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

  Tsarong placed his hands behind his back as he paced around the edge of the circle. “There is no peace in your heart, Jethro Dumont. You are at war with yourself, with what you are and what you will become. Do not dwell in the past, do not dwell in the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. You must find equanimity inside yourself if you are to attain enlightenment.”

  “And how is slicing me open going to achieve that?!” Tsarong paused and turned to Dumont.

  “You said you came seeking purpose, did you not?” he asked simply.

  “I didn’t expect it to be this painful,” Dumont replied, visibly deflated. “Rebirth can often be painful. Close your eyes and calm yourself, find the place of serenity in your mind.”

  “You promise not cut me again?”

  “I promise you will not be harmed,” Tsarong replied with a slight nod.

  “Okay,” Dumont sighed as he closed his eyes. “Breathe deep. Calm yourself,”

  Tsarong said softly as he began to pace around Dumont. Dumont exhaled. “I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calming myself down.”

  “Breathe in… Breathe out… You will find your windhorse.”

  “Windhorse? That sounds ridiculous.”

  “Most people do when they speak English.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “Find your center. The rest will come.”

  “You could have just called it ‘my point of Zen.’”

  “I would, but last I checked, we are not in Japan.”

  “Pain in my ass…” Jethro grumbled with a crooked gin. He closed his eyes and continued to breathe deeply. After several minutes of silence, Tsarong said: “How do you feel?”

  Dumont breathed deeply. “Calm.”

  “Good.” There was the soft whistle of steel slicing through the air followed by the clang! of metal striking metal. Dumont opened his eyes to discover he had—in an instant and without thought—unsheathed his blade and deftly blocked Tsarong’s sword. Dumont’s mouth fell open as his eyes moved back and forth between the blades and the smiling Tulku.

  “Holy moley.”

  • • •

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Vasili said as he slammed his stein down, splattering beer onto the table. “This is bad. This is big time bad. Nazis,” he added, spitting to the ground. The bar was filled to the brim with the usual late night clientele, though there was a sense, despite all their merriment, they were trying their best to ignore the assembly at the back of the establishment.

  “That’s some pretty big talk there, Vasili boy,” Petros said, propping his feet up onto the table. “What ya gonna do about it?”

  Vasili shrugged, starring at Alexei, the Twins and their goose-stepping compatriots at the other side of the bar. Only four uniformed officials sat at Alexei’s table, the rest of the regiment had been sent back to their makeshift camp outside of town. Alexei sat at the center of the inexplicable gathering, acting as both host and jester. To Alexei’s right was the man with the pencil thin mustache Vasili had learned was Obergruppenführer Albrecht Gottschalk. Seated besides Gottschalk were his subordinates, none of whose names Vasili had been able to learn: one had hollow cheeks, dented with horrible acne scarring; the second had black balls for eyes and picked at his Van Dyke incessantly as though he was unaccustomed to its presence; the third was a balding man with a terrible scar that stretched from his scalp to his right cheek. The Twins sat silently to Alexei’s left, enjoying the spectacle.

  “What can I do?” Vasili grimaced as he took another swig. “Shut my mouth. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  Petros took a long drag from his cigarette. “Nazis… eh. What’s the big deal? All they want is elbow room,” he said, flapping his arms like stunted wings. “More room to breathe. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Vasili shot Petros a withering look. “You remember what happened the last time the Germans got all hot and bothered.”

  “Please,” Petros said, pressing a hand to his chest, wounded. “I’m not that old.”

  “You’re not that young either.”

  Petros raised his glass in concession. “And you’re too young to worry yourself, Vasili. Do you see Sotiria over there, all alone? She’s waiting for you, my friend. Life is too short to let hurt hearts stop you from getting a good fu—”

  “Thank you, Petros,” Vasili interrupted, fighting the urge to glance over at the fisherwoman. “But I will keep my own council on the matters of my heart and bed.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, taking another swig of his beer. “Me, I would’ve let her take a ride a long time ago.”

  The front door slammed open.

