The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,136

against it, by some very loud and opinionated news feeds—the biggest being OneGlobe Media. Ever hear of it? No? That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore. It was there for one reason and one reason only—to sway public opinion, so that the Thunderhead’s decision to stop all space colonization efforts would appear to be a response to public outcry—and not a response to repeated scythe attacks on those efforts.

“And, to add insult to injury, one of the key scythes responsible was rapidly rising in the ranks of the MidMerican scythedom. Even the Patron Historic he had chosen was a secret snub.

“Dr. Robert Goddard, the rocket scientist who made space flight possible.

“But the Thunderhead wasn’t done yet. It was determined to try one final time to establish an off-world presence. Not a lunar or planetary colony, but an orbital one. Closer to home. Easier to directly oversee.

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what happened next.”

39 Never Enough Mirrors

Scythe Alighieri wasn’t a day over thirty, but it was his twenty-ninth time being there, as he set his age back often. In reality, he was pushing 260. He barely looked human anymore. Such was the result of turning so many corners. One’s skin became shiny and stretched. Underlying bone structure eroded like river stones, becoming smooth and rounded, losing definition.

He spent a lot of his time gazing at his reflection and grooming himself. He didn’t see what others might have. Scythe Alighieri saw ageless beauty in himself. Like a statue of Adonis. Like Michelangelo’s David. There could never be enough mirrors.

He had no contact with other scythes, never attended conclave anymore, and was not missed. No scythedom had claimed him for decades, so he didn’t show up on any High Blade’s list. He was, by and large, forgotten by the world, which was fine by him. The world had gotten too complicated for his taste. He lived the kind of isolated life that kept current events as far from his dwelling as the sea—which was as far as any could be in the Britannia region.

He didn’t know, or care to know, that the Thunderhead had stopped speaking. And although he had heard that there was some sort of trouble on the Island of the Enduring Heart, he had no idea that it was now at the bottom of the Atlantic. That was other people’s business. Aside from occasional gleanings in and around Coventry, his business was done. He had saved the world once; now he just wanted to live out his eternity in peace.

He had few visitors. When people showed up at his door, he usually gleaned them. A fitting fate for those who would have the audacity to bother him. Of course then he would have to go out in all sorts of weather to grant immunity to their loved ones. A nuisance, but he never shirked that responsibility—that commandment. He had shirked it once before, and it weighed on him terribly. Well, at least he lived in a place that was easy on the eye when he did have to venture forth. The lush green hills of County Warwickshire had been the inspiration for many mortal-age writers and artists. It was the birthplace of Shakespeare; it was Tolkien’s bucolic Shire. The countryside was almost as beautiful as he.

This had been his birthplace as well, although he had, in his time, aligned with various different regional scythedoms near and far, changing whenever he had a falling out with the scythes of that region. He had little patience for fools, and eventually everyone proved themselves to be one. But now he was back in his birth region and had no desire to leave.

The visitors who came on that cool afternoon were no more welcome than any others. But as one of them was a scythe, he couldn’t glean them, and he couldn’t turn them away. He had to be hospitable, which, for the ageless scythe, was an outrageously unpleasant thing to be.

The scythe in turquoise took a gander at his pearl silk robe. “Scythe Alighieri?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “What do you want?”

She was a pretty thing. It made him want to turn a quick corner, setting all the way down to her age so that he might woo her. Of course it was frowned upon for such relations between scythes, but who would know? He fancied himself quite a catch at any age.

* * *

Anastasia was instantly repulsed by the man but did her best to hide it. His skin looked like