The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3)

by Adam Lance Garcia

  Caraway snorted. “That was diplomatic. But you’re right, Clayton, if we’re gonna start doing any sort of detective work, going incognito ain’t an option for Jethro. There’s no way he can be anyone but Jethro Dumont.”

  “That’s an assumption,” Dumont said quietly. With his back turned, his associates failed to notice the smile touching the corner of his lips.

  “But, maybe we can use that,” Caraway said. “Jethro, you’ll be more use to us in the public eye, meeting with local officials and keeping everyone’s attention on you while Clayton and I work undercover in the town’s underbelly.”

  Ken held up both hands defensively. “Once again,” he said, now gesticulating heavily for effect, “we no speaka da Greek.”

  Dumont raised an eyebrow. “That will actually be to your benefit.”

  Ken massaged his temples. “Oh, I don’t like where this is going…”

  • • •

  Jean’s body shook uncontrollably despite the heat of the campfire, no longer able to ignore the excruciating pain and the worsening smell wafting from the bullet wound. Something buzzed in the back of her head, like a wasp trapped in a jar.

  “Goddammit, why is it so cold?” she shivered.

  “Try to sleep, Jean,” Aïas calmly said as he fed the fire.

  “Not—Not tired,” she said, blinking heavily. “Besides, I’ve got the gun. If I fall asleep, who—who’s gonna pro—protect you from the lions and tigers and bears?” she asked with a weak smile. “I’ll be fine. Told ya. I’ve been—been through worse than this. I once had to kiss Harpo.”

  “You are weak, Jean. The fall tore open the wound and made it worse. You need to rest.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve never felt better. I—I—” a flash of green burst behind her eyes, erupting in pain. “Oh God, my head!” she screamed. She squeezed her eyes shut as images flew across her mind’s eye.

  Aïas rushed to her side. “Jean, are you all right?”

  She grabbed at his sleeve, twisting it in her fist. “There’s—There’s a man,” she said through gritted teeth as she writhed on the ground.

  Aïas’s face froze. “What?”

  “No. He’s—He’s not a man. Awalking nightmare. There’s a silhouette glowing in jade. An undead prophet of a false god,” she sputtered. “He’s done something terrible. But—But, there’s something worse. Iä Iä Cthulhu fhtagn! Crystal blade. Time, out of time. Blood dripping down into the void. The stars align. The sunken city rises. Three scions. Fire. Colors. Stone. Iä Iä Cthulhu fhtagn! The savior must die before he is risen. Iä Iä Cthulhu fhtagn! Dead, he waits dreaming.”

  Aïas’s eyes went wide. He grabbed Jean by the shoulders. “What did you say?”

  Jean shook her head furiously, her face contorted as tears flowed down her cheeks. “I—I don’t know. Gah! I don’t know. There are these images and voices. Like the world is breaking and I’m at the center.”

  “You are sick, you have lost too much blood,” he said as he began to unwind the bandage. “Let me check your—”

  A putrid odor filled Jean’s nostrils. Prying her eyes open she looked down at the gangrene wound. With that she broke down, sobbing with her face in her hands. “Oh, no,” she whimpered.

  Aïas closed his eyes in thought, realizing there was no other option. “Βλασφηµία,” he growled. He pressed his hands against the rotting flesh. Jean let out a soft whimper as his hands began to glow, warmth spreading through her body. Aïas opened his eyes, the formerly black irises now a blazing jade, and looked directly at Jean.

  “Jean,” he said calmly but firmly. His voice took on a resonance that echoed through the air; even the ground itself seemed to vibrate with every word. The world around them shifted out of focus, and the shadows grew darker. Every molecule, every atom, everything around them was Aïas’s voice. “Listen to me. You will be calm and you will listen.”

  Jean lifted her head and faced Aïas. Her eyes were glassy, her face slack. “I will listen,” she said in monotone.

  Aïas grimaced, a bitter taste in his mouth. “All will be explained, but you still have a long road ahead of you. I need you to be calm. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “We need to keep moving,” he said.

  “We need to keep moving,” Jean repeated softly.

