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

by Adam Lance Garcia

  Jethro didn’t need to be a super powered detective to know something didn’t add up. Someone was framing her, he was certain, but who and for what purpose? Hopefully, he could find some clues tonight. His first stop would be the local police station, where he expected to learn more of the “official” version of the crime.

  Sneaking in through an opened window, Jethro walked silently past several dozing policemen toward the record room. The door was locked, but with a quick twist of his wrist, the lock broke in two.

  He found the file easily, a thin manila folder simply marked ‘.” Inside were the standard forms filled out by the investigating— and clearly inept—detectives, detailing the crime scene. Beyond the revelation that the murder weapon hadn’t been found, there was nothing in them that he didn’t already know; it was the photos, however, that took him by surprise.

  There were ten of them, showing Astrapios’s corpse at a variety of angles, each more gruesome than the last. Jethro had seen some terrible things since he had taken up the mantle of the Green Lama, but he was still sickened by what he saw. Astrapios’s body lay sprawled out, naked on his bed, his bearded face split in two. Blood and brain matter was splattered against the headboard and wall. Jethro’s stomach turned as his mind attempted to imagine the sequence of events leading up to Astrapios’s demise, moments of passion and intimacy climaxing with murder. He could not decide which disturbed him more: the thought of Jean murdering a lover or of her having a lover at all.

  He grimaced; of all things, was he jealous?

  Jethro shook his head. No, Jean couldn’t be the killer. And if Astrapios had been her lover, then…

  He moved to another photo, this one of the adjacent wall. There was a noticeable egg-shaped absence of blood splatter above a small empty table. Jethro raised an eyebrow; something had been stolen, but what? Nothing else in the room seemed to be out of place. If this was indeed a robbery, the killer—or killers—seemed to know exactly what they wanted.

  Then something else caught his eye. He thought it could be a trick of light, but he began looking over the images once more, finding it in every picture. Though lost in the blood splatter to the untrained eye, Jethro had no doubt about what he saw.

  Bloody footprints, walking up the wall.

  • • •

  Astrapios’s residence was, appropriately, a tomb. Even Jethro’s own hushed footsteps seemed to echo throughout the estate. The building, massive compared with the relatively modest homes in town, was modeled after ancient Greek architecture and sat atop a small hill overlooking the city. Subtle Astrapios was not. As Jethro made his way toward the mayor’s bedchambers, he passed no fewer than seventeen portraits and statues of the man, each more gaudy and self-aggrandizing than the last. The bedroom, twice the size of Jethro’s, had been cleaned of blood, the bed replaced, though Jethro could see, just barely visible in the glints of the moonlight, the bloodstains that had seeped into the wooden walls. Walking over to the far wall, he found the bloodless egg-shaped “shadow” he had seen in the photographs. It was possibly the size of an ostrich egg, though as he gazed closer he could see a small divot in the blood spray, which meant the egg— or whatever had been there—had been cracked or missing a shard. Jethro frowned; there was nothing more he could learn here. Turning around, he moved closer to the bed, and was able to find the foot-shaped stains climbing up the wall to the ceiling and back across the room.

  Impossible wasn’t an adjective Jethro used anymore, but he was tempted to bring it back into his lexicon as he followed the footsteps to their abrupt end against the opposite wall, the footprint cut off mid-step. Curious, he walked through the doorway to the adjacent room and found, improbably, the other half of the footprint on the ceiling. The prints continued on toward the other side of the room, where they were once again bisected by the wall.

  “Walked through the walls…” Jethro breathed in disbelief.

  Something clattered in the library down the hall. Jethro instinctually dove for the shadows, pulling the front of his hood down. He heard glass shatter and wood snap, heavy breathing and garbled words that seemed foreign even to his trained ears. Peeking around the doorway, he watched as someone tore through the library. The man—at least Jethro assumed it was a man—moved through the room in quick, hopping motions, as though he were unaccustomed to walking. He was completely nude, his hairless skin pale white, glistening in the moonlight. The man ripped apart books, scratched at the back wall, sifting through the remains like a mad archaeologist. He croaked, futilely cursing under his breath. Knobby joints pushed out against his oily flesh, his spine a column of pronounced ridges, the skin cracked and scaly. Three long scars traced the side of his neck. His fingers were long, the nails pointed and serrated. Jethro could only see the outline of the man’s face, his eyes massive and bulging out.

