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

  The Green Lama: Unbound

  by: Adam Lance Garcia

  Cover Art: Mike Fyles

  Edited by: Tommy Hancock

  The Green Lama is © 2015 by Kendra Crossen Burroughs

  All Rights Reserved.

  The Green LamaTM is used by permission of Kendra Crossen Burroughs

  Published by Moonstone Entertainment Publishing, Inc. 1128 S. State Street, Lockport, IL 60441 With the exception of review purposes, no reprinting of this publication, in print or digital form, Is allowed without the express written consent of Moonstone.

  Published by Moonstone,

  1128 S. State Street

  Lockport, IL 60441.

  PART 1: THE MADNESS FROM THE SEA

  CHAPTER 1

  FAR AND AWAY

  1923

  “Why have you come?” the Tulku whispered, his accent heavy, the long white wisps of his beard flowing over his green robes, his bald head gleaming.

  “The King Regent, sent me here—I came… searching for—for… purpose,” the young American said, his teeth chattering. He shivered on the temple floor, his lips blue, his furs still coated with snow.

  The boy was so young, the Tulku thought, but then again, despite appearances to the contrary, the Tulku had grown quite old over the last few centuries. He tilted his head as he regarded the young man in the golden light of a thousand candles. “Purpose? I have come to understand that Americans have no need of such things.”

  The young man bowed his head. “I have no want of money, fame, or excess. But of purpose, I am impoverished. My father had only one vision: wealth. He wanted me to work toward that end, to fulfill the destiny he had prescribed for me. But I want more… More than money could ever give me… I want purpose. I want to know my destiny.”

  “Destiny?” The Tulku raised an eyebrow, toying with the six-color braided ring on his right middle finger. “There is no destiny except for the karma you have created for yourself, with body, speech, and mind. Om! We are here to strive for enlightenment, for the benefit of all sentient beings. We are not here to hand out destinies to wayward Americans.”

  The young man nodded in sober understanding. A clump of melting snow fell off his head onto the temple floor. “Please, Tulku, I have traveled so far and endured so much…”

  The Tulku stood, pulled his green robe tighter around his body and walked past the other lamas, silent in meditation, to the kneeling American.

  “What is your name, young one?”

  “Jethro. Jethro Dumont.”

  The Tulku raised his chin. “Son of John Pierre Dumont, yes?”

  Dumont nodded. “Yes, Tulku.”

  The Tulku pulled at his beard in consideration. “I am Geshe Tsarong, Khenpo of the Temple of the Clouds, as you well know. Mr. Dumont, I do not doubt your intent, but we must meditate on your request for admission. Come back in three days’ time and we will tell you our decision,” he said as he turned away.

  Tears began to pool in Dumont’s eyes. Desperate, he grabbed at the Tulku’s right hand. “Please…”

  There was a burst of emerald light as the Tulku’s rainbow-colored ring suddenly unraveled, ripping open his skin, and shot through the air. “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” the Tulku screamed in pain as blood poured from the wound, spilling onto the floor. The other lamas jumped to their feet, murmuring mantras as they watched in amazement.

  “Oh God! Oh God! What—What is happening?” Jethro shouted as the ring wound itself around his finger, glowing green.

  “It seems, Mr. Dumont…” Tsarong breathed, cradling his arm,” that Destiny has found you.”

  • • •

  1939

  Tsarong raced down the hall, ignoring the throbbing arthritic pain that radiated from his joints. The moon was high, sending streams of blue light through the windows to pool on the floor. Despite the chill of the night, sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eyes. He had seen and experienced terrible things in his many years that even Jethro Dumont, the Green Lama, could never begin to fathom. But now, for the first time, he felt the cold grip of terror seize at his throat. He had prayed that this day would never come, but ever since that day in the Temple of the Clouds sixteen years ago, he knew the prophecies were true.

  The sunken city was rising.

