Bestiary Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE - Present Day

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PRAISE FOR VIGIL

  “You’ll be sleeping with the lights on after this one. Haunting and unforgettable. As terrifying as The Omen or The Exorcist ... A heart-stopping story of mythic evil, brought to terrifying life in modern-day New York.”

  —Jeff Long, bestselling author of The Descent

  “Take biblical history in the tradition of Dan Brown, mix it with a Tom Clancy thriller and place it in a Stephen King plot and one will have an idea what Vigil is all about. This is an action-packed, fast-paced work of horror. Robert Masello is a talented writer who is not only worthy of a Bram Stoker Award but is a rising star on the horror horizon.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  SELECT TITLES BY ROBERT MASELLO

  FICTION

  Bestiary

  Vigil

  Private Demons

  Black Horizon

  The Spirit Wood

  NONFICTION

  A Friend in the Business

  Raising Hell

  Fallen Angels . . . and Spirits of the Dark

  Robert’s Rules of Writing

  Writer Tells All

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

  BESTIARY

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / November 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Robert Masello.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21280-6

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In loving memory of Little Sonia

  Bestiary: Books that had a great vogue between the

  eleventh and the fourteenth centuries describing the

  supposed habits and peculiarities of animals both

  real and fabled, with much legendary lore and moral

  symbolism. They ultimately derived from the Greek

  Physiologus, compiled by an unknown author before

  the middle of the second century.

  —Ebenezer Brewer, Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (1870)

  PROLOGUE

  Base Camp, Outside Mosul, Iraq—February 2005

  SAND. THERE WAS sand in his boots, sand in his clothes, Sand in his armpits, sand in his hair. At night, there was sand in his dreams. Greer swore that if he ever got out of Iraq alive, he was never going to see sand again.

  If things went right today, he might get his wish.

  Sadowski poked his head under the flap of the tent. “Hasan’s in the Humvee, Captain,” he said. “Cuffed.”

  Greer nodded, and finished lacing up his boot. There was sand in his sock, but what would be the point of trying to get rid of it? He’d take off the boot, shake it out thoroughly, then put it back on—and find even more sand inside it than before.

  “Load up,” he told Sadowski, glancing at his watch. “We don’t want to lose the light.”

  Outside, the sun was beating down so hard it made the ground, if you looked long enough, seem to undulate. Greer adjusted his shades, pulled the brim of his cap down, and walked toward the Humvee, parked in the narrow slice of shade provided by a water-cistern truck.

  It was a desert-camo model, tricked out as a communications “rat rig,” with windows tinted almost black, and hillbilly body armor—anything they could scrounge from the salvage depot—covering it from grille to bumper. Greer got into the passenger side of the front seat, without looking back. He knew who was there.

  Lopez, cradling his trusty SAW—short for squad automatic weapon. Donlan, with a map, a laptop, and a GPS hookup. And Hasan, right behind him, in plastic cuffs, clutching his pocket-sized Koran.

  Sadowski, in the driver’s seat, said, “Captain?”

  In reply, Greer simply lifted his chin toward the windshield, a sliver of bulletproof Plexiglas, and the Humvee, its air conditioner roaring, rumbled out of the camp and onto the road past
Mosul.

  This stretch of road had been officially declared mine-free and under coalition control for three weeks now. But that hadn’t kept a jeep from being blown sky-high by an RPG last Thursday, or mortar fire from leaving fresh pot-holes in what barely passed for a highway to begin with.

  No more sand, Greer thought. Ever. Not even on a beach.

  “Excuse me? Mr. Greer?” Hasan asked, leaning so far forward that Greer could feel his hot breath on the back of his neck. “Shouldn’t we be having more soldiers, more guns, with us?”

  Greer just smiled. What was this guy smoking? Was he under the impression that this was some kind of authorized mission, instead of what it was—a nicely subsidized treasure hunt?

  “We’ve got everything we need,” Greer said. “You do what you’re supposed to do, and you’ll be back in time for your next interrogation.”

  The soldiers laughed; Hasan didn’t.

