The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3) (32 page)

There was a knock on the door.

Cohen sat up. “Who dere?”

Another knock, but no answer.

“Boss, dat you? Cap’n Harris?” Another knock, followed by the sound of nails scratching against the metal. “…Gabe?”

Climbing out of his bunk, Cohen hobbled over to the door. “Boss, if dis is about not coverin’ helm tanite, Stu said he’d cover for me. I didn’t wanna, but ya know how he gets,” he said as he opened the door, letting death in.

It was over before he could scream.

• • •

“Jean, you need to sit down,” Ken said. He unrolled the bandage on his arm and began cleaning the bullet wound.

“I’ll sit down when we’re on dry land again,” she replied, pacing the cabin, pistol in hand, only stopping to briefly look out the porthole. “Until then, I’ll keep on my feet.”

“You’re making me nervous, which, when one considers the fact we are most certainly heading toward our deaths, would indicate just how weird you are behaving.”

“You always knew the way to a girl’s heart, Ken,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You and I both
know
that’s a lie,” Ken laughed as he redressed the wound.

“How are you so calm?”

He shrugged. “I’m not. Not really. I’m just a fantastic actor. Come on, sit down; let’s talk about something.” He kicked a chair toward her. “Can’t remember the last time you and I actually had a few minutes to talk. It’s starting to feel like the only way we ever meet up is if one of us is in peril. The Murder Corporation, the golem, demons, now the end of the world. We’re running out of reasons to see each other.”

Jean allowed a sad smile, but didn’t sit down. “Yeah, it’s been a while hasn’t it?”

“Along time, Red,” Ken nodded. “Remember the last time we were on a boat?”

“The
S. S. Cathay
,” Jean said, reminiscing about the time when she and Ken had first met the Green Lama.

“Yeah,” Ken chuckled as he raised an empty glass in toast. “Here’s hoping this trip will be a little less exciting. I’m still surprised we haven’t run into Magga yet.”

“She’s already here,” Jean observed, waving her hand over the room, “disguised as a deck chair or, more likely, a propeller.”

“I always figured she and the Green Lama were an item, y’know? They’re both Buddhist; both like to put on disguises; both are mysterious and kind of creepy.” Ken laughed at that. “Speaking of which, what’s going on between you and Dumont?” And then off her reaction,” ’m not blind, babe.”

Jean bit her lip. “It’s a tad bit more complicated than—” Her voice dropped. She raised a finger to her ear. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

“Aw, come on, Farrell,” Ken laughed, rolling his eyes,” ou can’t get out of it that easy—”

“Shh!” she hissed, covering Ken’s mouth. “Listen!”

They stood in silence for several moments, the low thrum of the ship’s engines and the sound of waves crashing against the metal hull seemingly the only noises they could hear.

“I don’t hear anything,” Ken murmured beneath Jean’s hand.

Ignoring Ken’s comment, Jean tiptoed over to the door. Delicately placing her hand on the knob, she slowly turned it until it was open. Looking back at Ken, she motioned for him to stay down and get cover. Ken responded by picking up his gun and nodding as if to say:
There’s no way you’re going in alone
.

“Okay,” Jean mouthed. “One… Two… Three!” She threw open the door, and they both whirled out and fired two quick shots each at the lone figure in the hallway.

“What the hell?!” Caraway shouted as he ducked down to the floor, the bullets barely missing him.

“Oh God!” Jean exclaimed, her heart jumping to her throat. “You okay?!”

“Why the hell were you shooting at me?!” Caraway barked.

“Why are we shooting at Caraway?!” Ken exclaimed.

“I thought he was a Deep One!” Jean cried to Ken. “You told me yourself the Deep Ones control the water. If any were left standing after the ritual, they might be coming after us.”

Ken grimaced in confusion. “What are you talking about? Up until two days ago I didn’t even know those things existed.”

“I—No, I mean,” Jean stammered. “I’m sorry,” she said, dashing down the hall.

