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

  “No, Herr Dumont will suffice,” Gan said as he gulped down his drink and poured himself another. “So strange to find you here. I am not sure if you noticed, but we are a long way away from New York City.”

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” Jethro hoarsely replied.

  “Ach was! Herr Dumont. I was making an observation,” Gan said with a wag of his finger.

  “I’m looking for my friend Jean Farrell. She was framed for the murder of a local politician and has gone missing.”

  “The redhead who destroyed Rabbi Brickman’s golem? And she seemed so nice,” he said, dripping with sarcasm.

  Jethro choice to ignore Gan’s slight. “I’m afraid the mystery goes far beyond a simple murder. While investigating the crime scene I was attacked by… a creature,” he said. He related his encounter at Astrapios’s and his narrow survival. “I don’t know what it was searching for, but I’m almost certain it is tied to… other dark forces I have faced…”

  “Dark forces…” Gan gazed down at his glass. “How do you mean…?”

  Jethro told Gan of the demons aboard the Bartlett, the living storm, the voices, and his vision of the dark ceremony. He chose not to tell him of Ken or Caraway in hopes of aiding their undercover efforts. “I believe, Herr Oberführer, it is now your turn to tell me why you’re in Kamariotissa.”

  Gan cleared his throat. “You are no doubt aware of Hitler’s obsession with the occult. Your little adventure in Tibet all those years ago was only one part of his crusade to claim any and all mystical artifacts in hopes of aiding his efforts of world conquest… Yes, I know all about your encounter with Heydrich,” he said, responding to Jethro’s reaction. “I understand you killed him. Pulled the life out of him to save a young boy… Suffice to say it is because of your efforts there that I have been brought here.”

  Jethro grimaced, knowing all too well what the Oberführer was hinting at. “The Jade Tablet,” he said mournfully.

  Gan nodded. “The Third and final.”

  “Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha,” Jethro breathed. He looked up at Gan. “A third Tablet… Here? Have you seen it? Do the Nazis have it?”

  Gan shook his head. “Not yet. At least, not completely. Those we have aligned ourselves with have given us a piece of the Final Tablet. They call it the Shard, and amongst other things, it is the key to the lost city of R’lyeh.”

  “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” Jethro said from memory.

  Gan raised an eyebrow. “What do you know, Herr Dumont?”

  Jethro shook his head. “Very little. Mostly flashes of images and moments. Signs and portents from—”

  “Brickman’s Tablet…?” Gan gasped.

  Jethro nodded. “It revealed aspects of the future to me. From what I saw, someone is going to try to raise something called Cthulhu.”

  “It’s a god,” Gan hesitantly began. “An evil god of horrors you can’t—” His voice caught in his throat. “Brickman told me he had seen flashes of Cthulhu while using the Second Jade Tablet but… I never thought…” Gan trailed off and took a large gulp of his drink, his hands shaking. “I saw it. Cthulhu. I looked into its eyes.” He stuttered as he told Jethro how the Shard had sliced open reality. Jethro remained silent, the room growing colder as Gan described the horrors he had witnessed.

  “They believe they can control it,” Gan said as he finished his tale, “use it to defeat their enemies. Madmen. There is one, however, who doubts this, and wants to see the Shard and the Jade Tablets destroyed before the others can give rise to this monster.”

  Jethro raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying we have an ally in the Nazi military?”

  “To a degree.”

  After a moment’s consideration, Jethro asked, “You said Brickman had seen flashes of Cthulhu, just as he had seen signs of the coming holocaust. Did he give any specifics?”

  “He was unclear as to whether the Nazi’s efforts will succeed at raising the creature. Even if they do, no one can control Cthulhu. It wants nothing more than the destruction of our world, of all worlds…There was one thing Brickman was certain of, though.” He looked away, distastefully rolling the words over in his mouth. “No matter what happens, Herr Dumont, you will die.”