  For another hour they drove along what had come to be known as the Saddam Expressway, passing not much but bombed-out abandoned villages and the charred hulks of military transports, taxis, and once, improbably enough, a bright yellow school bus. How the hell, Greer had to wonder, did that get here? Lopez, cradling his SAW, zoned out with his eyes closed, while Donlan kept track of their progress.

  “We should be approaching the palace,” Donlan finally announced, studying his laptop in the backseat.

  “Well, Hasan,” Greer asked. “Anything look familiar?”

  Hasan pressed his face to the dark glass and peered out. He’d grown up in this area, he’d owned the best grocery, he’d had a wife and two daughters. Now he had his life—and not much more. “Yes,” he said. “You will come to a . . . a place in the road that goes two ways.”

  “A fork,” Lopez said, from all the way in back.

  “Okay, a fork,” Hasan said. He hated them all so much that he was afraid they could hear it in his words, however innocent they might be. “You will turn to the right side. And go ahead for maybe three miles.”

  “That road going to be cleared for mines?” Sadowski asked.

  Hasan had no idea. None of this was his idea.

  And no one else answered, either.

  “And then what should we expect?” Greer asked.

  “You will see the walls—high walls, maybe ten feet high. And great iron gates.”

  “If they haven’t been stolen,” Sadowski said with a knowing smirk.

  “They will not have been stolen,” Hasan said with certainty. “People here are too afraid.”

  “Of Saddam?” Lopez piped in. “We’ve got him, or haven’t they heard?”

  “Not Saddam. They are afraid of the al-Kallis.”

  “What’s so scary about these al-Kallis?” Lopez asked.

  What could Hasan say to that? How could he explain to these ignorant men, these barbarians, who the al-Kallis were? But he had to tell them. He had to do something to put them on their guard—as they would have to be—or it could cost him his own life, too. “The al-Kallis are the oldest family in Iraq—and the most powerful. This was once their palace. Saddam took it.”

  “I guess he took pretty much everything,” Greer observed.

  “The al-Kallis will be back. They have been here for over a thousand years.” He glanced down at his hands, where the cuffs were digging into his wrists. “They have been here perhaps forever.”

  Sadowski and Greer exchanged a smile. It was just this kind of mumbo-jumbo that made these people such easy pickin’s.

  “So what?” Greer asked. “So they’ve been around awhile.”

  “There are stories,” Hasan said, knowing full well that they were mocking him. He tried to turn his hands to increase the circulation. “The al-Kallis have . . . powers. Strange things happen there. You have to be very careful.”

  “Who you gonna call?” Lopez sang out, shaking his weapon. “GhostBUSTERS!” The soldiers laughed, though Hasan had no idea why. It crossed his mind, for an instant, that if he could just find a way to kill them all himself—and he wouldn’t hesitate—he could commandeer the car and escape.

  But to where?

  The Humvee rumbled on, over a road covered with so much windblown sand that at times it was impossible to see. Sadowski leaned toward the windshield and stared through the glare. He couldn’t get the question of land mines out of his head; two of his pals from the 3rd Infantry Division had been in a nineteen-ton Stryker armored combat vehicle that had been hit by a roadside bomb just the week before, and each had left a leg behind.

  Far ahead, unless he was imagining it, he thought he saw some whitewashed walls rising like a mirage out of the desert sands. If these were the walls Hasan had been talking about, his estimate was way too low—these walls were more like fifteen or twenty feet high, if he could judge from this distance. And they went on for what looked like a quarter of a mile, on one side alone. Sadowski had already “liberated” two of Saddam’s palaces—they hadn’t really seemed all that much more spectacular than the houses he saw on MTV’s Cribs, and nothing like what he thought of when he heard the word “palace”—but this place looked like something else.

  “Should be dead ahead, about a half mile due west,” Donlan reported.

  “I can see it,” Sadowski replied.

  There were towers, too, narrow white columns set far back from the walls and rising like gleaming needles into the air; the whole compound had to be enormous. Even the roadside began to change. There were date palms lining both sides of the road, along with the desiccated remains of other plants that had died from lack of water. Sadowski could imagine that this was once a very grand entryway.