  Jethro inched into the room, keeping to the shadows, as his hands unconsciously curled into fists. He suspected whatever this man was looking for had something to do with Astrapios’s murder, but there was only one way to find out…

  “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!”

  The man jumped back, dropping two halves of a book to the floor, cursing again in his guttural tongue. As Jethro stepped into the moonlight, he watched with growing horror as the man slowly turned to face him. The ridges of the man’s spine extended out to form a prodigious fin that ran up the length of his back and neck, ending at the top of his head. The scars on the sides of his neck began flapping, gills struggling in the open air. His eyes were massive unblinking black orbs.

  “Om Ah Hum! ” Jethro whispered. “What are you?”

  The fish-man bared its teeth, hissing as it launched at Jethro. It let out a high-pitched warble, the ugly sound echoing off the rafters, sending a chill down Jethro’s spine. The creature swiped its claws at Jethro’s stomach, slashing his robes, narrowly missing flesh as he subtly shifted his weight to the left. But the creature was quicker than Jethro had anticipated, spinning on its heels and chomping its massive jaw down onto Jethro’s right arm. Jethro hollered in pain. He tried to pull away, succeeding only in driving the creature’s blade-like teeth into his muscles. Jethro sent a large blast of green electricity through his right arm and the fish-man’s jaw shot open, releasing Jethro’s arm from its vise-like grip. The pale creature flew across the study, smacking against the wall with a loud thunk!

  Jethro gripped his arm. The fish-man’s teeth had broken through his skin, causing blood to seep into his robes. Examining the wound, he watched in horror as black veins began to spread across his arm. The creature’s bite was poisoned.

  Across the room the creature held its head as it stumbled to his feet, cursing in its inhuman tongue. The electric blast had cost him a precious amount of energy from his radioactive salts, but Jethro had to attack now or lose the upper hand. Whispering “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” Jethro tapped into his remaining reservoir of energy and ran forward, striking at the creature’s pale midsection with a roundhouse kick. But the fish-man was too fast, catching Jethro’s leg mid-kick and throwing him to the floor. Jethro landed hard on his back, smacking his head, stars shooting past his eyes. The fish-man shoved a knobby knee onto Jethro’s chest and gripped Jethro’s face with its clawed hands, covering his mouth, digging its nails into his skin. As it picked Jethro’s head off the ground, the creature leaned its horrible face forward, its unnatural lips brushing against his ear.

  “Nyarlathotep che’fhgag tehona. Ht’chu drada gr’od’ins ri’s,” it hissed, its breath smelling like putrid seawater. Jethro thought he recognized one of the monster’s words—Nyarlathotep—but before he could place it, his head was slammed down to the floor. Fighting back unconsciousness, Jethro tried to open his eyes, but everything was black and white spots.

  “Narrett’e ht’chutu, Green Lama,” the creature breathed. “Narrett’e ht’chutu, Dumont.”

  A pit formed in Jethro’s stomach. His eyes met the creature’s unblinking black pools. It smiled and before Jethro could react it
slammed his head down to the ground and the world once again exploded into pain. The creature lifted Jethro’s head again but before the monster could slam it back down, Jethro swung his arms up, wrapping his palms around the fish-man’s wet, bulbous eyes and unleashed every last ounce of his radioactive energy. The creature screamed in agony as electricity coursed through its body. It scraped and clawed at Jethro’s hands, slicing into his skin. Jethro could feel the monster’s eyes melt beneath his hands. Putrid black goo oozed out through his fingers, flowing down his arms, stinging as it seeped into his wounds. Jethro grimaced, but held on until the creature’s arms went limp. Its body slackened and it crumpled to the ground, freeing Jethro.

  Grabbing on to a nearby chair, Jethro pulled himself off the ground. His head throbbed a thunderstorm, echoing through his body. Beneath the pounding, he thought he could hear the monster’s struggling breaths, but that easily could have been his own. His vision was fogged, the world blurred beyond recognition, leaving only shapes and shadows. He spit out a wad of blood, wiping his mouth clean with the sleeve of his robe. His injured arm felt stiff. He flexed his fingers as he unsuccessfully attempted to regain feeling. Stumbling away, Jethro heard a tremendous crash behind him. Racing back, he saw, beneath the haze of injuries, that one of the mansion’s windows had been smashed open, glass littering the floor.

