Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe, #2)

by Neal Shusterman

It is the plight of every child to have depth their parents can scarcely imagine. But, oh, how I long to be understood.

In the mortal age, death could not be bargained with. It had to be the same for scythes.

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.

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.

“We are scythes every moment of our lives,” Marie had told her. “And we must never allow ourselves to forget that, no matter how much we might want to. Our garments are a testament to that commitment.”

There was a great memorial in the heart of Pittsburgh, birthplace of Scythe Prometheus, the first World Supreme Blade. Spread out across a five-acre park were the intentionally broken pieces of a massive obsidian obelisk. Around those dark stone pieces were slightly larger-than-life statues of the founding scythes, in white marble that clashed with the black stone of the fallen obelisk. It was the memorial to end all memorials. It was the memorial to death. Tourists and schoolchildren from all over the world would visit the Mortality Memorial, where death lay shattered before the scythes, and would marvel at the very concept that people used to die by natural means. Old age. Disease. Catastrophe. Over the years, the city had come to embrace its nature as a tourist attraction to commemorate the death of death. And so, in Pittsburgh, every day was Halloween.

He didn’t speak to that. Instead, he said, “I took the name Lucifer because it means ‘bringer of light.’ ” “It’s also what mortal people once called the devil,” she pointed out. Rowan shrugged. “I guess whoever holds the torch casts the darkest shadow.”

You may laugh when I tell you this, but I resent my own perfection. Humans learn from their mistakes. I cannot. I make no mistakes. When it comes to making decisions, I deal only in various shades of correct.

Tyger Salazar was going places! After a life of wasting time and taking up space, he was now professionally paid to waste time and take up space!

“It’s mostly country roads,” Marie told her as they went out to her car, “so it will test your skills without putting too many in harm’s way.” “We’re scythes,” Citra pointed out. “We are harm’s way.”

Of course, very few of the jobs are necessary, since they could all be accomplished by machines—but the illusion of purpose is critical to a well-adjusted population.

“Linger here, if you would. This place is too grand and austere to make a comfort of solitude.”

The concept that someone might enjoy getting beaten up—and that the Thunderhead, realizing this, would find a way to pair the beaters with the beatees in a closed, and somewhat wholesome, environment—left Greyson stunned.

While freedom gives rise to growth and enlightenment, permission allows evil to flourish in a light of day that would otherwise destroy it. A self-important dictator gives permission for his subjects to blame the world’s ills on those least able to defend themselves. A haughty queen gives permission to slaughter in the name of God. An arrogant head of state gives permission to all nature of hate as long as it feeds his ambition. And the unfortunate truth is, people devour it. Society gorges itself, and rots. Permission is the bloated corpse of freedom.

In time, all storms settle to a pleasant breeze.

Guard your conscience, Anastasia, and never let it wilt. It is a scythe’s most valuable possession.”

I long for the simple, straightforward days, when we scythes had nothing to fear but the sharp blades of our own conscience. Now there are enemies within enemies.”

Rowan shrugged. “I got in, I’ll get out. You forget I was trained by the best.” And although Xenocrates wanted to scoff, he knew the boy was right. The late Scythe Faraday was the finest mentor when it came to the psychological subtleties of being a scythe, and the late Scythe Goddard was the best teacher when it came to the brutal realities of their calling. Taken together, it meant that whatever Rowan Damisch was here for, it was no trivial matter.

Greyson knew what he had to do. It was what decency, loyalty, and his own conscience demanded. And yes, he still did have a conscience, even in his new unsavory life. He tried not to think about it. If he thought about it too much, it would tear him apart.

To choose those who live and those who die would leave me both feared and adored, like emperor-gods of old. No, I decided. Let humankind be the saviors and the silencers. Let them be the heroes. Let them be the monsters.

Greyson’s cover was so deep it had swallowed him whole—and not even the Thunderhead could pull him out.

And each time I witness a cruel act by a corrupt scythe, I seed the clouds somewhere in the world, and bring a lamentation of rain. Because rain is the closest thing I have to tears.

If I exist without form—a soul sparking between a billion different servers—could not the universe itself be alive with a spirit sparking between stars?

“Deadish men tell no tales for a while.”