Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe Book 2)

I know you cared for Volta,” Scythe Curie said, “but grief is not an excuse for depravity.”

“I know you cared for Volta,” Scythe Curie said, “but grief is not an excuse for depravity.”

In these terminal minutes of their current lives, it was just the two of them finally, finally giving in to their ultimate act of completion. The binary at last becoming the one.

She thrust her blade inward, directly into her heart.

She fell to the ground only seconds before the sea would wash over her, but knew death would wash over her faster. And the blade hurt far less than she imagined it would, which made her smile. She was good. Very, very good.

From the moment they were thrown into apprenticeship together, they were bound to one another. The two of them against each other. The two of them against the world. Everything in their lives was now defined by that binary. If they had to die today in order to live, it would somehow be wrong if they didn’t do it together.

In Rowan’s arms, she found she was no longer Scythe Anastasia. She was Citra Terranova once more. It was the only place in the world where she still could be her former self

Rowan was determined to grin and wink at her as he was gleaned—as if to say Goddard can end me, but he can’t hurt me. And that would be the parting memory with which he would leave her. Cool, casual defiance

If there was nothing more to hope for, then he would cling to the hope that he might see her again before his eyes were closed forever.

How could the eagle devour his insides if he were cut free? Well, the joke was on them. He didn’t have anything left inside to devour. And if he did, it was pure poison.

How ironic, then, and how poetic, that humankind may have created the Creator out of want for one. Man creates God, who then creates man. Is that not the perfect circle of life? But then, if that turns out to be the case, who is created in whose image?

—The Thunderhead