• • •

“It is a very terrifying thing, death,” Heydrich said as he shoved his eye back into its socket. “It isn’t anything like you might think. Your life doesn’t flash before your eyes. There is no beam of light or your ancestors calling you forward. There isn’t even a man in a toga looking up your name in a book, nor do you meet the great Satan himself.” He paused when his jaw fell loose. He forced it up until it clicked into place. There was no point in him dressing the wounds, or even trying to hide them; the time for pretense was over. They had all seen it, watched in shock as the Farrell woman blasted two bullets into his brain, then watched him walk away, as if it were nothing but a scratch. He continued. “There is just darkness, never ending darkness. And you are alone. Alone in the darkness, for all time. Is it any wonder, then, that I would prefer this horror to the alternative?” he asked, waving at his shattered skull. “When I first died, there was still so much work to be done, so many things I had to accomplish for the Reich. I could not let
death
stand in my way.” Heydrich looked over to Gottschalk, standing in the shadows across the room. “There’s no reason to hide from me, Herr Obergruppenführer, I will not bite. Despite my appearance, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me.”

Gottschalk took a hesitant step forward. “What are you?”

Heydrich frowned with what was left of his lips. “Did I not just say? I am a patriotic German, sir, like you and the Oberführer,” he said, indicating Gan seated across from him.

“Are you even alive?” Gan asked.

“Somewhere in between,” he said with a smile.

Gottschalk took off his hat and scratched the balding patch at the back of his head. “Herr Doktor Hammond, I must confess this is all a little too much—”

“No, no, please, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Heydrich said with a wave of his hand. “Please, call me by the name my mother gave me. Karl Heydrich.”

“No, but, but, I don’t under— ” Gottschalk stuttered. “You’re Heydrich?”

“In the flesh,” Heydrich said, touching a hand to his chest and bowing. “What little there is left.”

“Why the deception, then?” Gan asked.

“Ask yourself, Herr Oberführer, if I had returned from Tibet after my failure, impossibly alive despite all evidence to the contrary, how do you believe that would have seemed to our commanders, to the Führer, hm? No, it was better to work incognito.”

Gan leaned forward. “And what of your allegiance to that creature?”

“A means to an end,” Heydrich replied. “Whatever he is, he is helping us play out a prophecy that will give us the Ultimate Power. You have seen the power held within the Shard. Imagine what lies within the Tablets, within R’lyeh!”

“But at what cost, Herr Heydrich?” Gan slammed his palm on to the table. “Hirsch is dead, and despite all the creature’s—and your—promises, we have yet to obtain a single Tablet. We have been in league with demons. More and more this journey seems like a fool’s errand. How do we know we are not being played as rubes to service that monster’s real motives?”

“Prophecy does not play out cleanly and simply just as you would like, Herr Oberführer,” Heydrich retorted. “Like any game of chess, pieces must be moved around the board, and yes, occasionally lost until the King is in check. And while I would
love
to sit here and answer every question you might have, perhaps the Obergruppenführer would like hear why it is that Jethro Dumont showed up at the sacrifice after you yourself told us he had died.”

Gan sat back, keeping his eyes on Heydrich’s destroyed face. “I saw him go down with the car along with Johann,” he said with confidence. “How he escaped I do not know. Perhaps there is more to Dumont than we knew.”

“Perhaps there is,” Heydrich reiterated. He turned to Gottschalk. “Sir, you might recall the Oberführer’s report from New York, which detailed, in part, his encounters with the costumed vigilante known as the Green Lama…”

• • •

Vasili screamed. Everything was pain, radiating through his body, threatening to tear him apart. Nightmares, horrific images filled his mind, ravishing his sanity. Thrashing, he found his arms and leg bound to a small bed. The room was pitch black; the sound of an engine thrumming echoed around him. He screamed again, out of fear, confusion, and madness.

“Ah, Vasili, you’re awake!” Alexei said pleasantly from the shadows. “You had been asleep so long I thought you’d never wake up.”