  Captain Greer picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the walls ahead for enemy activity. But the only sign of life he saw was a flock of evil-looking crows, lining the parapets above the main gate. The gates themselves, as Hasan had predicted, were intact; no telling whether they were locked or not. Just in case, he’d brought along a couple of plastic explosives charges.

  “Stop about fifty yards short,” Greer told Sadowski, then added, “You’ll stay with the vehicle, and keep the motor running.”

  The Humvee ground to a slow halt on the sandy road, and Hasan said a silent prayer. No one he knew had ever penetrated the al-Kalli palace walls; no one he knew had ever wanted to. For generations, mothers in the region had warned their unruly children that if they didn’t behave, they would be sold to the al-Kallis. And whenever anyone went missing, it was darkly hinted that they had strayed too close to the al-Kalli palace.

  On some nights, when the wind was right, local villagers claimed that they could hear strange and savage cries.

  While Sadowski waited in the Humvee, the others all got out.

  “Looks like nobody’s home so far,” Greer announced as he approached the gates with his Beretta in hand. Donlan stayed a few feet behind Hasan, who had nothing to protect him but the Koran pressed between his cuffed hands as if his life depended on it.

  Greer went to the gates, which were also at least twenty feet high, and although they were stiff from disuse, their hinges choked with sand, they weren’t locked; he was actually able to push one a few feet back; to work so well now, they must have been made with fantastic precision in their day. There was a design of some kind, elaborate flourishes of metalwork that looked like writing. He turned to Hasan.

  “Does this say something?”

  Hasan nodded.

  “Well?”

  How could he translate this properly? Hasan wondered. It was archaic, a few lines of verse that even he could not entirely make out. But the gist of it was clear. “It’s a welcome, and it is a warning.”

  “That’s what I’ve been hearing ever since I got here,” Donlan said.

  “Just tell me what it says,” Greer said.

  “It says, ‘Welcome to the traveler of good . . .’” He couldn’t come up with the word. He’d studied English in school, and he’d even once spent a summer with an uncle in Miami, but he couldn’t find the equivalent
now.

  “Go on.”

  “‘Such a traveler may stay the night inside these walls. But the traveler who does not have a heart so . . . good, he will regret his mother ever gave him milk.’”

  “Not exactly ‘mi casa es su casa,’” Greer remarked before slipping through the opening between the two gates.

  Hasan looked up at the fat crows above the gate. Their wings fluttered and their hoarse cawing was carried down to him on the hot desert wind. How, he thought, had he come to be in this place, with these men? One night, bombs had landed all over his village; he’d been at the soccer field. By the time he’d run home, his house was a pile of swirling dust and broken bricks—with his wife and children inside. And then he’d been arrested. For what—not dying?

  He felt a rifle poke him in the back. “Come on, Hasan,” Donlan said, “you might still come in handy.”

  With Greer leading the way, they entered the palace grounds. First, there was a tunnel, big enough to drive a truck through, which appeared to end in another iron gate, this one with sharpened spikes at its base, raised high above their heads. Their footsteps echoed around them.

  “Yo-de-lay-e-hoo!” Lopez crooned softly, and Greer whirled around with his gun pointed straight at Lopez’s head.

  “What the fuck?” he whispered angrily.

  Lopez stood, chastened, the gun still aimed at his forehead. He’d just wanted to make a joke—you know, lighten things up a little. It was the way he’d always been.

  “You out of your mind, Lopez?”

  “Sorry, Captain.” He kept his eyes down; he knew Greer was right. He’d been told before that his mouth would wind up getting him killed. “Won’t happen again.”

  “Next time I just shoot.”

  Greer turned around again, and one by one, instinctively spreading out, they emerged from the tunnel and into what looked like a huge forecourt to the palace. It must have been several acres of land, all covered with something under all the sand that felt as smooth and hard as marble. In front of them, at the top of a wide set of steps, was a huge and very grand palace of pale yellow stone, several stories high, and topped with the kind of dome Greer normally associated with a mosque. He pulled from the inside pocket of his jacket the folded map, sealed in a plastic sheath, that he’d been sent when he accepted this gig. He oriented himself quickly, and determined that this was indeed the main house—there were others in the compound, for servants and the like—and that what he was looking for lay somewhere behind it, off to the right.