  The creature was nowhere to be found.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE SHARD

  Jethro screamed as the leopard’s claws dug into his skin, ripping into muscle. Without thinking, he thrust his elbow up in the beast’s chest, audibly cracking a rib. The leopard howled, loosening its grip. Rolling out from beneath the animal—the snow stinging his wounds— Jethro forced himself onto unsteady legs. His heart was thumping as sweat trickled down his body despite the frigid temperature.

  “Easy there, kitty,” Jethro breathed as they began to circle one another. “I don’t want you to eat me and you don’t want to eat me. I’ve been living off a lean Buddhist diet for a couple of months now—lots of vegetables— so there’s not much meat left on me for you to snack on. How about we call it a night and go our separate ways?”

  The leopard growled in response, stalking closer.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured…” Jethro sighed just before the leopard barreled toward him. Sidestepping into a tight roll, Jethro evaded another strike from the beast’s claws by mere centimeters. Wheeling into a crouch, Jethro saw the leopard spin around and dive toward him. With his body nearly frozen, the wounds in his back ringing with pain and the blood spilling down, his options were limited. As the snow leopard launch forward, he instinctively pinched his eyes shut and shouted, “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!”

  When death didn’t come, Jethro forced open his eyes to discover that the beast had come to a sudden halt, stopping just short of Jethro’s palms. Wide-eyed, Jethro shifted his gaze back and forth between the leopard—idly licking its lips—and the braided ring that seemed to glow an unearthly jade.

  • • •

  “I feel like an idiot,” Caraway grumbled as he rowed to shore the next morning.

  “Please, you should’ve seen what they made us wear in Hamlet. Frills everywhere,” Ken said, wiggling his fingers at his neck as though he were wearing Shakespearean garb rather than a simple dark sweater and pants, a wool cap atop his head. “Besides, it was your idea.”

  “Uh huh,” Caraway murmured, fiddling with the patch over his right eye. “If my wife could see me, she would probably die laughing.”

  Ken tilted his head quizzically. “I didn’t know you were married.”

  “Technically speaking, neither did I.” Caraway considered this, then said, “Well, I did, but until recently I thought she was ‘gone with the wind.’”

  Ken squinted at Caraway, measuring him up. “Yeah, I guess you could play Rhett. They’re making that into a movie soon. I heard Neville Sinclair was in the running until, y’know… ka-boom!” Ken expanded his arms out, mimicking an explosion.

  “Ever spend any time undercover?” he asked after a moment.

  Caraway shook his head. “I’m usually more the grab-your-gun-and-head-straight-in kinda cop.”

  “Hm,” Ken sighed thoughtfully. “All right, then you should probably follow my lead. I’m a master at this. I was once Dr. Pali, y’know,” he added proudly, puffing out his chest.

  “Really?” Caraway asked with a cocked eyebrow, trying to imagine this young Caucasian as a middle-aged Tibetan priest. “And how’d that go?”

  Ken’s smile fell. “Oh, it was horrible.”

  “Fantastic,” Caraway commented. “Looks like we’re here.”

  Ken look over his shoulder toward the dock. “All right, like I said, let me do the talking,” he said as he stood up.

  There were several men on the dock, all working to pull crates off a small fishing vessel, except for one bare-chested fellow who simply sat smoking on one of the pillars. He was short with a ropy build, a squid tattoo on his chest. A brown bowler sat atop his head, covering long hairs of grey and black, reminding Ken of a feral dog. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Ken tried to steady himself. He had had enough experience over the years to know a killer when he saw one.

  The man on the dock spotted Ken and Caraway, jumped off his pillar, and shouted at them in Greek.

  “Uh, yes, ’ello there!” Ken shouted back in a convincing British accent.

  “Sorry to be a bother, but my friend and I recently parted ways with our employer under less than pleasant circumstances and we were hoping to come ashore with the intent on finding more gainful employment.”