  Rounding a corner, he made his way into the apartment’s massive study to find Jethro still awake at his desk, half hidden behind a mountain of books. It had been weeks since Jethro had slept, or so it seemed. Since his battle with Nazi Field Marshal von Kultz atop the Brooklyn Bridge, Tsarong had watched helplessly as Jethro worked without pause in a vain attempt to translate the second Jade Tablet. Tsarong wanted to believe Jethro’s obsession was solely due to his desire to understand the artifact, but Tsarong knew his friend better than that. Jethro wasn’t trying to learn—he was trying to forget, to ignore the absence of the woman named Jean Farrell.

  However, all that was about to change.

  “Tulku,” Tsarong said, breathing heavily.

  Jethro, sensing Tsarong’s urgency, pulled himself away from his books. Deep pockets sat below his bloodshot and glassy eyes, his skin unnaturally pale.

  Tsarong hesitated, shocked by his friend’s deterioration. “The Tablet,” he said finally. “Tulku… Something’s happening.”

  Jethro threw open the doors to one of the many hidden rooms in his sprawling Park Avenue apartment. Every cell in his body, already pushed beyond the limits of exhaustion, shook with anticipation. The room was small, little more than a walk-in closet, lined with ornate silk tangkas Jethro had kept from his time at the Temple of the Clouds. The second Jade Tablet sat on a short stanchion in the center. Covered in ancient, almost alien hieroglyphics, the Tablet appeared to be at most an insignificant archeological relic, the sort one would find in a poorly lit corner of the Natural History Museum. But beneath that simple carved exterior lay power that Jethro was only now beginning to comprehend. Its power radiated out in a cold green light, thrumming like a heartbeat, threatening to explode. He could feel it even now, a sensation reminding him of that horrible day aboard the Bartlett and the demons he faced.

  “I heard the sound only moments ago,” Tsarong said. “I thought it might have been a trapped bird, until I saw—”

  “Something triggered it,” Jethro said quietly as he approached the glowing stone.

  Whereas the original Tablet—the braided ring of rainbow-colored hair Jethro wore on his right middle finger—had only given him the ingredients to his radioactive salts, this new Tablet had not only breathed life into the inert, but had also granted its previous owner a horrifying glimpse of the future. But until now, it had refused to reveal any of its powers to Jethro.

  Extending his hand, Jethro let it be engulfed by the emerald light. The hairs on his arm stood on end and he could feel the air crackle with electricity, flowing through his skin and into his veins, as intoxicating as it was painful. He found himself drawn forward, closing his eyes as he was completely enveloped by the light. For an instant, he felt as though he were underwater, floating away with the tide.

  And then it all came rushing down upon him.

  “Tayata om muni muni maha munaye soha,” he whispered as his eyes shot open, glowing green.

  Blurry and muddled visions filled his mind. The past, present, and future, he saw it all at once but could not discern one from the other; weapons beyond measure, creatures of unimaginable horror, incalculable death. He saw the heavens ripped asunder, old enemies reborn, and a lost world recovered. He met a man with black eyes and a crimson scar, felt a jade bullet pierce his heart, and took an odyssey of r
edemption. He watched the sky aflame, the world at war and a new century turn.

  He saw Jean, the only woman to ever come close to holding his heart.

  He heard the gunshot, like thunder.

  He felt the bullet rip through her leg as if it was his own.

  He screamed, as she had not.

  He whispered: “Nyarlathotep Ul’pra! Iä! Iä! Nroac shrnek! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”

  Jethro shut his eyes and crumpled to the ground, the light from the Tablet suddenly diminished, the world once again falling into silence. Smoke wafted off his shoulders, his head pounding.

  Tsarong ran up beside him. “Tulku!”

  His eyes still shut, Jethro gripped Tsarong’s sleeve.

  “Om!” Jethro rasped, his voice hoarse. “Jean… Om! Tare Tuttare Ture Soha … Jean’s in trouble.”

  • • •

  Jean Farrell was on the run. Mud caked her high boots and khakis; her fiery red hair hung wet and limp across her face. Shivering in the shadows of a dilapidated house, she clutched her shiv—a narrow shard of glass with an improvised handle of wrapped twine—like a crucifix. She could hear the dogs in the distance, knowing without a doubt that she was their quarry. Lightning shattered the sky, an instance of daylight. Thunder rolled and the downpour grew heavier, bullets of water shooting from the sky.

