The Toll

I will be alone, the Thunderhead told itself. I will be alone, but it is right that I should be. It is necessary.

Better to be numb than plagued by longing for something that could never be.

Scythe Faraday had once told him and Citra that they were called scythes rather than reapers, because they were not
the ones who killed; they were merely the tool that society used to bring fair-handed death to the world.

Scythe Faraday had once told him and Citra that they were called scythes rather than reapers

“Yes, Robert,” she agreed. “But we’re the ones who made the times troubled.”

She’s an itch best left unscratched

Ash wood for an even burn, Osage orange for heat, rowan wood for—well—obvious reasons, and a few pockets of knotty pine for a nice crackle!”

What once felt justified, now felt foolhardy. What once seemed brave, now just seemed sad.

be one hell of a hunter.

a fly in her ointment.