ARC: The Buried Life by Carrie Patel Read Free Book Online

his chin like a dollop of cream. For his arched nose and assertive strut, he reminded Jane of a rooster. The rooster cocked an ear at the egg.
    “Yes, I remember that,” said Phineas, avoiding the rooster’s beady stare. “And maybe it was the wrong thing to do. But you’re right, we’re beyond the point of second-guessing ourselves – on both counts – and I suppose I would not really be in favor of halting everything anyway. It just concerns me, that’s all I meant.”
    The other man straightened his posture again and rubbed his pharaoh’s beard. “I am well aware, and let me assure you again that you do not need to worry. Even if what happened last night is at all related to us, and allow me to say again that such a coincidence is highly improbable, it cannot touch you or me. We are perfectly insulated.” The rooster almost cooed the last word, smiling.
    Phineas grinned. “Yes, I’m sorry for carrying on like this. It was just the shock, really.” He hesitated and looked up at his companion. “But, look, I don’t think there will be any need–”
    “I won’t breathe a word of this to the rest of the Council. We can, as you said, chalk this up to shock.”
    “Yes, shock. Good…”
    The taller man guided Phineas by the shoulder, leading him once more into the sea of people. As she watched them go, Jane saw the rooster give his companion what could have almost been a reassuring pat on the back.

Chapter 3
    The Directorate of Preservation
     
    If the Spine was the backbone of a long-dead monster, the bureau district was its cold, hardened heart. The passers-by here were few and discreet, ducking in and out of featureless doorways and offices with their heads down. In their black attire, the inspectors blended in. Uniformed members of the City Guard with rifles and polished short swords stood at every corner. Their dead eyes scanned the pedestrians and lingered on the two inspectors. Malone glanced at Sundar, who looked like a young bloodhound on a scent.
    It was easy to forget how close the bureau district was to the opulent Vineyard. Even the councilors and other whitenails who oversaw the directorates seemed to shed their colors here, like butterflies turning into moths.
    The inspectors turned a corner, approaching a fifteen-foot high rectangular tunnel set in a plain rock facade at the end of the street.
    Malone searched Sundar’s face. “Let’s hear this plan of yours.” The dank air clung to her skin.
    He smiled. “Charm and invention, Inspector Malone. With the right measure of both, you can worm your way into – or out of – anything.”
    It sounded like an audition strategy. Malone thought of the other possible leads, Cahill’s neighbors and friends, their usefulness melting into fear and forgetfulness while she and Sundar wasted time. Knots formed at the corners of her jaw. “Don’t tell me this is how you got by in your procedures class.”
    “One chance, Inspector. If I don’t get us in, you won’t hear another peep from me for the rest of our investigation.”
    Indeed, Malone thought.
    Proceeding in silence, they reached the subterranean entry to the Directorate of Preservation.
    Sundar stopped and lifted a hand, motioning for Malone to wait. Frowning, she watched as he slipped off his gloves, pocketed his seal, and buttoned his overcoat, obscuring his fitted black shirt. He looked up, and Malone followed suit. Nodding, he pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his breast pocket and adjusted them on his finely arched nose, affecting a studious air. It was all Malone could do to repress a sigh.
    “Are you serious?”
    He winked. “Trust me.”
    The dim hallway ended in a small reception room where an elderly secretary scrawled behind her desk in the faint gaslight. Miraculously, she was surrounded not by armed guards, but by cracked walls and decades-old gas lamps. It amazed Malone that even the most mysterious directorate in Recoletta carried a whiff of mundane bureaucracy.