  Aïas nodded then closed his eyes. The air buzzed, a low pitch hum that moved through and around them. Beneath his hands the blood on Jean’s bandages evaporated as the wrappings fell free and the gangrenous flesh knitted itself close, as if she had never been injured at all.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Yes. Better.”

  “Good. Now, Forget,” he said.

  Jean furrowed her brow and shook her head. “No.”

  Aïas’s narrowed. That was unexpected. “Forget,” he reiterated with force.

  Her face relaxed, her shoulders slumped. “Forget,” she whispered.

  Aïas frowned at Jean, dissatisfied with himself. “Good, now wake up,” he commanded, his voice beginning to lose its resonance. He blinked and the world quickly regained it focus and substance.

  Jean’s face relaxed and she woke from her daze. She absently wiped away the remaining tears from her cheeks and looked sternly up at Aïas. “Who told you could get so close?” she said, pushing him away, once again sounding like herself.

  Aïas chuckled lightheartedly. “Sorry. You fell asleep. We need to get moving before the sun rises, we have still got a long trip ahead of us.”

  “Great. More walking,” she groaned.

  As she followed after Aïas, Jean felt a small tingling moving around in the back of her mind, like an itch she couldn’t scratch, but every time she tried to pinpoint it and nail it down, all she could think about was how good her leg felt, as if it had never been injured at all.

  CHAPTER 5

  INCOGNITO

  There is no night at the top of the world, just stars and the bitter, unrelenting cold; the latter of which Jethro Dumont was suffering firsthand.

  “‘Endurance is one of the most difficult disciplines, but the final victory comes to the one who endures, ’” Tsarong had said before shutting the doors to the Temple of the Clouds, leaving the half-naked Dumont alone to the elements. A storm had passed through during the day, dropping a foot-thick white blanket across the world. But while the snowfall had stopped, the wind refused to die down, howling ferociously through the mountains.

  “‘I’ll go to Tibet to find clarity. I’ll discover my purpose there.’ Jesus Christ, Jethro, you’re an idiot. Second only to dating Lillian Gish, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” he grumbled to himself, his teeth chattering as he stumbled through the snow, hugging himself to retain what little warmth he could. “Goddamn, it’s cold.”

  He could feel his toes begin to freeze; it was only a matter of time before they started to fall off. How long could he survive out here, he wondered? Three hours? Two? Hell, it would be a miracle if he could make it past one. He needed to find shelter.

  After several minutes of wandering he came upon a small cliff. Though his joints were almost frozen, he was able to pull himself over the bluff and onto the plateau, where he fell face first into the snow. Pushing himself up, he could hear the harsh roar of the wind relentlessly flowing over the mountain, forcing the air out of his lungs. Gasping, he didn’t hear the soft footsteps and low growl of the snow leopard, and it wasn’t until the beast’s claws dug into his skin that Jethro realized what was happening.

  • • •

  “I have a bad feeling about this, sir,” the Oberführer repeated as they entered their impromptu headquarters outside the city. The tent walls were covered in maps and charts, pinpricked with small flags and written over with arrows and numbers. A long table sat at one end, while smaller ones lined the temporary structure, each laden with radios, typewriters, and other tools.

  “As you’ve mentioned, Herr Oberführer,” Gottschalk said with little effort
to mask his annoyance as he moved toward a chair at the far end. “It has been noted.”

  “Though I am loathe to admit it,” Sturmbannführer Hirsch said, picking at his acne scars as he followed the others in, “I must agree with the Oberführer. This is a fool’s errand.”

  The Oberführer gave Hirsch an appreciative—albeit cursory—nod. “We have aligned ourselves with a petty thug, a petty Greek thug, and for what purpose?” He waved his hands in frustration. “We should be focusing our attentions on the upcoming—”

  Gottschalk raised a cautionary finger. “The Führer has ordered us here and we shall do as he commands. Besides, it is not for this ‘petty thug’ that we are here, but rather his two associates.” He crossed his legs, then laced his fingers together. “If they can achieve what they have promised, perhaps we can finally overcome the Toht, Vogel, and von Kultz embarrassments and maybe we will have the tools we need to return glory to the Fatherland.”

