“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

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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

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eISBN : 978-1-436-28797-5

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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.

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