The Green Lama: Unbound (The Green Lama Legacy Book 3) (24 page)

A woman spoke up next, her voice somber and intelligent. “Though Vasili is currently beyond our grasp.”

“When I transported to Coney Island and met Rabbi Brickman, that was you,” she said pointing an accusatory finger at Prometheus and the other gods. “Some kinda
deus ex machina
crap.”

Prometheus furrowed his brow and turned to his fellow Olympians. No one replied, but Jean got the sense they
were
communicating. He looked back to her, his face downcast. “No, that wasn’t us,” he confessed reluctantly.

“Well, that’s not very comforting,” she said, clearing her throat. “Let me guess what’s next. I have to go and complete some ancient prophecy and defeat Cthulhu. If I don’t, the reality—the future I went to—”

“Will become
your
future,” another woman said, her voice sultry. “And there will be no reset.”

Jean nodded in understanding. “Dumont and the others are here, aren’t they? Looking for me, just like Ken—the other Ken—said. That’s where the points diverge, in that world they never found me.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, paradoxes and so forth, but you grasp the basics,” Prometheus said with a smile.

“I was there a few days, maybe a week.” She furrowed her brow. Or had she been there longer? Or less? It was like trying to remember a dream. “Do we have enough time?”

Prometheus nodded. “Time moves faster in the counterfactual. Relatively speaking, you’ve only been gone an hour.”

“Then take me to them, Dumont and the others. Let’s get this show on the road before it’s too late.”

He considered the request and nodded.

“But after this, that’s it,” she said sharply, trying not to think of the absurdity of scolding the gods. “I don’t want any of you messing with my life ever again.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Jean,” Prometheus said as a howling wind began to fill the temple. “After this, you’re on your own.”

• • •

The monster screamed, a sound like flesh being torn apart. The black clouds sank back into the Shard, leaving the sky a rich blue. Heydrich forced himself to his feet. Finding his knees weak, he grabbed onto a small branch and watched as the black wormlike head shrank down and reformed into Alexei’s face.

“
Pih qob xowz vczr o aob og qzsjsf og tozghott? W kcbrsf!
” Alexei whispered through a Cheshire grin, his eyes black. The world around him seemed to waver with every syllable, bending reality until it threatened to snap. “
Ewetwjk gx lzw uomt—ywl slgesf! Al’k lzw yjwslwkl esysrafw af ugeak
.”

“Master,” Heydrich choked, loosening his collar. His lungs were on fire, his ears bleeding. He could feel his mind begin to boil as Alexei’s rant continued. Man was not made to hear these words. “Master. Stop. You’re— You’re using the Old Tongue.”

Alexei paused to consider Heydrich, and the world quickly regained its form. Heydrich gasped as he once again collapsed to the ground, this time in relief. Alexei’s ebony eyes faded to ivory as he sheathed the Shard and handed it back to Heydrich.

“What of Dumont?” Heydrich asked.

“Get your people to the Sanctuary of the Great Gods after the setting of the sun,” he said in response. “The time for sacrifice is at hand.”

• • •

“Mother of God, what happened to him?” Sotiria shrilled as they dragged Petros’s chalk-white body onboard. His body was frozen, his back arched in an unnatural angle, his face contorted in terror. His eyelids were at half-mast, busted veins turning the orbs underneath into black and crimson balls. Abook was clutched between his hands, rigor mortis fingers pressing into the ancient leather. Sotiria shivered at the sight, as though someone had walked over her grave. ο Vasili, she asked,” ι συνέβη στον έτρος?”

“∆ενξέρω, Sotiria, ναα οκτάταιακριβ ςα όεδ !” Vasilisnappedas they carefully placed Petros on a table in the galley.

“Μοιάζει µε αυτός είναι νεκρός!”

“Μας άρτε ίσω σε Kamariotissa τ ρα, Sotiria!” he shouted, eyes blazing.