  “You sound way too intelligent for a sailor,” Caraway growled under his breath.

  “Oh, shut up,” Ken whispered back. “So yes, may we… uh, may we dock here… Um… sir?” he yelled to the man on the pier, who took a drag of his cigarette in reply. Undeterred, Ken asked: “Do you, um, speak English, sir?”

  “I do,” the man said as the boat drifted up to the dock. He took a long drag of his hand rolled cigarette, squinting one eye while he measured up the two new arrivals. “What ship were you sailing with?”

  “The, ah, Jade Tulku.”

  The tattooed man shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

  “Yes, well, you’re better off for it, sir. It’s Tibetan. Savages, if you ask me.”

  The tattooed man chewed this over. “Isn’t Tibet landlocked?”

  Ken opened and closed his mouth. “They have rivers. To the ocean. One assumes.”

  “What’s your name, Brit?” the tattooed man eventually asked.

  Ken’s eyes widened for an instant, struggling to think of a name. “William!” he said quickly. “William…. Um… Shakespeare,” he said, hoping the man didn’t see him cringe.

  Caraway buried his face in his hands.

  The tattooed man considered Ken, with a puff of his cigarette. “Like the writer?”

  “Yes! Exactly!” Ken said excitedly. “Just like the writer. My parents were… uh, big fans. Very big fans. Met at a play, if would you believe it! But my mates call me ‘Shakes.’”

  The tattooed man indicated Caraway with his cigarette. “And this one of your ‘mates’?” he asked, a cloud of smoke billowing out of his mouth.

  Ken scratched the back of his neck, squinting from the sun. “Yes, this is… uh, John… John Caraway.”

  Caraway shot Ken a look that said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ken replied with a wide-eyed nervous smile and whispered, “I have no idea.”

  “Not much of a talker, is he?” the tattooed man commented.

  “Oh, no, sir, strong silent type,” Ken said. “He keeps his comments monosyllabic.”

  “Yar…” Caraway growled with a slight nod to the tattooed man.

  “So, ah, yes,” Ken said to the bare-chested man. “Might we dock here?”

  “You looking for work, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The tattooed man took a drag of cigarette and then extended a h
and to Ken, who tossed him their rope. “Petros,” the man said, indicating himself as he tied the rope to a pillar. “You want to work these docks, there is only one man you can talk to. Come, I will take you to him.”

  • • •

  Vasili’s night had been plagued by nightmares, visions of horrors he couldn’t comprehend. All he could remember were blurred images and the inhuman chanting echoing over and over in the back of his mind. He had seen a city beneath the sea filled with…? Not humans—they were something Other. They were chasing him because he had stolen something important. He tried to remember what it was, but no matter how hard he tried, all he could see was the color green. There was a monk, dressed in jade. And then there was that thing calling out to him, playing him like a puppet. Nyarlathotep. He remembered that. Its name was Nyarlathotep.

  A shudder ran down his spine. He felt cold, as if he had been left drifting in the ocean for hours.

  “Late night, my boy?” Alexei asked, bringing Vasili out his horrific reverie. Vasili jumped a little, instantly reaching for his sidearm. “Calm down, son,” the old man said. “It’s only me.”

  “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you come in.”

  Alexei noticed the dark pits under Vasili’s eyes and gave him a knowing smirk. “Heh, well, I didn’t see you leave the bar last night. Didn’t take anyone home, did you? Sotiria’s been eyeing you for some time now.”

  “Just bad dreams,” Vasili replied.

  Alexei clicked his tongue. “Pity.”

  Vasili indicated the destruction in front of them, eager to change the subject. “Do you know what happened, sir?”

  Alexei’s smile morphed into a grimace as he moved into Astrapios’s study. Placing his hands behind his back, he moved thoughtfully over the wreckage. The place was a disaster, far worse than when they had found the mayor’s face split in two. “My boy,” Alexei began as he kicked aside a broken vase, “if I knew, don’t you think I would have told you already?” He slowly spun himself around as he looked over the study, humming softly as he did. The old man then closed his eyes and began to run his fingers over the walls, the broken chairs and tables, as if he were reading Braille. Vasili had seen Alexei do this several times before, and it still made him uncomfortable, as though he were watching something unholy.