The Book of Common Dread

by Brent Monahan

  Brent Monahan

  The Book of Common Dread

  ***

  Vampire Vincent DeVilbiss's existence is part infernal bargain-and lie. And only the Scrolls of Ahriman, safely hidden in the fortress that is Princeton University's Firestone Library, stand in the way of his finding the ultimate satiation of them all. But he does not count on his passion for a woman-or the man who becomes his rival for her-to become even more dangerous or insurmountable obstacles to his goals than a sophisticated security system or his satanic master.

  ***

  From Kirkus Reviews

  A vampire at Princeton! Do you long for a horror novel full of bookish but lively, intelligent people (no thuggish middlebrows!), and a piano-playing, 500-year-old vampire whose great earthly love is for Bach and a classically beautiful (let's say ideally erotic) woman-a vampire who is himself only semimortal (a once-a-week bloodsucker who nonetheless fearlessly wolfs down richly marbled cheeseburgers with deep-fat fried potatoes drowned in ketchup while pitying the early death of others seated about him in an arterially disastrous restaurant), yes, a gent with a gusto for dead languages whose great herbal remedies knock out flu viruses and open your nasal passages so you can float into a good night's sleep and who doesn't believe in talking with the dead, though he fakes it expertly for a living, and so on? Well, after a slippery, slightly banal opening, Monahan (DeathBite, 1979-not reviewed) finds his footing and goes the distance like a seasoned aerialist. Under orders from Below, Vincent DeVilbiss's mission is to take out peacemakers and folks who might lessen the hell of earthly life. What better place than the Princeton think-tank? He sets himself up there as a psychic in residence, since even a superstrong vampire who can bound like a leopard has to earn his bread. When Frederika Vanderveen, a beautiful man-eater who lives alone in her late father's big house, comes to DeVilbiss for help in making peace with dad, DeVilbiss pretends that it can be done but that she'll have to pay him by getting him access to an ancient leather manuscript in the highly protected Rare Manuscripts room. The manuscript has dangerous necromancy written on it that the Bad Guy wants burnt. Luckily, Frederika has just taken in young Simon Penn, a rare-books curator, and goes to work on him. But Simon has a brain of his own and seeks her release from psychic disorder while Vincent prepares her for… hmm, long life. Enrapting!

  ***

  "Here's horror served up in rare style-a real page-turner. If chills and thrills are to your taste then Brent Monahan provides a feast."

  -Robert Bloch, author of Psycho

  "The Book of Common Dread is a book of uncommonly dark pleasures. Intriguing plot, compelling characters (human and otherwise), and a setting sure to fascinate any book lover, this one has it all. A terrific novel!"

  -Chet Williamson, author of Reign

  "I've never read anything so clever and yet so real. The Book of Common Dread is one of those rarer novels you actually believe could be true."

  -Thomas F. Monteleone, author of The Blood of the Lamb

  ***

  DEDICATION

  For Steven Gorelick-mentor and friend

  PROLOGUE

  In the midst of life we are in death.

  -The Book of Common Prayer; Burial of the Dead

  Montague Fox flipped open the magazine, exposing the book concealed inside it. They were a study in stark contrast-the glossy, clay-and-glucose-sprayed magazine with its beautiful half-tone illustrations framing the small, yellow-paged book in its dull and distressed leather binding.

  Fox's eyes rested with pride for a moment on the book, then shifted to the advertisement in the lower corner of the magazine's left page.

  FOR SALE

  RAREST ALDUS 1503

  INQUIRE BOX 460

  LONDON, WCA2 1 EN

  In the year 1503, only four books had been printed by Aldus Manutius, but "rarest" signaled the one work among them which was legendary. So far three inquirers had responded to his cryptic message, none bothering to ask the subject of the book. Montague never ceased to be amazed that so many bibliophiles possessed such arcane knowledge.

