“It means he’s one of the good guys!” Ken said excitedly.
“Yeah, but last I checked, we ain’t,” Caraway grumbled.
Ken’s face fell. “Goddammit.”
“Say something to him in Hebrew,” Petros said calmly. Off Ken’s expression, he added, “Humor me.”
“I only know a few phrases…”
“Say something—anything—but say it loud, Shakes. Make sure our friend can hear it,” Petros said with a wicked grin.
Ken cleared his throat and shouted: “Eyfo ha-shirutim, bevakasha?”
Silence echoed from the other room. Petros flashed Ken a gracious smile before he whipped around and hurled his knives into the other room.
Ken and Caraway cringed at the scream.
• • •
Panic. The Nazi camp had fallen into bedlam as the storm rapidly approached, a lion’s roar that tore through the sky. Wind whipped dust and leaves swirled through the air, stinging eyes and skin. Gottschalk and Hirsch had run out in hopes of regaining some order and organize a hasty evacuation, giving Jethro and Gan the chance to break away.
“Dumont, what is that thing?!” Gan hissed, forcibly grabbing Jethro by the arm.
Jethro nervously kept his gaze on the approaching storm. “You remember the living storm I was telling you about?”
Gan pinched his eyes shut. “Verflucht.”
“Haste is the operative word, Herr Oberführer,” Jethro said with a quick nod. “I was able to stop it before, but I don’t know if I can do it again.”
“How did you stop it before?”
“I blew up a plane.”
“Du Lusche!, Du bist schlimmer als Caraway!” Gan cursed through his teeth. “Come with me,” he said, leading Jethro toward his Volkswagen. The air crackled with electricity, emerald bolts of lightning bursting in the distance. “Let’s get you out of the camp. Hopefully we’ll figure something out that doesn’t involve blowing up our only means of transportation.”
Jethro glanced back at the Obergruppenführer’s tent. He was foolish to even consider this, but what better time than now—with the Nazi regiment thrown into disarray? “What about the Shard?” he shouted over the wind.
“Now is not the time, Herr Dumont!”
“But if what you said is true, perhaps we can use it to stop the storm!” And hopefully prevent the prophecy from coming true, he didn’t say.
“We will just have to take our chances,” Gan said as they approached the vehicle. His driver, the white haired boy Jethro recognized from the attack on the consulate in New York, stared up at the sky, slack jawed, eyes brimming with tears. “Johann! Johann!”
“Es will mich abholen…” the boy whispered.
“Johann! Fahren wir los!” When the soldier failed to reply, Gan grabbed him by the collar. “Mach schnell, Johann! Sofort!”
Brought out of his stupor, Johann faced his superior, nodded briskly, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Das ist ’n braver Junge,” Gan said as he and Jethro climbed into the passenger seats.
Johann started the car, revving the engine before peeling out of the camp, the back tires sending dust flying into the air. They launched down the hillside, swerving down the narrow dirt road. Johann, white knuckled, struggled to keep the speeding vehicle upright, the wind jostling them ferociously left and right.
Jethro’s head throbbed as he heard the voices echo inside his skull over and over. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the heels of his hands against his temples in vain effort to fight back the pain. Gritting his teeth, he prayed: “Om! Tare Tuttare Ture Soha!
Gan glanced through the rear window to see the funnel cloud charging toward them, blasting down the hillside. “It is following us!” he shouted. He turned to Jethro. “Why is the storm following us?!”
Jethro grimaced. “It wants me,” he admitted through the pain.
Gan’s jaw fell open. “Why did you not tell me this before I got in the car with you?” Without taking his eyes off the storm, he leaned forward and forcibly clapped Johann on the shoulder. “Los, gib Gas, Johann!”
“It’s almost on us,” Jethro said as he peered into the tenebrous tempest. He thought he could make out a shape within it, something almost human…
“I hate you, Dumont,” Gan said bitterly.
“Thank you, Herr Oberführer, that is very helpful right now,” Jethro replied.