Vasili tried to turn his head but found it braced. “Sir? Are you there? Where am I? Why am I tied up?”

“You are on a U-boat, my dear boy,” Alexei said with a laugh, his voice seeming to come from all directions. “One of many marvels of modern times. You are secured for your own protection. You’ve been having some very bad dreams, Vasili. We were afraid you were going to hurt yourself.”

“How did we—?” he cut himself off, unable to finish the question, his head buzzing terribly. “Sir, are you okay? You sound hurt.”

Alexei chuckled. “Nothing that won’t heal. Calm down, son, you’ve been through quite a lot recently and you still need your rest.”

“Could you loosen the bindings, please?” Vasili begged, shifting uncomfortably.

“All in good time,” he said, patting the back of Vasili’s hand. His skin was cold, like marble. “Tell me, Vasili, what is the last thing you remember?”

Vasili squeezed his eyes shut, working through the buzzing that rang out from the back of his skull. “Petros,” he said eventually. “He was hurt.”

“Yes,” Alexei replied. “And your nightmares, do you remember any of them?”

“How are the others?” Vasili asked, licking his chapped lips. His memories were fragments, broken shards of glass spread across the ocean floor. “The foreigners? And Sotiria…?”

“Don’t concern yourself with them,” Alexei said, soothing, running a hand through Vasili’s hair, a father calming his son. “Your nightmares, Vasili, tell me ”

Vasili saw the flash of a green dagger in his mind’s eye, followed by a torrent of blood. “Sotiria,” he weakly asked. “Is she okay?”

“Your nightmares, Vasili,” Alexei reiterated, his voice beginning to steam with anger.

A wave of pain rolled down his spine. Gritting his teeth, Vasili sputtered, “I saw—I was in a city.”

“Good,” Alexei said with muted glee. “Describe it to me.”

“Why do you want to know, sir?” Vasili asked, quaking with fear. Violent images shot through his head, the sound of screams filling his ears. “Please just tell me, is Sotiria okay?”

“Tell me your visions,
now
, Vasili,” he commanded, his voice resonating. He pressed an ink black finger against Vasili’s forehead, causing the young man’s eyes to glaze over. “Tell me what you saw.”

“The ground was wet, the air pungent,” Vasili began in monotone. “It hadn’t tasted daylight in millennia. The walls, they turned at the wrong angles. It all looked grown… like coral. The shadows moved. We were walking together, all of us, toward a building at the center of the city. It was…It was a temple. The Temple. We went inside and it—” he paused, his voice cracking. Blinking back tears, he continued. “And there was an altar overlooking the darkness, and something beyond, something terrible.”

“Yes, and tell me on the altar…Who was sacrificed?”

“Sacrificed?” Vasili’s eyes regained their focus. “Wait, there was another sacrifice…I…Sotiria…” The shards began to reform in his mind and he began to remember. He gasped. “Oh God. Sotiria.”

“Tell me who will be sacrificed!” Alexei screamed, leaning into the light, grabbing Vasili’s face with his black clawlike hand.

“Jethro,” Vasili whimpered, his mind snapping as he looked into the wormlike obsidian face of the Crawling Chaos.
“
Jethro Dumont.”

• • •

Jean stood at the bow of the ship, the cool sea air blowing back her hair. She clung to the railing, the ice-cold metal reminding her that this, right now, was real.

“You know, we first met on a ship,” Jethro said a she walked up besides her.

A small smile pierced her sour expression, but she refused to face him. “You were dressed up like Dr. Pali, so technically that doesn’t
really
count, Dumont.”

“No,” Jethro frowned, “I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Nice shiner,” she said, indicating the large black-and-blue welt on Jethro’s face. “Where’d ya get that?”

He reached for his jaw, wincing at the throbbing bruise. “I may have
indirectly
told Caraway that I was the Green Lama,” he told her reluctantly. “He was less than pleased by the revelation.”

Jean gave him a terse laugh. “Have I ever mentioned how much I
agree
with his methods? Boy, I would’ve paid money to see that.”