  Fox daubed his forehead with the handkerchief that already lay moist in his left hand. He sat in a hotel office only two levels below ground, but it seemed like an antechamber to the bowels of Hades. The office belonged to the hotel's custodian, and its back door opened into the boiler room. Through the semiopaque glass, Fox noted the hellish red glow of the boiler room safety lights, their illumination shimmering in the sweltering air. Mixed in the steam were odors of mold, rust, and decay. Somewhere beyond the glass, a pipe complained under the pressure of superheated steam.

  Across the table another man sat perspiring freely, but he did not bother to wipe away the trickles. His thick, grime-encrusted fingers drummed a tattoo on the table. He stared with dark, unblinking eyes at the old leather cover. "Don't like ta read," he declared, raspily.

  Fox closed the magazine protectively over the book. "I don't either."

  The other man's eyebrows rose on his beetled forehead. "Yeah, right."

  "Not anymore, Bertrand," Fox said. As if to prove his point, he removed the delicate, wire-rimmed glasses from his ears with both hands and blinked a smile at his companion. "I've had enough books to last a lifetime. I don't care if I never see another book again." He folded up the glasses and lay them next to the magazine and his pocket watch. "All I want now is to retire to the French Riviera, lie on the beach, eat well, and watch women wiggle by."

  Bertrand laughed coarsely. It took several moments for his yellow-toothed rictus to fade and his face to remold into an expression of low cunning.

  "How much you gonna get for that book?" Bertrand asked.

  "Not just this copy," Montague reminded him, convinced that reminding was necessary. "This is one of eight, remember?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "But only you and I must know that. If either of us slipped and let a customer know there were more, that would tear it. It's incredible enough that even one should exist. Understand?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  Fox hoped so, as he studied the image of Bertrand Worthington III. That this scarred and beer-bloated mass of meat in front of him should insist on being called Bert, much less Bertrand, would be ludicrous enough. He should have been called Bruiser or Smasher. His insistence on the use of his given name was a pathetic denial of the brutality the mirror showed him every morning. A boiler specialist was Bertrand Worthington III, six foot four and seventeen stone of fiery, intemperate passions, a human counterpart to the boilers he bullied about day after day.

  Montague Fox, at the opposite pole, was a cool-headed relictarian. Slight of frame and delicate from birth, he had compensated by conjuring an aura of strength from his intellect. Early on, he discovered the powers in language and facts and performed his own kind of bullying, on those who could be mentally cowed. Having amassed an arsenal of knowledge, he hunted out a profession that would value his brain as much as he did.

  Montague worked for no less an employer than the British Museum. His muse was literary, for he read Egyptian hieroglyphics, Babylonian cuneiform, early and middle Greek, and Latin, with varying degrees of expertise. Stone tablets, clay shards, papyrus, and vellum were all in a day's reading. At forty-six, he had studied and expounded and ass-kissed his way into the number two position in the Library Division of the Museum. His division was the repository of such treasures as the oldest piece of paper in the world (A.D. 137, Yuan-hsing period) and the oldest copy of the New Testament (A.D. 400, Convent of St. Catherine, Mount Sinai). Both relics were priceless. For many years, the value of the articles in his charge, coupled with the recognition of his own intellectual superiority, had kept the balloon of Montague's contentment buoyant.

 
But then, three years back, Fox chanced on commercial television. One wintry night, the fare on neither BBC 1 nor BBC 2 was palatable, and he had condescended to watch "something common." Never before exposed to the blandishments of "telly" advertising, Montague fell victim to their animated onslaught like the Hawaiians to cholera. Electronic equipment, travel, fashions, cars, all were pitched between flash-glimpses of ravishing young women, partaking, admiring, promising. He was assured that this was the real meaning of life and that he deserved it. Today.

  He became a believer. But he was a child in front of the amusement park without the price of admission.

  Every working day Montague was surrounded by treasures. Broken, partial things coated with grime, things not very prized when they were new but grotesquely valuable now that the patina of time was upon them. Month after month he clenched his teeth at the thought that just one of these artifacts, sold to the right well-heeled collector, could set him up for life. Unfortunately, it was all accounted for, all numbered and codified by Receiving before he was allowed to handle it. Except on one occasion.