  The Oberführer snorted. “Magic. Mysticism. Supernatural foolishness, if you ask me. I do not question the Führer on anything else, but his obsession with the occult is worrisome. Arks… Holy Grails… Even the ‘Spear of Destiny.’ How many men have died in vain for these ‘sacred’ items? I suppose the next thing we will learn is that those masked individuals are really little green men from Mars.”

  “Coincidentally, Herr Oberführer, you are not that far off.”

  The Nazi officials turned to find their bearded compatriot entering the tent.

  “Herr Doktor Hammond,” Gottschalk said with a slight bow of his head.

  “Herr Obergruppenführer,” the doctor replied as he walked over to a small dry bar in the back corner of the tent. He gave a perfunctory salute. “Heil Hitler.”

  “Everything go well?” Gottschalk asked.

  Hammond nodded with muted satisfaction. The Oberführer made note of the ornate scabbard hooked to the doctor’s belt; he had not been wearing it earlier.

  “Come, now,” Hirsch said with a chuckle. “You’re not saying that those masked twins are spacemen, are you?”

  “Oh, I never said anything of the sort!” the doctor exclaimed as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  “Then what are you getting at, Herr Doktor?” the Oberführer asked. “From what I understand it was you who arranged this little excursion.”

  “Indeed,” the doctor said, a smile beneath his Van Dyke. He took a sip of the drink, hissing as the liquor burned its way down. “Do any of you recall hearing of an expedition to Tibet several years ago?”

  “Ah yes… the one lead by Kannenberg and that maniac Karl Heydrich,” Hirsch said thoughtfully. “I read the reports. Terrible mess that was.”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes, but while the expedition was… less than successful, our mission here is directly tied to Heydrich’s failed efforts.”

  “And how is that?” the Oberführer inquired as he paced the tent with his hands behind his back.

  “They were looking for an artifact, a tablet of sorts,” Gottschalk interjected.

  The Oberführer raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “What sort of ‘tablet’?”

  “The Jade Tablet, to be precise,” the doctor said as he took a seat. “Heydrich believed the Tablet would give us the ingredients to create our very own supersoldiers, and while that may have been possible, Heydrich was mistaken about several things.”

  “Such as?” Hirsch asked.

  “Firstly, Heydrich, understandably, believed that the Jade Tablet was a literal tablet made of jade, when it is in fact something of a misnomer. The Jade Tablet he sought was a ring of rainbow fiber. Secondly, he believed there was only one Tablet.” Hammond paused and held up two fingers and a thumb. “There are, however, three.”

  The Oberführer stopped short as though he had been punched in the stomach.

  “The First, the one Heydrich was after, is… lost to us for the time being. The Second is believed to have been destroyed sometime in the first century by the Ancient Jews.”

  Hirsch snorted. “The Jews ruin everything, don’t they?”

  The others chuckled briefly, and the doctor continued.

  “The Third… The Third Tablet is here, somewhere on this island.”

  “Let us pretend for a moment that these Jade Tablets really do exist,” the Oberführer postulated. “If one is here, why do we not just reach out and take it? All these theatrics, dealing with thugs and masked men, moving around in the night like criminals; a waste! And if we were to obtain it, do we even know what it does? You said that Heydrich believed the first one would give us ‘supersoldiers.’”

  Hammond sighed, exasperated. “It is believed that each Tablet, though tied to the same power source, has a unique attribute. The Tibetan Tablet, also known as the ‘Sacred Colors, ’is said to alter human life. The Middle Eastern Tablet, sometimes called the ‘Tablet of Abraham,’ can give life. The Greek Tablet, the one we seek, also known as the ‘Fire from Olympus, ’is said to have the power of the gods.”

  Hirsch snorted. “‘Power of the gods.’ Herr Doktor, you have been listening to too many fairy tales,” he said, laughing. “Herr Obergruppenführer, surely you do not believe this foolishness?”