  • • •

  Sotiria manned the helm while the others nodded off below deck. Vasili stood at the bow toying with his worry beads, rereading the instructions Alexei had given him, gooseflesh running down his back. They had been sailing for hours now, the sun breaking through the darkness, as they headed toward the city of Aghios Panteleimon. That much didn’t concern him; he had made several trips like this before. But, it was the prayer Alexei had instructed him to say before they removed the book that caused Vasili’s skin to crawl.

  “Nyarlathotep klaatu barada nikto. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

  • • •

  The doctor tugged the tuft of hair on his chin as he leafed through his notes. While he had long since grown accustomed to the itch, he still found its necessary presence cumbersome, but such are the sacrifices one makes for a dream.

  Scribbling down a brief annotation, he saw the shadows shift in the corner of his eyes. He put down his pen and delicately closed his journal. A wraithlike laugh filled the tent, a thousand voices all speaking at once, but the doctor was unmoved, patiently folding his hands as he stared into the shadows.

  “The scare tactics notwithstanding, there’s no use in hiding. I know you’re there,” he said to the emptiness.

  “You always were so perceptive,” Alexei said as he appeared from the shadows.

  The doctor grimaced. “I may not be fluent in Greek, but I can detect sarcasm when I hear it, and it is not appreciated, even from the likes of… well, whatever you are.”

  Alexei laughed as he sat down on the doctor’s desk. “Oh, I miss the old you. You were so much more… vibrant! Volatile! So much we lose in death.”

  Hammond unconsciously picked at his beard. “I do not consider what happened to me ‘death.’ Not in the most literal sense of the term, at least.”

  Alexei scoffed. “Please, when I found you in Tibet, you were barely a dry husk of flesh—a pile of bones frozen in the mountains. You may not consider what happened to you death, but I can assure you that you’re not technically alive either.”

  The doctor stood up and cleared his throat, ignoring Alexei’s comments. “The Shard is as you promised,” he said as he paced the tent.

  “Did you have any doubts?”

  Hammond paused. “Some.”

  “Tsk! I am heartbroken. Stab me through the heart and leave me to the wolves,” Alexei mimed.

  “When will you give us the Third Tablet?” Hammond asked, not amused. “By my estimations we are only days away from the alignment.”

  Alexei’s smile waned. “It has been safely stored away. I have sent my men to retrieve the Book in the interim. We will need it for the ceremony.”

  The doctor nodded in consideration. “Dumont will make the perfect sacrifice,” he said with an echo of a smile. “I owe him that much.”

  “Which brings us to why I am here,” Alexei sighed. “Forget Dumont.”

  Hammond’s beard hid his scowl. “Why? You promised.”

  Alexei idly waved this away. “In time. Dumont is too public a figure right now. His death would bring us too much unwanted attention before we have finished. Besides, I have a perfect lamb in mind; she will give us the blood we need to find R’lyeh. Her life will not be missed.”

  “We will still need Dumont’s Tablet, the ‘Sacred Colors, ’ to raise Cthulhu, no?”

  Alexei crossed his arms thoughtfully. “Not necessarily. The prophecy is vague, at best. No need to worry your scarred little face,” Alexei said, patting the doctor on the cheek. “All will go as planned and soon you will have the power of Cthulhu behind you,” he said, pronouncing the ancient god’s name with a guttural k’t’hoo’lhoo.

  “And wha
t a glorious day for the Reich that will be,” Hammond said.

  “Yes, glorious indeed,” Alexei said with a cryptic smile. “Your time is near, Karl.”

  Fredrick Hammond’s eyes drifted to the ground. “That’s not my name anymore.”

  Alexei laughed as he disappeared into the darkness. “Call yourself whatever you want, you’ll always be Karl Heydrich to me.”

  • • •

  “Okay, okay,” Jean said tentatively, holding up her hands as she tried to process it all. “Let’s say for one second I believe you, that you’re the Greek god Prometheus.”

  “Titan,” Prometheus corrected.

  Jean rolled her eyes. “Whatever floats your boat. So, you’re this all-powerful ‘titan’ who can make hotel rooms appear and disappear, walk through fire, and do Lord knows what else.”

  “Healed your leg,” he said, pointing to the holes in her boot.

  She pursed her lips. “I surmised as much… and thank you.”

