“I’ve just completed a gleaning-I have no desire to increase my tally today.” Although, admittedly, he might change his mind if the interloper was either too offensive, or obsequious. Tone cults despised scythes, and although Brahms had never heard of Tonists actually attacking a scythe, they had been known to torment. He thought it might be a child, or perhaps an unsavory hoping to bargain for immunity-as if an unsavory might have anything with which to bargain.

The lonely street belonged to him and the unseen interloper. Elsewhere, he could hear the sounds of street cafés and the ever-vibrant nightlife of the city, but the street he was on was lined with shops that were shuttered this time of night. A scent, a sound, an errant shadow too minor to register consciously might be enough to make a well-trained scythe’s neck hairs bristle. They were not prescient, but five highly developed senses could often have the semblance of a sixth. Scythes were trained in perceptive skills. This feeling, however, was more than the observational nature of the Thunderhead. The Thunderhead was the ultimate voyeur of death. It was powerless to even comment on the comings and goings of scythes, much less act upon anything it saw. The Thunderhead was ever vigilant-but for a scythe, its slumberless, unblinking eyes were of no concern. There were, of course, cameras on every light post in the city. But he stopped in midstanza, having a distinct feeling that he was being watched. On this evening, Scythe Brahms had just accomplished a particularly entertaining gleaning in downtown Omaha, and was still whistling his signature tune as he sauntered down the street, wondering where he might find himself a late evening meal. It was a sentiment gaining traction in more and more regional scythedoms. “In a perfect world, shouldn’t we all enjoy what we do?” Goddard wrote. Politically, he leaned toward the teachings of the late Scythe Goddard, for he enjoyed gleaning immensely and saw no reason why that should be a problem for anyone. And then he would end the subject’s life. After all, if a scythe must choose a figure from history to name oneself after, shouldn’t that figure be integrated somehow into the scythe’s life? He would play the lullaby on whatever instrument was convenient, and if there was none available, he would simply hum it. He would choose his subject, restrain him or her, then play a lullaby-Brahms’s lullaby to be exact-the most famous piece of music composed by his Patron Historic. His routine was always the same, though methods varied. He had recently turned the corner again, resetting his physical age back to a spry twenty-five-and now, in his third youth, he found his appetite for gleaning was stronger than ever. True, the velvet became uncomfortably hot in the summer months, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in his sixty-three years as a scythe. Peach velvet with embroidered baby-blue trim.

Scythe 2 book