The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,58

want to live in a place like this,” he had told them. They scoffed at his childhood naivete. He swore that he would have the last laugh.

Once he became a scythe, he immediately set his sights on the celebrated mansion, only to discover that Scythe Presley had already claimed Graceland as his residence and showed no signs of self-gleaning any time soon. Damn. Instead, Morrison had to settle for the next best thing:

Grouseland.

It was the historic mansion of William Henry Harrison, a little-remembered mortal-age Merican president. Exercising his privilege as a scythe, Morrison kicked out the ladies of the local historical society, who ran the place as a museum, and moved in. He even invited his parents to live with him there, and although they accepted the invitation, they never seemed all that impressed.

On the day of his summons, he was watching sports, as was his penchant. Archives of classic games, because he hated the stress of not knowing who was going to win. It was the Forty-Niners versus the Patriots in a game that was only notable because Forty-Niner Jeff Fuller took a helmet-to-helmet hit so powerful it could have knocked him into an alternate dimension. Instead it broke his neck. Very dramatic. Scythe Morrison enjoyed the way Merican football was played in mortal days, when injuries could be permanent and could lay a player out in the field, experiencing true pain. The stakes were so much more real then. It was his love of mortal-age contact sports that inspired his method of gleaning. He never used weapons – all his gleanings were accomplished with his bare hands.

While the game was still suspended, awaiting the removal of the injured Fuller from the field, Morrison’s screen flashed red, and his phone buzzed. It was as if his nanites themselves were vibrating, because he could swear he felt it all the way down to the bone.

It was an incoming message from Fulcrum City.

ATTENTION! ATTENTION!

THE HONORABLE SCYTHE JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON

IS SUMMONED TO A HIGH PRIORITY AUDIENCE

WITH HIS EXCELLENCY, THE HONORABLE ROBERT GODDARD,

HIGH BLADE OF THE MIDMERICAN SCYTHEDOM.

This could not be a good thing.

He had been hoping that Goddard had forgotten about him, and that, as High Blade, the man had so many more important things to do that a junior scythe like Morrison was not even on his radar. Perhaps it was his choice of a famous residence that had brought him to Goddard’s attention. Grouseland was, after all, the first brick home in the Indiana Territory. Damn.

Knowing that a summons from the High Blade was a drop-everything kind of command, he did just that, had his mother pack him a small bag, and called for a scythedom helicopter.

Although Scythe Morrison had never been to Endura, he imagined Goddard’s glass residence in Fulcrum City was similar to the crystalline penthouses of the late Grandslayers. In the ground-floor lobby, Jim was greeted by none other than First Underscythe Nietzsche.

“You’re late” was the entire extent of Nietzsche’s greeting.

“I came the minute I got the summons,” Morrison said.

“And at two minutes after the summons, you were late.”

Nietzsche, aside from having a name that was painfully difficult to spell, was the man who might have been High Blade, had Goddard not made his infamous reappearance at conclave. Now he seemed to be little more than an elevator operator, because escorting Morrison to the rooftop residence was his only contribution to the meeting. He never even got out of the elevator.

“Mind yourself,” he warned before the doors closed, as one might say to a child dropped off at a birthday party.

The crystal residence was stunning, filled with unusual angles and slim furniture with minimal profiles as to not obstruct the 360-degree view. Only the frosted glass walls of the High Blade’s bedroom marred the vista. Morrison could see a vague shadow of the High Blade moving around in there, like a funnel spider deep in its web.

Then a figure in green swept in from the kitchen area. Scythe Rand. If she wanted to make a grand entrance, it was foiled by the glass walls, because Morrison had seen her long before she arrived in the room. No one could accuse this administration of not having transparency.

“Well, if it isn’t the heartthrob of the MidMerican scythedom,” Rand said, sitting down, rather than shaking his hand. “I hear your trading card has a high value among schoolgirls.”

He sat down across from her. “Hey, yours is valuable, too,” he said. “For different reasons.” Then he realized that it might be