  A smile curled the corner of Prometheus’s mouth. “You’re quite welcome.”

  Jean began pacing, her footsteps silent in the white void. “You can do all those things, bend reality to your will… Then why the hell did you let yourself get arrested, thrown in jail, and chased half way across an island when you could just snap your fingers and turn everyone into popsicle sticks?”

  “I had to find you,” he replied. “And who said anyone else even knew I existed? Far as anyone else knows, you escaped all on your own. I’m kind of like an imaginary friend, except I’m not imaginary and only vaguely a friend.”

  Jean crossed her arms and walked over to Prometheus. “Still, there had to have been a much easier way to go about that.”

  “True,” Prometheus concurred. “But then again, my powers are a shadow of what they once were.” He turned and began walking toward the infinite distance. Jean followed after him. As they walked a marble floor began to appear beneath their feet, while a massive painted ceiling manifested above. Stone pillars grew out from the ground, while idols of Greek gods seemed to fade into existence. The lights dimmed until almost everything was in shadow save for the small pockets of candlelight. Before Jean knew it, they were inside an ancient temple.

  “That still doesn’t explain why I’m here,” she ventured.

  Prometheus uncomfortably cleared his throat. “I was getting to that. Put simply, you are here because of that,” he said, pointing behind Jean.

  A muculent, leathery sound slithered in her ears, undulating and writhing. She hesitantly looked over her shoulder and felt the madness creep into her mind. In the darkness above her, amidst the green, vile spawn of the stars, were two yellow, unwavering eyes staring down.

  “Cthulhu,” Prometheus said quietly.

  “Please tell me you’re doing this,” Jean whimpered.

  Prometheus regarded Jean before he continued. “As old as I am, my existence is but a blink of an eye for the Elder Things… For the Great Old Ones. They are older than the Earth, older than the galaxy, nearly as old as the Universe itself. They ruled our world and all others until… they didn’t. They scattered themselves across the worlds, sleeping, waiting for their time to return.’Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!’ They awoke only once before… because of my…” He turned his gaze down, blinking away tears. “The world was burning… We were strong then, but even then we weren’t strong enough by ourselves. We can’t stop it, Jean,” Prometheus said, his eyes glowing green. “Not anymore. That is why you are here.”

  “What do you want from me?” she moaned as tears streamed down her cheeks, unable to look away from the horror floating above her. She gripped Prometheus’s collar, begging,” ust tell me what you want and make it go away, please. Please, just make it go away.”

  Prometheus looked at her mournfully. “Jean, I need you to listen to me… The stars are aligning. Its time is approaching—”

  Jean scrunched her eyes shut, her face gleaming red. “What? What are you…? Please, just stop it, make it go away.”

  “Every generation has its heroes. You are the key to stopping the rise of Cthulhu,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders.

  She shook her head, unable or unwilling to open her eyes. “I’m not a god; I’m not a hero…I’m not Foster Fade, Richard Knight, or even the Black fuckin’ Bat. I’m Jean Farrell of Montana. I can’t—you can’t ask me to…”

  “I’m not asking you, Jean. I’m telling you,” he said, genuine sorrow filling his voice. “You are the Keystone, one part of three. Without you this world—all worlds—are doomed.”

  “Why?!” she sobbed, her body shaking. “I don’t want this. I never asked for this.”

  “I’m sorry, Jean.” Prometheus looked away. “All will be revealed in time.”

  She screamed as the creature’s tentacles wrapped around her legs, arms, and waist, and began pulling her toward its horrific maw. “Oh, God. No, please. Help…” she whimpered, trying to grab hold of Prometheus’s hand.

  Frowning, he let his hand slip through hers as she slid away and was lifted off the ground. “I’m sorry, Jean. I can’t help you. You need to face it.”

  “Please…”

  Prometheus closed his eyes and turned away. In her panic Jean thought she could see a glimmer in the corner of his eye as he walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

  “No! Prometheus! Come back! Don’t leave me!!!” she screamed, but her pleas echoed unanswered into the void.

