The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,78

the lights came on, they went off, and when they did, he was in total darkness. Refusing to slow down, he barreled forward and slammed against a stone wall. A dead end? No – as his eyes began to readjust to the dark, he could see the hallway now went off to the left and right. But which passageway had the Toll taken?

Behind him he heard the commotion of the complex waking up, guards being mobilized. They knew there was an intruder now. He had to move fast.

Which way to go? Left or right? He chose left. He had a 50 percent chance of being correct. He’d faced worse odds.

Greyson threw himself down the stairs, then pushed open the door into the garage, where over a dozen cars were parked. “Thunderhead!” he said. “I’m ready for my journey. Open the door to the closest car.”

“Door opening,” said the Thunderhead. “Enjoy your trip, Greyson.”

A car door opened. The light came on inside. Greyson had no intention of leaving the garage – all he had to do was get into that car and close the door. Its glass was unbreakable. Its polycarbonate doors could stop a bullet. Once he was inside, he’d be like a turtle in its shell – the scythe would not be able to get at him no matter how hard he tried.

He lunged for the door—

And behind him, the scythe lurched for his leg, grabbing him and pulling him down just short of safety.

“Nice try,” the scythe said. “Almost made it, too.”

Greyson spun and squirmed. He knew that the moment the scythe had a good grip on him, it was over. Luckily, his pajamas were slippery satin, and the scythe couldn’t get him in a gleaning position.

“You don’t want to do this!” Greyson said. “If you glean me, the Thunderhead will be lost to humanity. I’m its only link!”

The scythe put his hand around Greyson’s neck. “I don’t care.”

But there was enough hesitation in his voice that Greyson knew he did care, even only just a little, but that could mean the difference between life and death for Greyson.

“It sees what you’re doing,” Greyson whispered through his rapidly closing windpipe. “It can’t stop you, or even hurt you, but it can punish everyone you’ve ever loved!”

The pressure on his windpipe eased just a bit. The Thunderhead would never pursue vengeance, but the scythe didn’t know that. He’d figure out that it was a bluff, though – maybe just in a moment or two, but every instant won was a victory.

“The Thunderhead has a glorious plan for you!” Greyson said. “It wants you to become High Blade!”

“You don’t even know who I am.”

“What if I do?”

“You’re a liar!”

And then suddenly music began to play in Greyson’s ear. A mortal-age song he didn’t know, but knew it was playing for a reason. The Thunderhead couldn’t help him, but it could lay before him the tools to help himself.

“‘ You knew that it would be untrue!’” Greyson said, repeating the lyric, not sure if he was getting it entirely right. “‘ You knew that I would be a liar!’”

And the scythe’s eyes went wide. He froze in disbelief as if those words were a magic spell.

Then Tonist guards flooded the room and grabbed the scythe. He managed to glean two of them with his bare hands before they overwhelmed him and pinned him to the ground.

It was over. Scythe Morrison knew it. They were going to kill him – and the only fire they’d be lighting would be the one to burn his body before it could be revived. He was being ended today at the hands of Tonists. Could there be a more humiliating way to die?

Perhaps it was better this way, he thought. Better than having to face Goddard after such a dismal failure.

But then the Toll stepped forward.

“Stop,” he said. “Don’t kill him.”

“But, Your Sonority,” said a man with gray, thinning hair. Not a guard. Maybe one of the priests of their strange religion. “We have to kill him, and quickly. He must be made an example, so that they don’t attempt this again.”

“Ending his life is just going to start a war we’re not ready to fight.”

The man was clearly irritated. “Your Sonority, I must advise against—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Curate Mendoza. This is my call.”

Then the Toll turned to the guards. “Lock the scythe up somewhere until I decide what to do with him.”

The curate tried once more to protest, but the Toll ignored