  “Bartender! Bartender!” Andonis Needa shouted as he flew in, one arm wrapped around his employee, Dimitri. Both men wore wild grins. Vasili hadn’t seen them at the meeting earlier, but that didn’t explain their uncharacteristic high spirits.

  “We would like a bottle—no!” Dimitri exclaimed as they stumbled up to the bar. “Two bottles of your finest, eh… finest…”

  “Ouzo!” Andonis interjected. “We would like two bottles of your finest ouzo!”

  Dmitri’s smile broadened. “Two bottles of your finest ouzo.”

  Andonis tossed twenty drachmas onto the counter. “And make it fast, sir. We are men on a schedule.”

  The bartender, a bearded brute of a man, huffed as he swiped the coins into his hands, waddling toward the bottles on the other side of the bar before either man had the chance to change his mind.

  “Andonis, aren’t you supposed be home with Anthe, your tail between your legs?” Petros shouted to the shopkeeper.

  “There’s only one thing between my legs,” Andonis called back, “and I’ll tell you what my wife can do with it!”

  “Since when did you grow a pair?” Petros said, letting out a sound that was half chuckle and half phlegm-riddled cough.

  “Since Jethro Dumont himself came into my store!” Andonis announced, slamming his palm proudly against the counter.

  Vasili noticed that everyone in the bar, even Alexei, perked up their ears at the mention of one of the world’s most scandalous men.

  “Jethro Dumont? The Jethro Dumont,” Petros asked, eyebrow raised in disbelief.

  “Yup!” Dmitri interjected. “Not just any Jethro Dumont, but the man himself! Though I doubt there are many men in this world with a name that ridiculous.”

  “I heard he was seein’ that American actress,” Petros said to Andonis and Vasili alike, hoping one would give him the name.

  Vasili shrugged. While almost fluent in English, thanks in part to the frequent British travelers that passed through the port, he knew little to nothing of American culture. There was the theater that played old American films—usually two-year-old serials like Undersea Kingdom—but Vasili never had any interest in anything from across the Atlantic. He cared about Samothrace and Samothrace alone.

  “Bette Davis,” Andonis said after a massive swig of ouzo, grimacing as the fiery liquid ran to his stomach, his face red. He let out a wet cough. “Yeah—’scuse me—he says she wasn’t worth the trouble.”

  “Pity,” Petros sighed a yellow cloud, aggressively grabbing at his crotch. “’Cause I’ll tell you what I’d do with her, yes sir.”

  Vasili saw Alexei watching them. The old man kept his body turned toward his guests, nodding ever so slightly in Andonis’s direction. Vasili frowned in understanding, finishing off his last finger of beer before walking over to the bar.

  “How’s the store, Andonis?” Vasili said as he sat down, genially patting the shopkeeper on the shoulder.

  “Didn’t you hear?” Andonis exclaimed, his eyes bright. “Best one-day sale we ever had!”

  Vasili nodded slowly. “Yup, I heard. Iapetos,” he said the bartender, “another round for me, please? So, Andonis, Jethro Dumont, eh? The Jethro Dumont. Who hasn’t heard of Jethro Dumont? In our town, no less? That is big, big news.”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  The bartender slid a stein across t
he bar counter, which Vasili caught with practiced ease. There was no reason to pay, though; he was with Alexei.

  “He didn’t tell you where he was staying, did he?”

  Andonis scratched his cheek as he thought. “Well, I can’t say for certain it’s where he’s staying, you know, but he’s havin’ me ship all his stuff to that big hotel they built down by the shore. You know the one, Aiolos or something.”

  “Yeah, I know the place,” Vasili said. “Did he say anything else to you?”

  Andonis scrunched his face in thought as he swallowed another massive gulp of ouzo. “Mm. Not that I recall. No, he just seemed to be interested in seein’the ruins,” he said with a shrug.

  “Anything else, Andonis?” Vasili asked pointedly.