The black cloud engulfed them in a blast of air. The windows shattered inward and the world plunged into darkness. Lightning flashed around them, shooting in every direction. Jethro’s body burst with energy, a sensation that seemed to tear at his flesh. It was all he could do not to scream. The Jade Tablet erupted in green light, casting an unearthly hue over the car, the fibers violently constricting around his finger. Johann did his best to keep control of the car as it barreled forward in the darkness. Black mist seeped in through the windows and swirled into place besides Johann, forming the outline of a man. Jethro and Gan watched in horror as the phantom’s hand instantly morphed into a blade and drove its way through Johann’s skull.
“Johann!” Gan screamed as blood exploded across the dashboard. The young soldier’s body crumpled forward, pressing his foot down against the gas petal. The car sped forward, blindly hurtling toward certain doom.
• • •
“You know what this book looks like?” Caraway indignantly asked Vasili as he kicked aside a pile of discarded books. They had been rifling through the small library for the last thirty minutes to no avail, tossing books haphazardly to the floor. The dry, dusty smell permeating the room reminded Caraway of his days in Sunday school, the dour white faced old men and crusty nuns that judged him with their eyes.
“Ask him,” Petros replied pointing to the gagged man tied to the chair on the other side of the room. They had shoddily bandaged up the knife wound in his shoulder, the white fabric now a deep maroon turning brown. His face was pale from blood loss but remained alert, his eyes watching the robbers as they moved about the house.
Vasili looked at their captive and shook his head. “He will not talk.”
Petros stepped forward and flourished his knives, the metal ringing. “I can make him talk,” he said with a devilish grin.
“Hey!” Caraway shouted, stepping forward. “He doesn’t know who we are, doesn’t understand what we’re saying… I thought we talked about this, quick and clean, right?”
“It is up to him,” Petros frowned. “He tells us what we need, I will make it quick.”
“We’re not going to kill him!” Ken snapped, grabbing Petros’s arm.
Petros dropped an indignant gaze at Ken’s hand. “Listen, Shakes, I like you. I do… but you do not tell me what to do,” Petros said with a quiet fury, aiming his knife at Ken.
Ken let go of Petros’s arm and took a cautious step back, holding up his hands. “Let me try to talk to this guy, okay? Maybe if we talk—instead of stab—he might be more helpful.”
“The man doesn’t speak Greek too well and he clearly ain’t gettin’ A’s in English,” Caraway stated, tossing their captive a frustrated gesture.
Ken looked to Vasili, pleading. “I have an idea.”
Vasili glanced at Petros, who only shrugged. Rolling his worry beads in his hand, Vasili thought about returning to Kamariotissa empty-handed. He held up two fingers and stepped back.
Ken nodded, gracious for the two minutes. He ripped out a small piece of paper from one of the books. With a pencil he found nearby, he scribbled three symbols and walked over to the old man. The man jerked back, cringing as Ken knelt down in front of him. Ken held up a placating hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.” He showed the old man the piece of paper and the old man’s eyes went wide. “Emet,” Ken said, reading the word. “Truth.”
The man looked at Ken, tilting his head quizzically. Ken nodded in response.
“Yup,” Caraway sighed. “This is real helpful.”
Ken shot Caraway a sideways glance and too
k a tentative step closer. “Emet. Truth,” he reiterated, and then whispered: “Golem.”
The man’s eyes grew wider as he stared at Ken. He shifted in the chair and tried to remove the gag around his mouth.
“Don’t worry. I got it,” Ken said as he reached over and removed the gag.
The man opened and closed his mouth and moistened his lips with a slow roll of his tongue. He furrowed his brow. “Brickman?” he said with a hopeful breath.
A small smile cracked on Ken’s face. He nodded slowly. “Yes. Ata yakhol la’azor li?” he asked.
The man stole a glance at his other captors and then looked back at Ken. “Ech efshar la’azor lecha?”
Ken firmed his lips and said, “Necronomicon.”
• • •
The phantom launched at Jethro, grabbing him by the throat and slamming his head against the door, stars erupting behind his eyes. Bullets whizzed by as Gan fruitlessly tried to shoot the immaterial assailant, grazing Jethro’s shoulders, chest, and cheek, and puncturing holes in the side of the car.
