Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(8)

Of course, this method of gleaning created double the work for her—because she had to face her subjects twice. It made for an incredibly exhausting life, but at least it helped her sleep at night.

? ? ?

On the evening of the same November day she gave Devora Murray her terminal news, Citra entered a lavish casino in Cleveland. All eyes turned when Scythe Anastasia stepped onto the casino floor.

Citra had grown used to this; a scythe was the center of attention in every situation with or without wanting to be. Some reveled in it, others preferred to do their business in quiet places, where there were no crowds and no eyes but the eyes of their subjects. It was not Citra’s choice to be here, but she had to respect the wishes of the man whose choice it was.

She found him where he said he’d be: at the far end of the casino, in a special area raised three steps from the rest of the floor. It was the place reserved for the highest of rollers.

He was dressed in a sharp tuxedo and was the only player at the high-limit tables. It made him look like he owned the place. But he didn’t. Mr. Ethan J. Hogan was not a high roller. He was a cellist with the Cleveland Philharmonic. He was highly competent—which was the best praise a musician could get these days. Passion of performance was a thing of the mortal past, and true artistic style had gone the way of the dodo. Of course, the dodo was back—the Thunderhead had seen to that. A thriving colony was now happily not flying on the island of Mauritius.

“Hello, Mr. Hogan,” Scythe Anastasia said. She had to think of herself as Scythe Anastasia when she gleaned. The play. The role.

“Good evening, Your Honor,” he said. “I would say that it is a pleasure to see you, but under the circumstances . . .”

He let the thought trail off. Scythe Anastasia sat at the table beside him and waited, allowing him to take the lead in this dance.

“Would you try your hand at baccarat?” he asked. “It’s a simple game, but the levels of strategy are boggling.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was being sincere or facetious in his assessment of the game. Scythe Anastasia didn’t know how to play baccarat, but she wasn’t about to share that with him. “I don’t have any cash to bet,” was all she said.

In response, he moved a column of his own chips over to her. “Be my guest. You can either bet on the bank, or bet on me.”

She pushed all the chips forward into the wager box marked “player.”

“Good for you!” he said. “A gambler with courage.”

He matched her bet with his own and gestured to the croupier, who dealt two cards to the cellist and two cards to himself.

“Player has eight, bank has five. Player wins.” He cleared the cards with a long wooden pallet that seemed entirely unnecessary, and he doubled both their piles of chips.

“You’re my angel of good fortune,” the cellist said. Then he straightened his bow tie and looked to her. “Is everything ready?”

Scythe Anastasia glanced back to the main part of the casino. No one was looking directly at them, but still she could tell they were at the center of everyone’s concentration. That would be good for the casino; distracted gamblers bet poorly. The management must love scythes.

“The barman should be coming any second,” she told him. “Everything’s been arranged.”

“Well then, one more hand while we wait!”

Again she pushed both piles of winnings, betting on the player, and he matched. Again the cards were in their favor.

She looked to the croupier but he wouldn’t meet her eye—as if somehow by doing so he would be gleaned as well. Then the barman arrived with a chilled martini glass on a tray, along with a silver martini shaker beaded with condensation.

“My, oh my,” the cellist said. “Until now it never occurred to me how those shakers look like little bombs.”

Scythe Anastasia had no response to that.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s a character from mortal-age fiction and films,” the cellist went on. “A playboy of sorts. I always admired him—he was more like us, I think, because the way he kept coming back, you’d swear he was immortal. Not even the most arch of villains was able to do away with him.”

Scythe Anastasia grinned. Now she understood why the cellist had chosen to be gleaned this way. ?“He preferred his martinis shaken, not stirred,” she said.

The cellist smiled back. “Shall we, then?”

So she took the silver container, shook it well, until the ice inside made her fingers ache. Then she opened the cap and poured out a mixture of gin, vermouth, and a little something extra into the frosty martini glass.

The cellist looked at it. She thought he’d be cavalier and ask for a lemon twist, or an olive, but no, he just looked at it. So did the croupier. So did the pit boss behind him.

“My family is in a hotel room upstairs waiting for you,” he told her.

She nodded. “Suite 1242.” It was her job to know these things.

“Please make a point of holding out your ring to my son, Jorie, first—he’s the one taking this the hardest. He’ll insist the others receive immunity before him, but singling him out to kiss the ring first will mean a lot to him, even if he lets the others go first.” He pondered the glass a few moments more, then said, “I’m afraid I cheated, but I’ll wager you know that already.”