The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,131

a moment more but couldn’t maintain it. He began to grin. “So you really are alive! I wasn’t sure if those broadcasts were real.”

“And… you two know each other as well?” said the Amazonian scythe.

“In a previous life,” said Anastasia.

Then one of her other travel companions began to laugh. “Well, isn’t this rich! A grand reunion of the dubiously deceased!”

Greyson’s attention lingered. There was something engaging about her. Or him.

Mendoza, trying to regain some decorum, cleared his throat, puffed up a bit, and spoke in his best stage voice “His Sonority, the Toll, welcomes you all, and grants you an audience!” he declared.

“A private audience,” Greyson quietly prompted.

“A private audience!” boomed Mendoza, but he made no move to leave.

“Meaning,” said Greyson, “just between Scythe Anastasia and me.”

Mendoza turned to him, his eyes panicked. “I don’t think that’s wise. At least take Morrison with you for protection.”

But Morrison put up his hands in instant surrender. “Leave me out of this,” he said. “I’m not going up against Scythe Anastasia.”

The Thunderhead’s cameras whirred, and Greyson could swear it sounded like electronic laughter.

“Take the others in,” Greyson said, “and get them something to eat. They must be starving.” He turned to the Tonists around them who had witnessed this odd but momentous reunion. “All is well,” he told them, then gestured to Anastasia. “Walk with me.”

And the two of them stepped off together into the woods.

* * *

“ ‘Walk with me’?” said Anastasia when they were out of earshot. “Really? Could you be any more pretentious?”

“It’s part of the act,” Greyson told her.

“So you admit it’s an act!”

“The prophet part is—but it’s true that I’m not unsavory, and the Thunderhead really does speak to me.” He gave her a wry grin. “Maybe it’s my reward for saving your life that day and letting you hit me with your car.”

“It wasn’t my car,” Anastasia pointed out. “It was Scythe Curie’s. I was just learning how to drive it.”

“And a good thing, too! If you had been a better driver and had missed me, we’d have all been incinerated,” he pointed out. “So, does this mean that Scythe Curie is still alive, too?”

Anastasia’s heart sank at having to speak the truth aloud. She doubted it would ever be easier. “Marie died making sure I could eventually be revived.”

“Revived,” said Greyson. “That explains why you don’t look a day older than you did three years ago.”

She took a long look at him. He did look different, and it wasn’t just the outfit. His jaw seemed a little harder, his gait more confident, and his gaze so direct as to be invasive. He had learned to play this role well—just as she had learned to play hers.

“The last I heard, you refused the offer of sanctuary I arranged for you in Amazonia. So instead you stayed with the Tonists?”

His gaze became even more intrusive. Not judgmental, but possessing a deeper sight. A bit like the Thunderhead itself.

“Hiding out with the Tonists was your suggestion—or did you forget that?”

“No, I remember,” she told him, “but I never thought you’d stay. I never thought you’d become their prophet.” She looked over his vestments. “I can’t decide whether you look ridiculous or regal.”

“Both,” he told her. “The trick is convincing people that strange clothing makes you something more than ordinary. But you know all about that, don’t you?”

Anastasia had to admit he was right. The world treated you differently—defined you differently—when you wore robes or regalia.

“Just as long as you don’t believe it yourself,” she told him.

“When I take all this off, I’m still Greyson Tolliver,” he said.

“And when I slip out of this robe, I’m still Citra Terranova.”

He smiled broadly at that. “I never knew your given name until now. Citra. I like it.”

Hearing him say her name gave her a sudden wash of nostalgia. A yearning for a time before all this. “There aren’t many people who call me that anymore.”

He looked at her wistfully. “Funny, but it was never easy for me to talk to you before. Now it’s easier than talking with anyone else. I think we’ve become alike in a lot of ways.”

She laughed at that. Not because it was funny, but because it was true. The rest of the world saw them both as symbols. Intangible light to guide them in the darkness. She understood now why ancient peoples turned their heroes into constellations.

“You haven’t told me why you wanted an audience with the Toll.”

“Scythe Possuelo thinks you know a safe place where Goddard won’t