  At the request of a highly regarded literary journal. Fox had penned a scholarly piece on the history of paper milling. Not long after, a gift arrived at the museum, addressed directly to him. The donor had read his article and was sure that Fox was the man to accept the gift on the museum's behalf. The benefactor descended from a long line of magistrates and still lived in his ancestral home. While renovating the attic, he had uncovered 282 sheets of blank paper stuffed between the wall studs for insulation. As Montague's article had disclosed, the "laid marks" and the watermark proved the paper to have been manufactured in Fabriano, Italy, between the years 1497 and 1515 (before England possessed such skills). Produced from almost pure rag and with no acid, the paper had remained in a remarkable state of preservation. Although Montague wrote a florid note of thanks to the donor, he never gave the paper to the museum. He needed it, to forge tickets to the amusement park.

  Few men were as equipped to duplicate an ancient book as was Montague Fox, Esquire. Almost a decade earlier, an entire font of late-fifteenth-century cursive Greek type had been proven by Montague's superior to have been a fake. Fox was instructed to "get it out of the museum." The pieces, though imitations, had been so cleverly made that he had taken them home. Only three other elements remained for Montague to parlay his knowledge into outrageous profit: a hand printing press (which he had a cabinetmaker fashion to his specifications); ink (which he himself made from charcoal, boiled linseed oil, and chemical dryers); and finally the selection of the right book.

  The choice of books he could counterfeit from was limited by the size, age, and quantity of the paper. The folios were not of the large, "royal" folio sizes but rather of the "medium" dimension, intended for everyday Renaissance court work or for quarto folding, into the proportions of the portable readers then popular.

  Montague settled with satisfaction on a book of exquisite obscurity and extraordinary rarity.

  After many months his labors were over, and eight copies rested in his bank deposit box, sewn and bound. The only remaining questions were how to advertise his "genuine find" (he used one British, one American, and two Continental literary journals) and how to guarantee that those interested did not take one look at his frail physique, grab the offered treasure and run. Which explained Bertrand. The boiler repairman and the scholar shared a thirst for the devil's brew, generally at a common pub. The boiler man was notorious for a nature wholly in keeping with his dangerous appearance. He was also known to lay many bets and consequently ever on the lookout for opportunities to make easy money, Montague's offer to Bertrand of a thousand pounds for a successful night's work was accepted with no questions. Until now.

  "Eight copies, but we make like there's just one," Bertrand parroted. "And what'cha askin' for each?"

  The boiler man was like a bloodhound on the scent. Montague knew that the subject would have to be dealt with, once and for all. "I won't sell for less than ten thousand."

  The alcohol-pickled abacus clicked slowly behind Bertrand's dark and dangerous eyes. "If you get more, I should get ten percent for my part," he said, carefully.

  Montague snickered, in what he hoped would sound like an assured, dismissing manner. "Your part probably isn't even necessary."

  "What about this here place?" Bertrand argued. "Ain't I keepin' you safe by providin' neutral ground?"

  The brute had a point. In case any of the customers later discovered they had been stung, Fox did not want a way for them to find his home or place of business. Bertrand's profession provided him access keys to the nether regions of a score of public buildings.

  "I tell you what, my friend," Fox acceded. "You get a thousand pounds for each sale, just for being there. If muscle is required to protect me or the book, you'll get two thousand on the next sale. Fair enough?"

  "Yeah. That's better," Bertrand said, through a grin. He looked to Montague like the enormous, square-toothed cat who menaced Mickey Mouse.

  Montague picked up his pocket watch, admiring it as it came into focus. It had been fashioned around 1838 by the watchmaker and magician Jean Eugene Robert-Houdin, and was still an accurate instrument, more than three times its present owner's age. Fox had been able to purchase it at a flea market only because its owner had no idea of its value. After the forgeries were all sold, however, he could buy virtually anything he wanted, any time he wanted.