Sotiria nodded nervously and ran toward the cabin, leaving the three men to stand over Petros in silence. The boat rumbled to life beneath their feet, the sound of propellers churning water audible through the walls. They stared down at Petros’s corpse expectantly, as if he would grant them some solution, but despite his mouth frozen open mid scream, he remained mute and cooling on the table.

“What do we do now?” Caraway asked softly after they had cleared the docks.

“We get the book off him,” Vasili replied.

Ken held up his hands and took a theatric step back. “I helped you find it, but I’m not ending up like the Mayan Mummy here.”

“You have the magic words,” Caraway said to Vasili. “Make it happen.”

Vasili silently shot Caraway a contentious look and carefully unfolded the small scrap of paper, his hands shaking. It was simple, he told himself, he just needed to say the words and take the book. Simple. He ran a shaking hand over his mouth. He glanced at Petros’s body and felt a sense of unbecoming, as if he were stepping outside himself. Petros. Vasili had never liked Petros, had once believed they would one day end up at each other’s throat, but here he was dead on a table, murdered by a book. Just simple words—strange, foreign, alien words. Vasili licked his chapped lips and began reciting Alexei’s prayer. “
Nyarlathotep klaatu barada nikto
.
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn
.”

Ken and Caraway watched in muted horror as Vasili’s eyes began to glow green and then rumbled with thunder. Pulling the book free of Petros’s icy grip, Vasili turned it over and stared into the vacant eyes of the book’s inhuman face, feeling as though something inside him had shifted. Simple words. He silently glanced at Ken and Caraway, and then walked out of the galley.

“Did you see that?” Ken asked once Vasili was out of earshot.

“Yeah,” Caraway replied quietly. “I saw it. This whole mess got a lot more complicated.”

“He was protecting it,” Ken said after a moment.

“Excuse me?”

Ken slid his hands into his pockets and slowly walked toward the aft of the boat. “The man we stole the book from—the Rabbi. He wasn’t hiding it, he was protecting it.” He looked back at Caraway. “From us.”

“Gan! Gan!” Jethro sputtered, trying to keep his ringing head above the surface. Water was rapidly filling the car, pulling them down toward the depths of the Mediterranean. Gan sat motionless in the front seat, his face covered in blood, either killed or knocked unconscious by their fall. Wading forward, Jethro placed his hand on Gan’s neck, feeling the soft echo of a pulse. Lacing an arm around Gan’s body, Jethro pulled the German free, kicked open the door, and dragged him out of the sinking vehicle. They were only a few feet from the rocky cliff, but Jethro could already feel the tug of the sea current pulling them away. With Gan’s limp form weighing him down and without his radioactive salts to strengthen him, Jethro knew he only had moments to get them back to shore before exhaustion took hold. Swimming toward the rocky precipice, Jethro struggled to keep his and Gan’s head above water. “Come on, Gan—I need you to wake up,” Jethro gasped. “Can’t do this without you.” He heard Gan groan. “Heinrich! Heinrich, can you hear me?”

“
Ja
, Herr Dumont,” Gan said, his voice weak, his eyes half open. “I am right next to you.”

“Can you swim?”

“
Ja
.
Ja
, I think so,” Gan replied after a moment, nodding his head. He grimaced. “But I cannot do it on my own.”

“Just hold on to me and make for that outcrop,” Jethro instructed as they swam toward the cliff face, keeping one arm wrapped around Gan’s chest. While Gan’s efforts took some weight off him, it was Jethro who was pulling them forward.

Minutes seemed liked hours as they inched closer to the cliff, fighting against the tide. At first Jethro’s fingers only brushed against the wet rock, pulled away by the waves. It took three more attempts before they were able to grab on, digging their fingers into the slippery crevasses.

Jethro looked up toward the top of the cliff. “It’s about a hundred feet straight up. You think you can climb it?” Jethro asked.

“I do not think I have a choice, Herr Dumont.”