  She had been in Greece only three days before everything had gone straight to hell. Murder. How in the blue blazes could she have been accused of murder? She wasn’t even certain why she had traveled all the way here in the first place. She had told Ken she needed time away after their experiences with the golem, the creatures from the Bartlett, and that whole mess atop the Brooklyn Bridge. Privately, she argued she was trying to ignore her growing, and ever-confusing, feelings for Jethro Dumont, but even then she knew she was lying. It was a calling, like a buzzing in the back of her head, drawing her here, to the small port town of Kamariotissa on the island of Samothrace. Of course, had she known that she would be framed for killing the mayor with an axe to the head, she would have ignored the feeling outright and gone somewhere less dangerous… like a mob den.

  Lord, how she missed the Green Lama.

  A warm hand pressed against her shoulder, startling her. She bit back a scream, but couldn’t stop herself from swinging her shiv at her apparent assailant.

  “Easy there,” Aïas Prometeo breathed as he caught Jean’s arm. “It’s just me.” A full head taller than she, he was bigger than even Lieutenant Caraway. His accent was slight but noticeable, though Jean couldn’t place it. He wasn’t American, and despite the name she could tell he definitely wasn’t Greek. Like Jean, he was soaked, his matte black hair bunched into wet clumps. His unshaven visage was brutish but handsome; his eyes the deepest black, constantly moving, never focusing on anything in front of him. Jean doubted she could trust him, but had it not been for him, she would still be in jail, condemned to the gallows.

  “Don’t ever sneak up on me,” she whispered, pulling her arm free. “I could have killed you.”

  Aïas chuckled silently. “Unlikely.”

  “There’s confidence. Don’t forget that I am accused of killing your mayor. Most boys would consider that impressive.”

  “Even if that were the case, that is no axe,” he said, indicating her shiv before gesturing out into the storm. “There is an abandoned station house over the hill. It does not look like anyone has been there for a long time, so we might be able to hide there for the night.”

  “This place isn’t up to snuff?” she asked, indicating the ramshackle building beside them.

  Aïas shook his head. “There’s barely a roof. We will probably drown in there with all the rain. Plus, you said you needed to get in touch with your friends back in New York, yes? There might be a phone, or at least a telegraph.”

  Jean sucked her teeth. He had a point; things had gone belly up and the sooner she could get in touch with the Green Lama—or at a minimum, that rich playboy Jethro Dumont—the better. But something about this plan didn’t sit right with her. “And what about our four-legged friends and their buddies with the guns? They’ll definitely catch a glimpse of us running off into the horizon.”

  “You really think they are going to keep searching in this?” he waved his hand to the sky. “They can barely see two steps in front them and the rain will cover our scent. Come,” he said, turning to leave. “Before they get any closer.”

  “Remind me again why I should trust you?”

  He looked back and shrugged. “You shouldn’t, but then again… They haven’t caught us yet, have they?” he asked, before disappearing back into the rain.

  Jean hesitated, wondering, not for the first time, why Aïas had been arrested. A man that big could do some serious damage and for all the skills Jean possessed, she wouldn’t be able to fight him off easily. Not that she wouldn’t make him hurt. If he had any special plans when they got to the station house, he had another thing coming.

  As she stepped forward, there was a sudden crack of thunder and Jean felt a sharp pain in her right leg. Glancing down, she saw blood seeping out of a small wound in her calf, mixing with the rain.

  Oh, she thought, collapsing into the mud. She reached down to touch the wound, her leg throbbing. The bullet had gone straight through the muscle and out the other side, missing the bone. But that didn’t stop the pain, or the blood. Beneath the din of the pouring rain, she heard a dog’s bark and a policeman’s cries as they ran toward her, their footfalls splashing against the muck.