  "It's five after eleven," Fox declared, revesting his watch. "I'd better go out and wait for our guest." He stood, put on his eyeglasses, and shoved the sopping handkerchief into his trouser pocket. It had seemed odd to him that his first prospective customer should insist on coming to the hotel at such a late hour. But for all the money about to be paid, this piper who signed his name "V. DeVilbiss" could call the tune as late as he wanted.

  Fox opened the door to the outer hallway. He flashed Bertrand a benign smile. "It's probably best if you say nothing."

  "Suits me," Bertrand muttered, his attention diverted to the floor, where a black bug scuttled into the light, intent on regaining darkness on the opposite side of the room. Bertrand's foot came down hard; he ground the bug into oblivion with quiet satisfaction.

  Fox closed the door. The elevators were just around the corner. His customer had promised to arrive there "about eleven-twenty." Fox wanted to be waiting when the time came. As he rounded the corner, his stride took a hitch.

  A man stood dead center in the corridor, his aspect alert. The distance and the rear lighting that nimbused the stranger's form made his features difficult to discern. His dress, however, was quite distinguishable and clearly out of fashion. These days, nothing but opera or perhaps a royal gala would excuse a man's wearing dress tails and a three-quarter-length cape. The stark, white V of his dress shirt contrasted with several textures and shades of black.

  Montague walked forward with measured step. The stranger kept his gaze leveled on Fox's face. As the scholar drew nearer, he noted that the tails were worn by a figure a little under six feet tall and probably a bit underweight. The man's shoes were patent-leather pumps with velvet bows, and the arresting cape was of a fine-woven, inky wool, lined with moire silk. Drawing closer, Fox found a handsome visage, which did not entirely conform to what he had assumed was a French last name. Although the stranger's lips had the pouting fullness, his hair the dense blackness, and his skin the thick texture of a southern Frenchman, his complexion had a Scandinavian paleness, as if he never ventured outdoors.

  And then Fox saw the eyes. Amber. Glowing as if twin candles were lit inside the man's skull. The sight stopped Fox's advance.

  "I expect you're the man with the book," the gentleman declared, in a voice seductive as a cat's purring and an accent that was pure Kensington Gardens.

  "Yes," Fox managed, after recovering from the sounds of the clipped king's English. "And you are Monsieur DeVilbiss."

  "I am. Where is it?"

  Fox jerked his head slightly, ind
icating the corridor behind him. "Not far."

  DeVilbiss gestured for Fox to lead the way. As the scholar started off, he said, "Opera finished earlier than you expected?"

  "I left before the end."

  "Not a good one?"

  "No. It was Faust," the mellifluous voice replied. "The cast was poor."

  Fox walked six feet ahead, but the flesh on the nape of his neck shuddered from a chill pouring off the man, a coldness like that which cascades out of a Christmas tree when it is first brought into a house. The winter night had been merely cool when he and the boiler man had entered the hotel, half an hour earlier. He wondered if the temperature had suddenly plummeted.

  "Such a shame. To miss that final trio, and the angel choir," Montague sympathized. From the safety of his two-pace lead, he risked a private grin. This man was a buyer, couldn't even wait until the final curtain to rush to the meeting. The clothing bespoke money to burn. His polite but taciturn manner indicated a man totally focused on doing business.

  Fox stopped within several paces of the office door and pivoted around. "This will be everything you hope for," he assured the customer, in a low voice. "But the price… is fifty thousand pounds."

  DeVilbiss did not look daunted. "A great deal of money for a stolen book," he remarked.

  "Who said it was stolen?" Fox responded, coolly.

  "I don't care if it is," the man said. The hard fix of his amber eyes struck like steel on the flint of Fox's heart. "Let me see it first, before we argue price."

  Fox tore his eyes from the gentleman's stare and reached for the door knob. "Very well." He gestured for DeVilbiss to enter first.