  Andonis frowned. “No. Just needed clothing, I guess,” he added with a shrug. “He needed a green hooded robe. Ain’t that wild? What would a rich man like Dumont need with a green robe? Americans…”

  Vasili pattedAndonis on the back. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Except,” Andonis said as Vasili turned away.

  Vasili stopped short. “Except what?”

  Andonis tapped at his forehead, like he was trying to shake something loose. “Except, he did ask me if any other Americans had come through recently.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I just told him about girl that killed Astrapios.”

  “Jean Farrell?”

  Andonis nodded. “Yeah! He even recognized her name. Apparently, she’s an actress over there or something. Small world, eh?” He took another swig of his ouzo. “You think they were ever an item?”

  “Probably,” Vasili answered absently. He could see Alexei beckoning him over. Allowing himself one last sip of beer, he pushed his way over to his employer’s table. He leaned down between Alexei and Gottschalk, excusing himself before turning his attention to the old man.

  “So?” Alexei asked, twisting his interlaced fingers.

  Vasili summed up what Andonis had told him. Alexei nodded slowly as he listened, hissing at the mention of Jean Farrell. Vasili noticed that even the balding Nazi raised an eyebrow upon hearing the woman’s name; perhaps she was more famous than Vasili had assumed.

  The old man tapped his nails against the wooden table. “Jethro Dumont, eh?” he said in a long breath, the Twins twittering beside him. One leaned over and whispered in Alexei’s ear. The old man nodded in understanding, his eyes cold.

  “The American millionaire?” Gottschalk asked in broken Greek. “Yes, we know of him. We had hoped he would have been sympathetic to our efforts, much in the way of Lindbergh, but unfortunately our efforts were derailed due to extenuating circumstances, nicht wahr, Herr Oberführer?” Gottschalk said to the balding officer.

  “Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenführer,” the officer said simply, adjusting his uniform. “Ich habe aber immer noch ein ungutes Gefühl, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

  “Bekannt, Herr Oberführer,” the Obergruppenführer replied, waving away the comment.

  Alexei smiled broadly. “Well, it seems as though the stars have come right for us all! This American has something we each want. This will be our chance to bring Dumont over to our mutual efforts, gentlemen. And perhaps,” he turned to the Twins, “even yours, my friends…”

  Vasili found himself staring at the Twins’ pale white hands. They were gnarled and bony, the joints knotted and arthritic, pushing out against the white flesh. Their nails were claw-like, extending out to sharp points that seemed capable of easily ripping into flesh. Their palms were covered in deep scars, like cigarette burns pushed into the very meat of their hands, reminding Vasili of a dead squid.

  Gottschalk allowed himself a small smirk and raised his glass to the Twins across the table. “Indeed, this mission may turn out to be more successful than even the Führer himself had anticipated!”

  The Twins bowed the heads in unison, croaking softly as they did.

  Vasili moved to leave when Alexei grabbed him by the arm. “Let’s arrange for our friends to meet this Mr. Dumont. Then we’ll find out what he knows of the American girl.”

  Vasili nodded quickly, understanding Alexei’s implication. “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s a good boy,” Alexei said, squeezing Vasili’s arm as he walked away.

  Like it or not, eventually, Vasili would have to kill Jethro Dumont.

  • • •

  “Do we even have a plan? I mean… at all?” Ken said, pacing up and down the presidential suite. They had only just arrived, and despite the lateness of the hour, all three were wide awake.

  “I think whatever plan the Lama had for us went out the window when we were attacked by a living storm,” Caraway commented from the balcony, finishing a cigarette. A cool breeze came in off the shore, the Mediterranean air salty. The night sky was clear, pinpricked with white stars. Even Caraway had trouble believing that, mere hours before, the horizon had been painted a deadly ink black.

  “You don’t see many living storms in New York, that’s for sure,” Ken added.

  “Just rampaging golems, Nazi madmen, and the occasional demon,” Caraway said, his voice cracking. He paused to clear his throat and took a long drag of his cigarette. “But yeah, a livin’ storm is new.”