“Give us the Tablet!” the phantom hissed as it snaked itself around Jethro’s neck, his lungs screaming for oxygen. He struggled to pry himself free, but his left hand passed through the phantom as if nothing were there. It slammed him against the door again, the hinges breaking free and sending the door tumbling onto the road. Jethro swung out, his head falling just short of hitting the ground as he grabbed onto the inside of the car. The phantom pushed him down to the ground, the wheels tossing gravel into the air, stinging his face. Without his radioactive salts, Jethro’s strength was only a fraction of what it once was, but his grip held firm.
“Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” Jethro choked. He clenched his right fist and swung through the haze of asphyxiation. His fist hit the phantom as if it had been made of solid matter, the shock of impact echoing down Jethro’s arm. The phantom flew back; it’s snakelike arm dissipating from Jethro’s neck. Jethro gasped as air rushed into his lungs. Pulling himself up, he saw Gan struggling to regain control of the vehicle from Johann’s bloody corpse.
“What in Hashem’s name is that?!” Gan screeched.
“I don’t—” Jethro gasped. He glanced at his right hand where the Jade Tablet glowed and crackled with electricity, and he understood. “Om! Vajrapani Hum!”
Jethro swung at the phantom again, the Jade Tablet exploding with power as it met the creature’s spectral frame. The phantom fell back, its body losing shape as it hit against the opposite door. Jethro could see the contours of a face appear in the shadows of the mist—something that was at once human and not. It was smiling at him. The phantom’s arm formed into a blade once again and moved to strike. Jethro readied himself to dodge to blow when he realized its target wasn’t him.
It was Gan.
• • •
“Necronomicon?” Ken asked again.
“Lo! Lo!” the man exclaimed as he shook his head furiously, unleashing a torrent of unintelligible protests.
“Calm down!” Ken said, trying unsuccessfully to placate him. “You— you have to trust us! We need it for the right reasons!”
Petros drew his blades. “My turn.”
Ken caught the man feverishly glancing away. “No, wait,” he breathed, jumping to his feet. Following the man’s gaze, Ken walked over to a recently emptied bookcase in the corner of the room. He ran his hands over the wooden shelves, while the man continued his increasingly thunderous protestations. Ken’s fingers fell over a small symbol—a single line with five shorter lines branching off—on a slightly raised wooden panel at the back of the bookcase. Tracing its edge, his nails clicking into the carvings, he could feel the soft yet distinguishable flow of air. Wordlessly pushing the panel, Ken heard the sound of gears and mechanisms echo out from the walls. He jumped back as the bookshelf broke away, revealing a small chamber. A pedestal sat in the center, a large leather bound book placed atop. The cover appeared to be made out of the flesh of a human face, stretched and twisted until it was nearly unrecognizable.
“Well, shit,” Caraway swore under his breath.
Vasili nodded his approval. “Not bad, kid.”
Caraway stepped toward the hidden room. “How did you know that would work with him?” he quietly asked Ken.
Ken shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving the book. “I didn’t.”
“You are one lucky asshole,” Caraway said, patting Ken on the shoulder.
“Tell me about it,” Ken sighed.
“So, all that trouble just for this, eh?” Petros voiced as he paced around the pedestal. “Ugly little book, isn’t it?” He reached for the book.
“Wait!” Vasili exclaimed, stepping between Petros and the Necronomicon, producing the small piece of paper from his pocket. “ Alexei told me to repeat this before we removed the book.”
Petros looked at Vasili incredulously. “He told you to repeat something?”
Vasili shrugged as he read over Alexei’s message again. “A prayer…”
“Why didn’t you say that before when we were tossing all the other books around?” Caraway asked angrily.
“I forgot, all right?” Vasili shot back. “This has not exactly been the most normal day for me either.”
“What sort of prayer is it?” Ken asked.
“I do not know. I think I have heard it before…” Vasili trailed off as he firmed his lips. He looked over to Petros. “I think it sounds like something the Twins would say.”
“This has to do with those fishy bastards?” Petros shouted. “ Alexei told us it would be a simple smash and grab, and instead we got this idiocy. To hell with him and the Twins and their goddamn prayers,” he grumbled as he lifted the book off its perch.
