The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1)

by Adam Lance Garcia

  Frankie slowly shook his head as he lit her cigarette. “I don’t think so, Miss Dale. There are many ways into the sewers.” He nodded toward a manhole in a nearby alleyway. Without waiting for a response he walked over to the manhole and began working to remove the metal cover.

  “Why are you helping?” she asked after a moment. “Much as I appreciate you driving me into the middle of this ruckus, offering to go into the New York City sewers is a little above and beyond the typical ‘Good Samaritan.’ Makes me wonder what your racket is.”

  Frankie’s lips thinned to a line as he pondered this for a moment. “Apart of me just feels responsible for him,” he said at last.

  “How does that work?”

  He pressed two fingers into his midsection. “I feel it here and I go by that. Everything else is secondary.”

  Betty watched him pull the cover free, ignoring the cigarette smoldering between her fingers. “This is going to sound strange, but based on my experience, men who talk like that usually wear masks.”

  “Not all of us need to hide in the shadows, Miss Dale,” he replied, a glint in his eyes.

  Betty’s heart raced. It couldn’t be him, could it? “Next thing you’re going to tell me is you prefer to be called a letter or some kind of arachnid.”

  He smiled. It was an honest smile, without enigma or suggestion. She had never seen someone smile like that before. “Just Frankie, Miss Dale. Just Frankie.”

  Heat and steam filled the sewer, reminding Gary of those few, terrifying nights fighting the Fifth Column in Hollywood, Florida all those years ago. He had been young then, back when he was immortal. In those moments of blood, sweat and bullets, Gary had felt alive, like he was making a positive impact for once. It had never been fun, not once, that was just the lie he told himself in an effort to comprehend the madness. And there was nothing madder than this.

  Now, there was a fire smoldering inside him, burning through his chest and darkening the periphery of his vision. He was not an angry man by nature, but the fury he felt wouldn’t subside, roiling around until it threatened to consume him. The Tulku didn’t approve of vengeance, once telling him: “When the fire of anger touches you, do not grasp it. Release it like a burning coal lest it bum you.” What did the Green Lama understand of anger, of loss? He was all calm and prayer; it would be a miracle if he felt anything besides serenity.

  Margaret Brown could never have been described as a saint. Lord knew she had spent plenty of nights spewing out curses that would have made a sailor blush. Life had made her hard, left alone raising a kid who was more apt to get into fistfights than play stickball. How many bottles had she tossed at Gary’s head when he came home drunk or, when he was working for Harlem Joe, speckled with blood? Maybe she had expected better of him, or maybe just better of herself.

  And then things changed, almost as if they both had been given the chance to give their story a happy ending.

  But it had all been a joke. One big fat prank played by Providence. Everything he had done to right the wrongs of his youth meant nothing, succeeding only in putting his mother on the slab. He shook his head; he couldn’t even process the thought. His mother couldn’t die, she was his mother, she would outlast the world and keep going long after the stars went dark.

  That one woman, this Desdemona, could survive such a nightmare only to continue it, dishonoring all those who had died, warranted some kind of justice…

  “This bring back any memories?” Evangl said as sweetly as she could manage knee deep in filth. The stink of a million toilets pooled and swirled around them, digging at their senses with an unrelenting fury.

  “Oh yeah, it’s an adventure,” he replied, his voice hollow. His fingers curled tightly around his gun, grasping at the flaming coal of anger.

  Evangl’s face darkened. “It definitely is.”

  “This way,” Caraway called from up ahead. He aimed his flashlight down an adjacent tunnel, cutting through the gloom like a knife. There was something wrong with him, though Gary couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was the way Caraway unnaturally hunched his shoulders, or the way he seemed to be picking at his face, as if he were about to tear off his skin. And then there were his eyes. It might just be the gloom, but Gary could swear Caraway’s eyes were dilated three sizes too big.

  “Do you remember the time we went up against the Crimson Hand?” Gary asked, moving closer to Evangl, out of earshot of the Lieutenant.

  “Sweetheart, that’s how we met.”