  Ken massaged his eyes, more out of frustration than exhaustion. “Of all the shit we’ve had to deal with over the years, now we have cognizant meteorological occurrences.”

  “Big words there, buddy,” Caraway said, flicking the remains of his cigarette toward the shore. “You startin’ to feel more like yourself?”

  “Now that I’m on solid ground, yeah.”

  “’Fraid of heights, eh? You were doin’ pretty well back at the Empire State Building.”

  “Once again, solid ground. I don’t mind tall buildings you can leap in a single bound, but once you remove the ground, then…” He took a deep, stuttering breath. “Then I start losing my lunch.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Caraway remarked. “What do you think about this whole mess, Jethro?” he said to the seated millionaire. “The Lama let you in on anything before we left?”

  Dumont stared at his steepled fingers, his face unreadable as he shook his head. “I believe the Tulku had only a glimmer of the dangers we might face here,” he said, his voice hollow. So far, Caraway had been impressed with his friend’s courage, but it was possible the pressure had already overtaken him. “Had he known the extent of the darkness we would be facing, I doubt he would have sent us out alone.”

  “So, we’re basically up shit’s creek without a paddle,” Caraway said. “Fantastic.”

  “He said this might all have had to do with Kuhchooloo,” Ken ventured.

  “Kookookachoo?” Caraway struggled. “Do either of you know what that means? The Lama wasn’t all that forthcoming.”

  “Cthulhu,” Dumont corrected.

  “Well, however the hell you pronounce it, it’s bad news,” Ken said. “Hands down. Trouble with a capital ‘Kuhchoo.’”

  “According to the Green Lama, whatever Cthulhu is,” Dumont began as he got out of his chair, thoughtfully placing his hands behind his back as he paced the room, “its power was somehow tied directly to the golem creature the Green Lama recently defeated.”

  “That Jean defeated,” Ken corrected.

  “And that I shot in the eye,” Caraway added.

  Dumont nodded in concession. “I also have reason to believe the creatures we faced aboard the Bartlett are somehow connected, though I cannot be certain.”

  Caraway’s gaze briefly dropped to the floor. While he claimed to have no memory of his possession, there were still nights when he awoke to the sensation of nails scraping against his spine, his mind filled with visions of the evil that had briefly taken hold of him only a few months prior.

  “Either way,” Dumont added, “there is no doubt that it is something much more terrifying than anything we have ever faced before.”

  Caraway snorted. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it
was as if Dumont were trying to sound like the Green Lama. “No offense Jethro, everything we’re dealing with is more terrifying than you’ve faced before… unless you count Bette Davis. Look, I know you’re into that whole Buddhist thing like the Lama, but you,” he stifled a chuckle—“are not the Lama.”

  Dumont risked a smile, but otherwise disregarded Caraway’s comment. “From what we’ve witnessed it’s reasonable to assume that this town sits at the center of its power. And that power is growing.” Dumont paused and whispered quietly: “‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.’”

  “Speaking Tibetan over there, Jethro?” Caraway asked.

  Dumont shook his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. “It was something the Tulku heard… Though he failed to translate it, I think he believed that it portends the…” Dumont paused and shut his eyes, as if in pain. “That it’s an omen of the coming of Cthulhu.”

  “So, what do you think we should do?” Ken inquired. “Go around and ask everyone we meet: ‘Hey, what’s with all this Kuhchooloo jazz?’” he cordially asked a potted plant. “‘And while you’re at it, have you seen our friend Jean? Actress… redhead… carries a gun, accused of killing your mayor?’”

  Caraway shrugged, playing with his mustache. “Dumb as it sounds, that’s not quite the worst idea.”

  Ken raised a forefinger. “One problem, though: only one of us here speaks Greek,” he said, pointing his raised finger to Dumont. “And you saw how the shop owner got when he found out you were you.” Ken paused, his face falling. “Do you think she did it? Jean, I mean. You think she really killed the mayor like the shop owner said?”

  Dumont furrowed his brow. “If she did, I’m certain it was not without cause.”