Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(9)

That was another wager he won. “Your daughter, Carmen, doesn’t live with you,” Scythe Anastasia said. “Which means she’s not entitled to immunity, even though she’s in your hotel suite with the others.” The cellist, she knew, was one hundred forty-three, and had raised several families. Sometimes her gleaning subjects would attempt to get immunity for entire multitudes of offspring. In those circumstances she had to refuse. But one extra? That was within her discretion. “I will grant her immunity, as long as she promises not to boast about it.”

He released a breath of immense relief. Clearly this deception had weighed on him, but it wasn’t really a deception at all if Scythe Anastasia already knew—and even less so if he confessed it in his final moments. Now he could leave this world with a clear conscience.

Finally Mr. Hogan lifted the glass with debonair style, and regarded the way the liquid caught and refracted the light. Scythe Anastasia couldn’t help but imagine his 007 ticking down digit by digit to 000.

“I want to thank you, Your Honor, for allowing me these past few weeks to prepare. It has meant the world to me.”

This is what the scythedom was incapable of understanding. They were so focused on the act of killing, they couldn’t comprehend what went into the act of dying.

The man raised the glass to his lips and took the tiniest sip. He licked his lips, judging the flavor.

“Subtle,” he said. “Cheers!”

Then he downed the whole glass in a single gulp, and slammed it down on the table, pushing it toward the croupier, who backed away slightly.

“I’ll double down!” the cellist said.

“This is baccarat, sir,” the croupier responded, his voice a little shaky. “You can only double down in blackjack.”

“Damn.”

Then he slumped in his seat, and was gone.

Citra checked his pulse. She knew she’d find none, but procedure was procedure. She instructed the croupier to have the glass, the shaker, and even the tray, bagged and destroyed. “It’s a strong poison—if anyone inadvertently dies handling it, the scythedom will pay for their revival and compensate them for their trouble.” ?Then she pushed her pile of winnings over to the dead man’s. “I want you to personally make sure that all these winnings go to Mr. Hogan’s family.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The croupier glanced at her ring as if she might offer him immunity, but she withdrew her hand from the table.

“Can I count on you to make sure it’s done?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Satisfied, Scythe Anastasia left to grant the cellist’s grieving family a year of immunity, ignoring the constellation of eyes doing their best not to look at her as she sought out the elevators.





* * *




I have always had a preoccupation with those who have a high probability of changing the world. I can never predict how they might accomplish the change, only that they are likely to.

Since the moment that Citra Terranova was placed into apprenticeship under Honorable Scythe Faraday, her probability of changing the world increased a hundredfold. What she will do is unclear, and the outcome hazy, but whatever it is, she will do it. Humanity may very well rise or fall by her decisions, by her achievements, by her mistakes.

I would guide her, but as she is a scythe, I cannot interfere. I only watch her fly or fall. How frustrating it is to have so much power, yet be so impotent to wield it when it counts.

—The Thunderhead



* * *





5


A Necessary Darkness


Citra took a publicar away from the casino. It was self-driving, and it was on the grid, but the moment she got inside, the light that indicated it was connected to the Thunderhead blinked off. The car knew by the signal from her ring that she was a scythe.

The car welcomed her with a synthesized voice that was void of any actual artificial intelligence. “Destination, please?” it asked, soullessly.

“South,” she said, and flashed to the moment she had told another publicar to drive north, when she was deep in the South Merican continent, trying to escape from the entire Chilargentine scythedom. It seemed so long ago now.

“South is not a destination,” the car informed her.

“Just drive,” she said, “until I give you a destination.”

The car pulled away from the curb and left her alone.

She was beginning to hate having to take the obsequious self-driving cars. Funny, but it had never bothered her before her apprenticeship. Citra Terranova never had a burning desire to learn to drive—but Scythe Anastasia now did. Perhaps it was part of the self-determined nature of being a scythe that made her feel uncomfortable as a passive passenger in a publicar. Or maybe it was the spirit of Scythe Curie rubbing off on her.

Scythe Curie drove a flashy sports car—her only indulgence, and the only thing in her life that clashed with her lavender robe. She had begun teaching Anastasia to drive it with the same steely patience with which she taught Citra to glean.

Driving, Citra had decided, was more difficult than gleaning.

“It’s a different skill set, Anastasia,” Scythe Curie told her during her first lesson. Scythe Curie always used her scythe name. Citra, on the other hand, always felt a bit awkward calling Scythe Curie by her first name. “Marie” just sounded so informal for the Granddame of Death.