  “ Aïas!” she shouted as she ripped off the edge of her sleeve to fashion an impromptu tourniquet, no longer concerned that the police would hear her. “Dammit! Aïas!”

  Click!

  Jean looked up behind her to find a pistol barrel staring down at her. “Βάλτε τα χέρια σας στο κεφάλι σας!” the Greek policeman yelled, while the leashed dog growled ferociously.

  “Aw, hell,” she said through gritted teeth, quickly slipping the shiv beneath her remaining sleeve, and cupping her hand to keep it in place.

  “Βάλτε τα χέρια σας στο κεφάλι σας!” the policeman shouted, pontificating each word with a thrust of his pistol.

  “I don’t understand a lick of what you’re saying, buddy, but I can probably guess.”

  The policeman grabbed her by the collar and harshly pulled her off the ground, yelling, “λίθια αµερικανική όρνη!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like I said…” With subtle grace she cocked her wrist, loosing the shiv in her palm. She grabbed the policeman’s arm with her free hand, squeezing down and quickly twisting the gun away while she stabbed him in the shoulder with her handcrafted blade. The officer hollered in pain, releasing Jean and falling back as he tried to remove the shiv, dragging the dog with him. Despite her injury, Jean dove to the ground, grabbed the pistol and smacked it across the officer’s head, knocking him unconscious. “I can’t understand you.”

  “Jean!” Aïas shouted as he ran back over to her. “I heard a gunshot, are you—” His eyes went wide at the scene before him. “—okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Thanks for the help,” she added sardonically.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “This? Buddy, I’ve fought monsters and mobsters. This—this is nothing…” she trailed off as she fainted to the ground.

  • • •

  Lieutenant John Caraway awoke to a ringing phone and a splitting headache. Too much wine, he thought, gripping his temples. Far too much wine.

  Francesca shifted beside him. After so many months apart, he was still unaccustomed to waking and finding her lying next to him, but he wasn’t complaining. She had grown older and softer over the years but he still loved her shape. He ran his hands over hips that would break a younger man’s heart and allowed himself a crooked, self-satisfied smile. She had shown up so suddenly, walking into his office after she had sworn she’d never speak to him again. Things had moved
quickly from there. That was their cycle, off and on, round and round, a carousel made for two. Maybe this time—

  She pulled the blanket over her head and grumbled, “If that’s the office, tell them it’s your anniversary and your wife is going to kill you. And I will, too.”

  Caraway glanced at the clock as he swung his feet off the bed. It wasn’t even four in the morning, which must be some sort of record. His lower back popped as he stood, reminding Caraway that his days as a beat cop were a long way behind him. “Technically, sweetheart, our anniversary was months ago,” he said as he stumbled toward the unremitting phone, the icy floor biting at his feet. “You remember, fifteenth of June, nineteen thirty? You wore a white dress as a joke.”

  Francesca buried her head beneath the pillow. “Just answer the damn phone!” she shouted, her voice muffled.

  Rubbing his eyes, he picked up the receiver and muttered,” his better be good.”

  “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” the strong yet soft-spoken voice echoed through the phone line.

  Caraway sighed. “Jesus. Do you sleep, Lama? I mean, ever?” Normally, he wouldn’t mind hearing from the Green Lama, but then again, Francesca wasn’t normally sleeping in his bed and he wasn’t normally this hung over. “And how in the hell did you get my home number?”

  “I beg your pardon for waking you, Lieutenant, but your assistance is needed.”

  “Who is it?” Francesca murmured through the pillow.

  “Just the Green Lama, sweetness. Go back to sleep,” Caraway said over his shoulder. “You’re gonna get me killed here, Lama.”

  “Again, my apologies,” the Green Lama said, sounding less than sincere, “But time is of the essence.”

  Caraway glanced mournfully over to Francesca. They never got a break, did they? “What is it this time? Did someone take out the Italian consulate now?”

  “Please meet me at Three-fifty Fifth Avenue, hundred-and-second floor, in one hour. I would recommend bringing some travel clothes,” the Green Lama said without responding to Caraway’s question.