The Pale Altar
The ledger was wrong, Elias Thorne said, his voice flat and dry as the dust motes suspended in the stagnant air of the basement archive, where the fluorescent tubes buzzed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of his bones rather than the ears. He held the leather-bound book out toward the Director, whose face was a smooth, featureless oval of pale skin, unlined by the wrinkles...
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