  He flapped a frustrated hand in the air. “I know, I know. It’s just… When Pelham held the red-hot poker to your face—”

  “I bit my lip so hard it bled.”

  “—I was never more terrified than I was in that moment. Throughout that whole ordeal, I was able to keep it cool, but watching you suffer… I felt like my whole world was shattering.”

  “Was that when you realized you loved me?”

  “I barely knew you,” he said with a shrug, though his cheeks turned ruddy. “But that feeling, that inescapable sense of dread…” He glanced up at Caraway. “I feel that now.”

  Evangl frowned, her voice hoarse. “Yeah. Me too.”

  They moved past a fork in the tunnel, their movements echoing off the curve in wet, rhythmic time. Gary waved his flashlight down the curve, seeing little more than water and a large pipe overhead when something caught his eye, a movement of shadow just around the bend. Gary’s senses ignited. He grabbed Evangl by the arm and pulled her alongside him against the wall.

  “Wait,” he said under his breath.

  “What is it?”

  “Someone’s coming. Around the corner.”

  She glanced at Caraway, several yards away. “Let’s tell John, see if we can—”

  “No,” he said firmly. Caraway would just throw on cuffs and let the courts and justice take care of her. But what better justice was there than a bullet to the head? He wanted this for himself. He needed it.

  “Gary, if it’s the girl from the ship, we should really get Caraway. You saw what she did…”

  But Gary ignored her and flicked off his flashlight; the fire drummed at the inside of his ears as he slowly rounded the corner. Damn the Green Lama’s teaching. Even if he once again speckled himself with blood, he would avenge his mother and send a message to the darkness that nothing should ever cross Gary Brown again.

  The shadows moved closer, a man and woman by the shape of them. Good, he decided as he aimed his gun, two bullets might just even the score. He cocked back the hammer and readied to—

  “Gary! Wait!” Evangl hissed, aiming her flashlight at the approaching couple.

  The coal inside Gary’s heart burned him. “Jean? Ken?” he exhaled in surprise, his arm dropping limply to the side.

  “Gary, Evangl,” Jean Farrell said pleasantly as she walked out of the shadows. “How’re you?”

  “You scared the living daylights out of us,” Evangl said, hugging Jean in relief. “Gary almost shot you.”

  Jean gave Ken a knowing glance. “Yeah, that’s been going around. Take it you’re looking for Dumont?”

  “Seems like the thing to do,” Gary said aloud, his breathing heavy. He had almost killed them, another few seconds and…

  “Welcome to the club. We meet every Tuesday.”

  “Hey, does this count as a team-up?” Ken piped up as he looked back and forth between the three of them.

  Evangl frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “You know, old gang and new gang.” He hooked his forefingers. “Together at last?”

  Jean rolled her eyes. “We’ve worked together before, Ken, during that whole Gandini fiasco.”

  “Yeah, but that was like… seventy years ago,” Ken said with a shrug. “Who remembers that?”

  “Please pardon my friend, he’s blond. One question, though… Why are we whispering?”

  Evangl arched an eyebrow. “Force of habit?”

  “How long have we waited for you…”

  They t
urned around to find Caraway’s silhouette standing at the curve of the tunnel; his shoulders hunched and head hanging low. Gary could hear him breathing, the slow, wet rattling sound of an influenza patient. Evangl gave Gary a wary look and Gary felt his skin prickle.

  “Lieutenant, is everything all right?” he called ahead, his voice echoing in the damp space. When the lieutenant didn’t respond Gary took a half step toward him and felt the air chill around them. “Lieutenant?”

  “Keystone…” he replied, his voice watery, his face hidden from view.

  “What did he say?” Jean whispered, gun in hand.

  Gary shook his head. “Something about a keystone.”

  Jean’s mouth fell open. “I’ve heard that before…”

  “John?” Gary suddenly felt as if everything had gone right up shit’s creek and here he was, knee deep in the swirling tide. “You… You okay?”

  “Don’t you hear us?” the lieutenant asked surreptitiously as he slowly walked toward them, his face hidden in shadow. “Don’t you hear us calling for you?”

  Gary swallowed the lump in his throat. “Calling for who?” he asked as evenly as he could manage.