  PART 2: THE UNKNOWN KADATH

  CHAPTER 9

  THE DREAMQUEST OF JEAN FARRELL

  Jean’s lungs were burning. Her eyes fluttered open to find the world overlaid with shades of grey like a motion picture. She was in the middle of a forest, possibly late winter, the trees bare and twisted. Ground to branches was coated in a foot of grey, powdery snow. It reminded her of Montana in December, just as winter began to take its stranglehold, but the trees were too thin, too deformed, as if they had never seen the sun. Sitting up, she ran her hands through the snow-covered grass, finding it strangely warm and dry. Was she dreaming, she wondered? She didn’t remember entering a forest, nor could she recall falling asleep. Standing up, she idly brushed the snow off her clothes. She was dressed in her khakis and tall boots—a bullet hole in the right shin—a light brown leather jacket, and a gun on her side. She had been wearing this before. She remembered that.

  She could smell the distant echo of smoke, like rancid meat cooking on a skewer. Her eyes burned as she staggered through the forest, her legs weak and head heavy. She glanced up at the sky, trying to determine the time of day, but the clouds blanketed the world, hiding the sun beneath an opaque grey screen

  They weren’t clouds. They were too dark, too ashen, to be natural. She could make out two long streaks flowing down toward the horizon. Using them as her guide, she made her way through the forest, the trees gradually thinning until she found her way to the edge of the woods. There she found the dark tendrils reaching down from the sky into two tall massive smoke stacks.

  It wasn’t snow…

  It was ash.

  She wouldn’t risk getting too close to the factory—if that’s what it was— keeping herself to the weeds and brush surrounding the complex. She hadn’t found any sign of people beyond the occasional footprints. Whoever was operating the factory didn’t leave it too frequently, and right now that was fine by her. She needed to figure out where the hell she was before she started chatting it up with the locals. A fence lined the building but there were no signs—warning or identifying—as if the building’s mere existence was enough to drive people away.

  As she made her way toward the corner of the enclosure she came upon a small piece of yellow fabric half buried in the dirt and ash. Picking it up, she discovered it was a six-pointed star, the word Jude printed in the center.

  • • •

  By Jean’s guess, the procession stretched out for nearly half a mile, a black parade of ruined humanity. Men, women, and, worst of
all, children huddled together, vainly trying to fight back the biting wind. They were dressed in rags—no, not even that—they were dressed in remnants; strings of fabric wrapped together. Their bodies were nothing more than desiccated sacks of bones, their skin ashen no matter their race. This was Death displayed before her. The Rabbi’s prophecy had come true, a holocaust.

  She could see two guards by the entryway, dressed in what she recognized from the newsreels as Nazi storm trooper uniforms. They watched the procession with disinterest, and while the crowd cowered in their presence, neither seemed to be carrying a gun. This was good— probably the only good thing Jean had seen so far. From this distance it looked like both guards were wearing strange white leather masks with bulbous black goggles, a twisted version of the hangman’s hood.

  She checked her gun, fully loaded. This was a really bad idea, but she had been hanging around the Lama too long to just sit back and watch. All she needed was two quick shots at the guards and to get the people into the forest. Her plan ended there, but at least she had one, which was admittedly a change from the usual. Lying on her stomach, she wormed her way through the weeds until she was a few yards away from the entrance.

  Only then did she get a good look at the guards.

  She forced her hand over her mouth; it was everything she could do not to scream. The Nazis weren’t wearing masks at all. The pale white leather was their skin and the goggles their eyes. A long fin ran up their necks to the tops of their heads, their spine and joints a collection of knots.

  Whatever they were, they weren’t human.

  Jean shook her head clear. It didn’t matter what they were, she wasn’t going to let them kill these people. Shifting to a crouch, she readied herself. She pulled the pistol’s hammer back and began to move forward when—

  “Get down!” someone hissed, pulling her back down to the ground.

  “Get your hands off me!” Jean cried as she tried to kick her assailant away, but he was too quick, too strong. He pinned her down, knocking her pistol out of her hands. A thick beard of grey and dirty blond covered his gaunt, sunburned face, wrinkled like old leather. He looked half-alive.