Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,17

her near the deli counter, then looked at Citra and Rowan, curious. “Your niece and nephew?”

“Hardly,” he said, with a bit of disdain in his voice for relatives Citra had no interest in knowing about. “I’ve taken apprentices.”

Her eyes widened a bit. “Such a thing!” She said in a way that made it unclear whether she thought it a good or bad idea. “Do they have a penchant for the work?”

“Not the slightest.”

She nodded. “Well then, I guess it’s all right. You know what they say: ‘Have not a hand in the blade with abandon.’”

The scythe smiled. “I hope I can introduce them to your strudel sometime.”

She nodded at the two of them. “Well, that goes without saying.”

After she had moved on, Scythe Faraday explained that she was a long-time friend. “She cooks for me from time to time—and she works in the coroner’s office. In my line of work it’s always good to have a friend there.”

“Do you grant her immunity?” Citra asked. Rowan thought the scythe might be indignant at the question, but instead he answered:

“The Scythedom frowns upon those who play favorites, but I’ve found I can grant her immunity on alternate years without raising a red flag.”

“What if another scythe gleans her during the off-years?”

“Then I shall attend her funeral with heartfelt grief,” he told them.

As they shopped, Citra chose some snacks that the scythe eyed dubiously. “Are these really necessary?” he asked.

“Is anything really necessary?” Citra responded.

Rowan found it amusing how Citra gave the scythe attitude—but it worked. He let her keep the chips.

Rowan tried to be more practical, picking out staples like eggs, flour, and various proteins and side dishes to go with them.

“Don’t get chickenoid tenders,” Citra said, looking at his choices. “Trust me, my mother’s a food synthesis engineer. That stuff’s not actual chicken—they grow it in a petri dish.”

Rowan held up another bag of frozen protein. “How about this?”

“SeaSteak? Sure, if you like plankton pressed into meat shapes.”

“Well then, maybe you should pick your own meals instead of grabbing sweets and snacks.”

“Are you always this boring?” she asked.

“Didn’t he say we have to live as he lives? I don’t think cookie dough ice cream is a part of his lifestyle.”

She sneered at him, but switched out the flavor for vanilla.

As they continued to shop, it was Citra who first noticed two suspicious-looking teens who seemed to be tracking them through the store, lingering behind them, trying to look like they were just shopping. They were probably unsavories—people who found enjoyment in activities that bordered on the fringe of the law. Sometimes unsavories actually broke the law in minor ways, although most lost interest eventually, because they were always caught by the Thunderhead and reprimanded by peace officers. The more troublesome offenders were tweaked with shock nanites in their blood, just powerful enough to deter any scoffing of the law. And if that didn’t work, you got your own personal peace officer 24/7. Citra had an uncle like that. He called his officer his guardian angel, and eventually married her.

She tugged on Rowan’s sleeve, bringing the unsavories to his attention but not to Scythe Faraday’s.

“Why do you think they’re following us?”

“They probably think there’s going to be a gleaning and they want to watch,” suggested Rowan, which seemed a likely theory. As it turned out, however, they had other motives.

As the three of them waited in the checkout line, one of the unsavories grabbed Scythe Faraday’s hand and kissed his ring before he could stop him. The ring began to glow red, indicating his immunity.

“Ha!” said the unsavory, puffing up at his strategic triumph. “I’ve got immunity for a year—and you can’t undo it! I know the rules!”

Scythe Faraday was unfazed. “Yes, good for you,” he said. “You have three hundred sixty-five days of immunity.” And then, looking him in the eye, said, “And I’ll be seeing you on day three hundred sixty-six.”

Suddenly the teen’s smug expression dropped, as if all the muscles that held up his face failed. He stuttered a bit, and his friend pulled him away. They ran out of the store as fast as they could.

“Well played,” said another man in line. He offered to pay for the scythe’s groceries—which was pointless, because scythes got their groceries for free anyway.

“Will you really track him down a year from now?” Rowan asked.

The scythe grabbed a roll of breath mints from the rack. “Not worth my time. Besides, I’ve already meted out his punishment. He’ll be worried about being gleaned