  Caraway rushed forward and grabbed Jean by the throat, his eyes black. “The Keystone…”

  • • •

  Betty cupped her hand over her face as she attempted to find another way to breathe without using her mouth or nose. Ahead of her Frankie sloshed through the filth with uninhibited resolve. It was disconcerting watching him fight his way through the sewers. He wasn’t masked, cowled, or caped, nor was he seemingly defined by some childhood trauma or strange journey to a distant land. He was just a good man driven not by some great cause for justice or the law, but by simple human decency. And yet, it felt strange. Costumed vigilantes had become so normal, so expected, it felt as if the world had turned into a cheaply written dime novel, conjured up in stark blacks and whites, when it was only full of grey.

  As they approached a lighted turn in the sewers Frankie turned to her and pressed a finger to his lips. “There’s someone up ahead,” he said under his breath.

  Betty strained her ears and thought she heard whimpering, the scent of ash noticeable beneath the stink. “Are you sure?”

  Frankie nodded silently and led her forward. Betty felt something grow cold inside her, as if her heart had suddenly become numb. She was far from a superstitious person, she couldn’t even remember the last time she had been to church, let alone prayed to God. The world was a gritty and harsh place, where the only fate you made was your own. But here, deep below the dirt covered streets of New York, she felt as if she were approaching the divine. Not the Glory that inspired cathedrals and illuminations, but something older, darker, and other. Men dressed up in capes and cowls tried to divine good and evil, and here was Betty Dale, ankle deep in shit, approaching the latter.

  They turned the corner to find a small chamber partially buried under smoldering brick and metal. The walls were cracked open, exposing the manmade skeleton of the city while dim light banded through the ash and smoke. An expanding pool of black and crimson leaked out from beneath the rubble. The smell of burned flesh filled the air.

  “Looks like we just missed the party,” she said cynically when something moved beneath the rubble. She instinctually moved for her gun hidden in her purse when that all too familiar face appeared from the debris. “Dumont…” she breathed.

  Broken bits of brick tumbled off him as he climbed free, seemingly unharmed. The front of his shirt was burnt off, his right sleeve hanging by a thread off his cuff, reminding Betty of those tawdry romance pulp magazines they sold on newsstands. His fists were clenched, his back arched. Even his eyes seemed to glow. But it was his face that took Betty back. For a moment, Dumont didn’t look like the suave, overly confident boy she had met at the Cafe Society last night.

  He looked like a god.

  “It took me so long to get in touch with you, Mr. Dumont, it figures I’d find you down here,” she said, sounding braver than she felt.

  Dumont’s shoulders instantly slumped forward as his face relaxed. “Miss Dale, you seem to have found me in a bit of a compromising position,” he said with an embarrassed smile as he pulled the scorched ends of his shirt together.

  “It seems I have.” Betty carefully footed her way through the rubble. “Though I am keen to know how you survived, seeing as you’re at the center of this mess.”

  Dumont subtly arched an eyebrow. “I’m afraid that would take some time to explain.”

  “Mr. Dumont,” she said, quietly handing him the vial of radioactive salts.

  He wrapped his fingers around the vial and met her gaze, the facade once again falling away. “Well, I suppose this will make for a very interesting article, won’t it, Miss Dale?”

  A crooked smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I suppose it will.”

  “Do we need to talk about this?”

  “I suppose we do, but I doubt it’s the time.”

  Jethro nodded, slipping the vial into his pocket. He looked over at Frankie sifting through the rubble. “Who’s your friend?”

  • • •

  “Frankie Annor, Jr.,” Frankie replied, wiping his hands clean on his pants before shaking Dumont’s. “Frankie to my friends. You’re Jethro Dumont.”

  “At times,” Betty answered for him. “You see, Frankie, despite his pedigree and international notoriety, Mr. Dumont, unlike you, likes to keep to the shadows and who knows how many aliases.”