  Gottschalk hesitated before saying, “The Führer believes it, and that is good enough for me, as should it be for you, Herr Sturmbannführer. As to the Oberführer’s concerns, these are delicate times. We dare not risk playing our hand too soon. For the Führer’s plans to work, we must move under the flag of diplomacy, lest we draw unwanted attention from the Greek government, let alone the world at large. Alexei Polyxena, criminal that he is, has facilitated our entrance into the country, and given us access to the ‘masked twins.’ Strange as they are, they claim to know the location of this Third Jade Tablet and, perhaps most importantly, know how to activate it and bring about the power we need to permanently tip the scales in our favor.”

  “How do we even know we can trust them?” the Oberführer asked pointedly.

  “Because,” Hammond began as he reach into his scabbard, “they gave us this.”

  The tent erupted with green light, glowing in the night.

  Jethro opened his eyes, and all was jade.

  • • •

  He was standing in a massive room overlooking a chasm, a rattling wind flowing from up from the shadows. The walls were made of coral, extending out in curves, intersecting at right angles. He was bound to an altar at the center of the room. His right hand was pressed against a stone, fingers splayed, the Jade Tablet wrapped around his middle finger, glowing green. He was the sacrifice. He heard the echo of chanting: maddening, croaking, braying, inhuman sounds. They were all around him, the believers, chanting over and over again, “Iä Iä Cthulhu fhtagn!”

  Jethro looked out into the darkness before him. The shadows moved and broke open and two red, green, and yellow slits began to form. Tentacles like clouds moved out into the light, twisting and undulating around him.

  Someone gripped him by the hair and pulled his head back, turning his face to the ceiling.

  He looked into the face of a murderer. Karl Heydrich lived. His eyes burned with madness, grinning wildly, his teeth cracked and jagged. He held a glowing green phurba – no, it was a crystal shard – in his hand.

  Heydrich leaned in close, breath like brimstone as he whispered, “Cthulhu rises.”

  He plunged the phurba into Jethro’s throat and all was pain.

  • • •

  Jethro screamed as he lurched out of bed, dripping with sweat. He gripped at his neck, searching for the wound but finding none.

  “Om! Tare Tuttare Ture Soha!” he whispered, hoping the mantra would arouse his own inner strength. There was part of him that wanted it to be nothing more than a terrible nightmare, but he knew better than that. It had been prophecy, a portent of events to come, much more lucid than the ones he had experienced before.

  But… it couldn’t be the future, he decided. Heydrich had been dead for over five years. There was no que
stion; he had seen Heydrich die.

  Hadn’t he?

  Jethro stumbled over and threw open the window. He shivered; the cold ocean breeze ice against his skin. He could still hear the chanting; still feel those massive eyes staring down on him. Cthulhu. It was like a darkness encroaching on his mind. Somehow everything he had done since those terrible days at the Temple of the Clouds all those years ago was connected to this creature. Jethro shuddered. What had he done? How many lives had he now put at risk? Caraway’s, Ken’s, and most of all Jean’s. Deep down in the pit of his stomach he knew she was at the center of this, the knot at whose center all these strings were tied.

  The Keystone. They had called her the Keystone.

  And if what he saw was indeed the future, could he change it? Rabbi Brickman had seen the coming holocaust of his people and had done all he could, creating a golem in hopes of altering the path of history, and even then he was unable to stop the tide.

  Gazing out into the sky, Jethro couldn’t help but think how green the moon looked.

  He frowned. He would not be sleeping tonight.

  • • •

  The Green Lama jumped down into the alleyway. Having only saved a single vial of his radioactive salts during his escape from Rick Master’s airship, he was mindful not to expend his energy too quickly. He had left his enhanced salts onboard the airship in an unconscious effort to prove to himself—and to Jean—that Jethro Dumont was as much a hero as the Green Lama. But old habits die hard, and Jethro once again found his face hidden beneath a viridian hood. And while his new robes fit him well, he found the lack of furred cuffs and the more monastic cut slightly uncomfortable. For now he kept to the shadows, moving silently toward the town’s police station. While he had complete faith in Ken and Caraway, he hoped to aid their efforts by learning all he could about Jean’s alleged homicide.

  What he knew so far was scant. According to the shopkeeper, Jean was seen running from the mayor’s official residence shortly before his body was found with an axe blade to the head. She was arrested less than an hour later in her hotel room across town. She broke free shortly after and had been on the run ever since.