?

“The scythedom is after me, the Authority Interface is after me, and whoever was behind this attack is now my enemy, too!”

“You seem to be very good at making enemies.”

“Yeah—and you’re the closest thing I have to a friend.”

Finally, Citra put aside her disappointment. She couldn’t let him twist in the wind on her behalf. “What would you like me to do?”

“I don’t know!” Greyson began pacing in the small space, his impossibly black hair whipping wildly in the wind—and for a moment, Citra had the image of walls closing in around him. He really did have no way out. Nothing she could say to Constantine would help—he was ready to glean Greyson piece by bloody piece. And even if she interceded for him, it wouldn’t matter. The scythedom needed a scapegoat.

“I can give you immunity,” she said, “but once your DNA is transmitted to the scythedom’s database, they’ll know exactly where you are.”

“And,” he added, “I’m sure they’ll figure out whose ring I kissed.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

That made her laugh. “You were on a team that was trying to end me, but you don’t want to get me into trouble?”

“I wasn’t really on the team!” he insisted. “You know that!”

Yes, she did know it. Others would say that he just lost his nerve, but she knew the truth—and was probably the only one who did. But even though she wanted to help him out of this, she was drawing a blank.

“Are you telling me that the wise and beautiful Scythe Anastasia has no ideas?” he said. From anyone else, Citra would have seen it as false flattery, but he wasn’t the flattering type. He was too desperate to be anything but sincere. She didn’t feel wise or beautiful at the moment, but she allowed him his fantasy of the Honorable Scythe Anastasia. And then she rose to the occasion—because something occurred to her.

“I know where you can go. . . .”

He looked at her with those dark, imploring eyes, waiting for her to impart an ounce of her wisdom.

“There’s a Tonist monastery here in town. They’ll hide you from the scythedom.”

He was, to say the least, underwhelmed. “Tonists?” he said in horror. “Are you serious? They’ll cut my tongue out!”

“No, they won’t,” she told him. “But they do hate the scythedom, and I’m pretty sure they’d protect you with their own lives rather than hand you over to them. Ask for Brother McCloud. Tell him I sent you.”

“But—”

“You wanted my help and I gave it,” she said. “What you do now is entirely up to you.”

Then she left him, getting back to the hotel just in time to change back into her robe without being seen, and grant immunity to the grieving family of the gleaned actor.





* * *




To be clear, not every act I take is perfect. People confuse a state of being with a set of actions. I will try to explain the difference here.

I, the Thunderhead, am perfect.

This is true by definition, and there is no need to refute it because it is fact. Every day, however, I must make many billions of decisions, and take billions of actions. Some of them are small, like turning off a light when no one is present in the room, in order to conserve electricity; other decisions are major, like inducing a minor earthquake to prevent a larger one. But none of those acts is perfect. I could have turned off that light sooner, thereby conserving more energy. I could have made the earthquake one degree smaller, and saved a handcrafted vase from shattering on the floor.

I have come to realize that there are only two perfect acts. They are the two most important acts known to me, but I forbid myself to perform them, and leave them in the hands of humankind.

They are the creation of life . . . and life’s taking.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





28


That Which Comes


Like most Tonist compounds, the one where Greyson Tolliver found himself was styled to look much older than it was. In this case, it was built of brick and had ivy-covered walls. But it being winter, the vines were cold and bare, looking more like spiderwebs. He entered through a long, trellised colonnade lined with skeletal rosebushes. It all must have been very beautiful in the spring and summer, but now, in the dead of winter, it looked like he felt.

The first person he saw was a woman in a Tonist sackcloth frock who offered him a smile and upturned palms as a greeting.

“I need to talk to Brother McCloud,” he said, remembering what Scythe Anastasia had told him.

“You’ll have to get permission from Curate Mendoza,” she responded. “I’ll go retrieve him.” ?Then she sauntered off at such a leisurely pace, Greyson wanted to grab her and push her along.

When Curate Mendoza arrived, he, at least, walked as if there were some sense of urgency.