Suddenly, the room was filled with intangible screams, inhuman voices from the shadows. A howling wind came down upon them as if they were suddenly sucked into the vortex of a hurricane filled with air that smelled like sulfur and rot. Ken fell back against the wall, ducking his head beneath his arms. Caraway screamed, unconsciously clutching his chest, the memories of the Bartlett raging through his mind. Vasili silently stumbled a step back, his stomach twisting into knots, tightly gripping onto Alexei’s note like a talisman.
Petros’s eyes rolled back into his head. The color leached out of his skin and hair, like water flowing down a drain. Foam bubbled from his mouth. “Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn!” he sputtered as his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor, unconscious.
• • •
The world fell into slow motion as Jethro leapt forward to intercept the creature. He felt the incorporeal blade’s edge slip across his palm, drawing blood. But it wouldn’t be enough, a hollow gesture in the face of death. The blade came within millimeters from Gan’s skull when the phantom let out a violent disembodied scream. “THE BOOK!” it shouted as it instantly dissipated like a pall of cigarette smoke out the window. The black cloud blanketing the car suddenly lifted, turning the world into a blur of motion. Ahead the road came to an abrupt, sharp end, the Mediterranean extending beyond.
“Stop the car, Gan!!!” Jethro shouted as they barreled toward the cliff, bracing himself against the back of the seat.
“Scheiße! I cannot!” Gan cried. “Johann’s foot is stuck!”
Gan tried to steer the car away but it was too late. The car’s wheels spun out, launching the vehicle over the cliff, toward the frigid waters below. As certain death rushed toward them, all of Jethro’s thoughts were of Jean Farrell.
CHAPTER 12
REUNIONS
Tsarong knocked tentatively at Dumont’s door. It had been nearly a fortnight since the Bodhisattva abruptly locked himself in his quarters, refusing all visitors, and often neglecting the small meals left outside his chamber. Whispers and the frequent sound of feet pacing against the stone floor were often reported by those curious enough to press their ears against the door. A growing concern for Dumont’s wellbeing had spread across the Temple of the Clouds, with many secretly believing the Jade Tablet had dri
ven the American insane—a concern Tsarong was ashamed to admit he shared. “Come in, Tsarong,” Dumont called from within.
Tsarong pushed open the door hesitantly. Dumont was kneeling in the center of the room, his back toward the door, a large rainbow-colored rug laid out on the floor before him. He looked back at Tsarong and smiled. His skin was pale, his face haggard from what Tsarong guessed was blood loss and lack of food, but his grey eyes remained vibrant, almost glowing. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Tsarong sat down carefully beside Dumont. He furrowed his brow as he looked over the rug. “What is this, Tulku?”
Dumont smiled. “It is the Jade Tablet.”
Tsarong’s eyes went wide, his heart racing as his stomach fluttered. His skin prickled and the thinning hair on his head began to stand on end. It was a sensation almost like arousal, yet deeper and somehow more divine. “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum! Tulku… How is this possible? How did you remove it?”
“I don’t know.” Dumont’s smile faded and he somberly shook his head before continuing. “There are words etched into the Tablet, Tsarong. Not just Tibetan, but from every language on Earth, everything from cuneiform to English and some I don’t…” He trailed off, his mouth moving silently before he could once again find his voice. “And that only scratches the surface… There is a code hidden in the strand. It took me days to figure out the pattern, several more to piece together the letters and phrases.”
“A code? A code for what?”
Jethro frowned in thought, unable to wrench his gaze off the Tablet. “I can’t be certain—it’s been so long since I ended my studies at the university—but I think it’s the chemical ingredients for a new kind of salt.”
• • •
Jean blinked back tears and shivered despite the warmth. Smoke wafted off her shoulders. She was lying in a fetal position on a marble floor, the stone cold against her cheek. Looking up, she found herself once again in the center of the temple. White columns pierced the darkness, bordering small enclaves with statues lit by shallow firelight. The buzzing in the back of her head drifted into silence and the cloud that had settled over her mind slowly began to clear. Cupped in her hands was the Third and Final Jade Tablet, gripped so tightly she had impressed hundreds of ancient runes into her palms. Turning it over, she realized it was identical to the large cracked crystal egg she had seen in Astrapios’s bedroom.
The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3) Page 16