The Bone Artists Read Online Free PDF Page A

clammy evening humidity clung heavy to his shirt, and he plucked at it to keep it off his damp skin as he double-checked the address, loitering outside of awooden door down a soggy, sour alley.
    He began to grow nervous as the minutes crawled by. Did he knock? Did he text Briony? Then the hinges of the door squealed and a face appeared in the gloom beyond, the stark white face of a painted mask.

 

O liver turned in a slow circle, gazing at the shelves upon shelves lining the walls of the facility. Facility? Office? He had no idea what to call it, but it was just like the last place Briony had told him to go, only this time it wasn’t a crappy garage but a larger, multiroom apartment with tobacco stains yellowing the ceilings. The smell of cigarettes and cheap booze had steeped into the walls and floor, a scent that some kind of powerful cleaner or chemical was trying to overtake.
    It was not a place that ought to be brightly lit, he thought, every sign of water damage, age, and decay showing starkly under the near-medical lighting. The Dragon Lady’s crisp, cornflower-blue pantsuit was the cleanest thing in the room by far.
    But just like in the garage, Briony didn’t hang around the place alone. At the edges of the room, men and women bent over desks. These were sturdier and shinier than those at the garage. Oliver blinked, anxious, rocking on his heels while he waited for Briony to finish a phone call. The distinct buzz of a bone saw came screaming through a closed door to his left. The screech was like nails on a chalkboard, a cold sting zinging down his spine.
    He couldn’t overhear Briony’s conversation, but he could hear the soft lilt of her voice. Not the tone she ever used withhim, not in person and not on the phone. He pulled off his backpack, and the weight of it—of what was inside of it—felt like a barrel of lead bricks.
    Casting an eye around the room again, he tried to peer at what the closest desk person was doing. It was a man, and he wore rubber gloves, but that was the extent of his professionalism. His leather jacket and skinny jeans had him looking right at home among the grunginess.
    Under the sound of Briony’s voice ran a constant murmur of soft sounds. These were the Bone Artists—the actual ones—Micah had been going on about. He wondered if the fingers in his backpack would end up on one of those desks soon.
    But for what?
    Don’t ask questions. This is the last time, remember?
    Briony spun on one high heel, giving him an acid smile while she hid her phone in both hands, cupping her palms around it and taking a few clicking steps toward him.
    Without prompting, Oliver thrust the backpack at her. He had already taken out his phone and anything valuable. She could keep the bag. He didn’t want it.
    “Eager to be rid of me?” Briony smiled. She didn’t take the bag, however, waiting until the man in the leather jacket paused his work to stride over and grab the backpack for himself.
    “I heard there were complications.” She drew out the word, watching Oliver intently.
    The bone saw next door grew louder. Oliver clicked his teeth together, clenching.
    “We got what you asked for. Isn’t that what matters?”
    “Yes, but you were seen.” She lifted a thin, arched brow. “Ordo you not read the news, Mr. Berkley?”
    Shit. He hadn’t. Just getting down to the shop without dropping to sleep on his feet had been a chore.
    He swallowed and gave his best nonchalant shrug. “We got away, nobody saw our faces.”
    “Are you certain of that?” The other brow went up.
    Was this a trick question?
    “Positive,” Oliver said, beginning to sweat. “We took off before the guy could get close.”
    She nodded, her brows returning to a neutral position. Her entire face iced over, unreadable. He wished that damn saw would stop screeching next door, it was putting him on edge. More on edge. “So?” he prompted. “It’s all there, right? We’re square now.”
    “ Are we?” She turned