  “Miss Dale…” Dumont said firmly, his voice taking on an unnatural resonance. “We should really—”

  Betty ignored the fear bubbling up in her gut and powered forward. The Green Lama never killed, so why would he start now? “You’re absolutely right, Jethro—I can call you Jethro, can’t I, seeing as we know one another so well now? Let’s get to business.” Betty fished her notepad and pen out of her purse. “Jethro, why don’t you tell us what happened here?”

  A cryptic smile and knowing gaze shadowed Dumont’s face. “Miss Dale, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.”

  Betty reciprocated with an arched eyebrow and a sly grin of her own. “Try me.” Before Dumont could respond, something moved in the rubble. They spun around to the sound and Betty’s teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. “What was that?” she breathed.

  Dumont stepped in front of them, softly chanting a prayer under his breath, once again holding the form of the Green Lama. It was such a subtle transformation, a move of his shoulder, the height of his head, the holding of his chest, and Dumont became something larger than himself But his walk, his stride, never changed, as if he couldn’t alter who he fundamentally was; it was his only tell.

  She could see something black and red glisten beneath the wreckage, worming its way into the light. A primal part of her mind began to thrash in terror; her heart raced and her lungs seized up. She unconsciously moved behind Frankie and grabbed at his sleeve. “Dumont, what the hell is that?” she hissed, her voice on the edge of panic.

  But Dumont kept praying as the creature slid out from the rubble while Betty felt her sanity quickly slip away. It had been a boy once, but what was in front them now was beyond horror. Its skin hung off its shattered body in long, burned strips; its exposed muscles caked in dirt and debris, cracked white bones punching through to the surface. The back of its skull was caved in, red and grey bits of brain leaking out in syrupy clumps. Blood spilled out of its mouth, its jaw hanging loosely from two thin ligaments. It was its eyes, however, that made Betty scream. Inky tears poured out from obsidian globes, down its cheeks in torrents.

  Betty fell back against the wall, screaming, her fingernails snapping against the bricks as she clawed for a way out.

  “Oh no… Wilfred,” Frankie moaned, rushing forward. “Oh, son, I’m so sorry… I’m so—”

  “Stay away from him,” Dumont commanded, holding Frankie back.

  The creature’s knees buckled and it rag-dolled to the ground, black ic
hor pooling around its shattered frame as it struggled to regain its footing.

  “That’s Wilfred!” Frankie professed. “He’s just a boy! Please, we have to help him.”

  Dumont’s face fell, an expression that revealed the exhaustion and weight behind those blue-grey eyes. “Not anymore.”

  Wilfred’s black eyes struggled to stay open, his lids falling to half-mast. He propped himself on one bleeding elbow and reached for Frankie like a desiccated man begging for water in the desert. A low growl emanated from his throat, less a word than it was a roll of a letter. “Rrrr…”

  “How the hell is he still alive?” Betty asked hoarsely chucking any sense of propriety to the wind.

  “Please, let me go to him,” Frankie begged.

  “Dumont, answer my question!” Betty shouted through her teeth. “The back of his head is blown clean off and he’s still breathing! That’s not possible! Green Lama! Answer me! “

  “He’s no longer human,” Dumont admitted quietly as if the fault were his alone to bear.

  Betty’s mouth opened and closed several times as she tried to comprehend what Dumont had said. “How can he no longer be human?”

  “He’s been… possessed,” Dumont whispered painfully, the last word dropping like a brick.

  Frankie broke free of Dumont’s grasp and fell alongside the boy. “Wilfred…?” He touched a hand to the boy’s face as if he were his own, ignoring the gore dripping off him. “Wilfred, talk to me, son…”

  The boy shifted in Frankie’s arms, bits of brain dropping out from the cavity in the back of his skull. His eyes glistened and for a moment, the black drained away, revealing white orbs and the dilated pupils of an injured child. “Rrrrrr….”

  “It’ll be okay.” Frankie sobbed. “It’ll be—”

  “Rrrun…”

  “Mr. Annor,” Dumont said, touching Frankie’s shoulder.

  “I’m not leaving him,” Frankie said firmly, shrugging off Dumont’s hand. “I helped him once, I’m going to help him again. You understand me, Mr. Dumont? Whoever— whatever—did this to him, I’m not going to let them hurt him anymore.”