Jethro’s muscles burned with exhaustion as he struggled to climb, the gash on his palm stinging against the rocks while the saltwater burned into the lacerations covering his body. It had been years since he had suffered from such minor wounds, his radioactive salts quickly healing his body long before it registered inconsequential trauma such as gunshots, stabbings, and burns as pain. It was limiting, the injuries, the bone breaking exhaustion, an invisible border that prevented him from achieving what needed to be done. He could feel the salt’s absence in his veins, like a word hanging off the tip of his tongue. Gan wasn’t doing any better. While he had pulled himself free of the water, Jethro could see the German was only using his left leg to climb.

“Your leg,” Jethro said over the crash of waves.

Gan shook his head, his face red. “Broken or twisted. I do not know.”

Jethro secured his footing and extended his hand. With considerable effort Gan pushed himself up and grabbed Jethro’s hand, using it as leverage as they made their way up, with Jethro frequently having to pull Gan upward. As they inched closer to the top Jethro could feel Gan’s weight pulling on him more.

“Dumont,” Gan struggled as they neared the summit, his voice hoarse. “Dumont, I do not think I can—I can do this much longer.”

“We’re almost there, Heinrich! Hold on!”

“I—” Gan wheezed. His eyes rolled back in his head as his injuries took hold and stole his footing. Jethro tightened his grip as the Oberführer began to fall away, but the added weight tore at Jethro’s anchor and his bloody fingers began to slip free. He couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Give me your hand!” a woman shouted, extending her hand over the cliff edge. Without any other option, Jethro let go of the wall and grabbed onto the woman’s hand. With her help Jethro pulled himself and Gan onto land.

His lungs and muscles burning, Jethro crawled forward and looked up at their savior. “Ne-tso-hbum!” he whispered as he gazed into her sparkling emerald eyes, forgetting himself.

“Good to see you too, Jethro Dumont,” Jean Farrell said with a knowing smile. She was kneeling over him, a satchel strung across her shoulders.

“Jean!” Jethro jumped up and grasped her by the arms. His heart hammered in his throat, his body trembling as much from shock as exhaustion. She was here, alive, miraculously, wonderfully, alive. She seemed somehow more real, more vibrant than ever. Her scarlet hair shimmered, her skin glistened, and her smile shone like the sun. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her body close as her arms wrapped around his. He felt her fingers dig into his back, and their chins hooked into the crooks of their necks.

“I was so worried about you,” he breathed. He felt their cheeks touch for the first time and suddenly became conscious of the way her body fit against his. He heard a sound like thunder echo nearby and noticed thirteen figures standing off in the shadows. Suddenly feeling like the Lothario the gossip rags always purported him to be, Jethro reluctantly disentangled himself away from her and looked to the figures. Only one was completely visible, a tall man dressed completely in black. “Who are they?”

Jean rolled her eyes, her cheeks ruddy. “Pains in my ass. Trust me, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Gods.”

Jethro’s eyes went wide. “I don’t believe you.”

Jean smiled. “Told you.”

Jethro glanced at the man in black, who nodded in greeting. Jethro weakly waved his hand in response. The man in black turned toward his shadowed compatriots but not before giving Jean one last somber look. Jean nodded her farewells, her face unreadable. There was a flash of light followed by the sound of a rushing vortex. Jethro shielded his eyes as the thirteen figures walked into the light, and in an instant, were gone.

“Is that Oberst Gan?” Jean asked before Jethro could process it all.

“Oberführer,” Gan corrected, his voice strained. He propped himself up. “Hello, Fräulein Farrell. I see you are doing well.”

Jean knelt beside him, smiling. “And how’s my favorite Jewish undercover agent doing?”

Gan furrowed his brow. “I am sorry, Fräulein, did we start liking each other all of a sudden?”

Jean pursed her lips. “Guess not.”

Gan sat up and, looking out into the sea, began to chant in haunting tones:
“Yisgaddal ve-yiskaddash sh’meh rabba be-alma di vra chiruseh
…”

At last he concluded:
“Auf Wiedersehen, junger Johann
.”

She followed Gan’s gaze to a dark shadow in the water, then turned to Jethro. “We lost someone, didn’t we?” she asked.

“Johann Adler,” Gan said. “The only survivor of the Rabbi’s attack on the consulate. I had taken him under my wing.”