The Toll (Arc of a Scythe #3) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,76

of you; please treat him kindly.

But the Thunderhead didn’t say that. It said nothing at all. Which meant the man before him was a scythe, and he was about to be gleaned.

Greyson had never done anything as violent as what he had just done. Even during his days as Slayd Bridger he had never engaged in something so reprehensible as an attack with a sharp object. But he knew it was warranted. He knew the Thunderhead would understand.

And so, with the deed done, he ran for his life from the kitchen without looking back.

* * *

Scythe Morrison would have screamed with volume to match the Great Resonance if he’d let himself. But he bit it back into a single yelp and, fighting the pain, pulled the fork from his eye. Unlike many of the new-order scythes, he had not dialed down his pain nanites, so they were already dousing him with megadoses of painkillers, making him woozy and dizzy. He had to fight that as much as the pain, because he needed to stay sharp if he was going to fix this mess.

He had been so close! If only he had dispensed with the charade immediately and done what he’d come to do, the Toll would be dead now. How could Morrison have been so sloppy?

The holy man knew the scythe’s intentions—knew his purpose there. Either he was clairvoyant, or the Thunderhead had told him, or something Morrison did had given him away. He should have anticipated the possibility of being exposed.

With one hand on his damaged eye, he took off after the Toll, determined that there’d be no more mistakes. He would complete his mission. It wouldn’t be as clean as he wanted it to be—in fact, it would be messy. But it would get done.

* * *

“Scythe!” yelled Greyson as he ran from the kitchen. “Help! There’s a scythe!”

Someone must have heard him—the stone walls echoed every sound—but they also sent sound bouncing in unexpected directions. All the guards were positioned on the outside, and on the rooftops, not in the residence. By the time they heard him and took action, it might be too late.

“Scythe!”

His slippers were slowing him down, so he got rid of them. The only advantage that Greyson had was that he knew the Cloisters better than his attacker did—and Greyson also had the Thunderhead.

“I know you can’t help me,” he said to it. “I know it’s against the law, but there are things you can do.”

Still the Thunderhead didn’t respond.

Greyson heard a door open behind him. Someone screamed. He couldn’t turn around to see who it was or what had happened.

I have to think like the Thunderhead. It can’t interfere. It can’t do anything of its own will to help me. So what can it do?

The answer was simple when he thought of it that way. The Thunderhead was humanity’s servant. Which meant it could follow commands.

“Thunderhead!” said Greyson. “I’m ready to take that journey now. Awaken the staff and tell them that we’ll be leaving immediately.”

“Of course, Greyson,” it said. And all at once every bedside alarm in the complex began to blare. Every single light came on. The hallways were blinding; the courtyards were doused by floodlights.

He heard someone else yell out behind him. He turned to see a man fall to the ground at the hands of the scythe, who was gaining on Greyson.

“Thunderhead, it’s too bright,” said Greyson. “It’s hurting my eyes. Turn off the lights in the interior corridors.”

“Of course,” the Thunderhead said calmly. “I’m sorry to have caused you discomfort.”

The lights in the hallway went out again. Now he couldn’t see a thing, since his pupils had constricted against the bright light. And it would be the same for the scythe! Blinded by light, then blinded by darkness!

Greyson came to a T where the hallway went left and right. Even in the dark he knew the scythe was coming and knew which way he needed to go.

* * *

As Morrison left the kitchen, he could see the Toll scrambling ahead of him, kicking off his slippers. The Toll called for help, but Morrison knew he’d reach the Toll before anyone would arrive.

A door opened beside him, and a woman stepped out. No clue who she was. Didn’t care. Before she could say anything, he jammed the heel of his hand into her nose, breaking it and sending the bone deep into her brain; she screamed and crumbled to the ground, dead before her head hit the stone.