The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) (10 page)

“And Dumont?”

“Snatched him up like she was playing jacks,” he replied before taking a swig. He poured some onto the rag and pressed it against his face, grimacing at the sting.

“So she survives a floating ship of death, then raises Cain in a police station so she can kidnap a millionaire?” Evangl asked. “That doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

“Since when did anything we ever do make sense?” Caraway retorted, brushing a bit of plaster off his chair before sitting down. “You should see how the boys downtown react when they read my reports. They keep telling me I’m the next Richard Foster.”

“He does have a point,” Gary said wryly to Evangl, though his eyes were glassy. “The sort of crap we deal with is straight out of a bad serial, cliffnangers and all. We even have a hero who likes to dress up in a showy outfit.”

Evangl looked down at the shattered glass covering the floor. “But how could she have done all this? She would have to be built like a train.”

Caraway shook his head. “More like a succubus. Like my ex-wife. It was her eyes, though…” Caraway said distantly. “They weren’t… right.”

“How so?” Evangl asked.

“They were… black. Not just the pupils, but her… They looked like holes where the eyes should be. Black enough you could fall into them and never stop falling.”

“Well, that’s one of the creepiest things I’ve heard today,” Gary commented, clearing his throat. He blinked, tears welling up. “Wonder if that’s what—what, um, happened on the…?”

“No way of knowing,” Caraway said as calmly as he could. He and Gary had their issues in the past, but no one deserved to lose someone—let alone their mother—aboard the
Bartlett.
Gary was putting on a brave show, but it could only go on so much longer before the cracks opened up. “All that matters now is that we find her.”

“And save Dumont, right?” Gary asked, his voice hollow. “Because that’s what we do.”

Caraway smiled wanly. “Unless the Lama saves him first.”

“Is there a plan?” Evangl asked, lacing her fingers with Gary’s.

“There’s always a plan,” Caraway said, boldly placing his sidearm on the desk.

Evangl eyed the gun skeptically for a moment. “But you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Caraway’s shoulders slumped, deflated. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Fantastic.”

• • •

Pain raged through Wilfred’s body. Enveloped in darkness, he blindly touched his fingers to his face, hissing at the sharp sting. His eyes began to pierce through the darkness; brick and piping ran overhead, while a constant drip and flow of water echoed unendingly. He shivered, the chill in the air unrelenting. He wrapped his arms around himself, finding his shirt soaked with blood, a bullet wound oozing black and scarlet from his side.

“Oh God…” he moaned. “Oh Jesus.”

“You’re awake,” a woman’s voice came from the shadows. He could just see her crouched in the far corner, dressed in a blood soaked nightgown.

“Who’s there?”

“Nothing. No one. Not anymore.”

“He—help me. I think I’ve—I think I’ve been shot.”

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “So? It won’t let us die. Not yet. Not until it’s ready.”

Wilfred looked at the pipes surrounding them. “Where are we?”

The woman gave him an exhausted shrug. “Under. Over. Does it matter? Everywhere is Hell now.”

“I don’t understand. What happened to me? How did we get here?”

“They took us here. The Others. The ones inside. This is how it began, begins,” the woman replied. “It accelerates, grows until we’ll lose all we are, replaced by…” She trailed off and started scratching violently at her face until blood began to pour down her neck.

“Replaced?” Wilfred whispered. “Replaced by what?”

The woman leaned forward into the dim bit of light and Wilfred let out a small scream. Her arms were riddled with long bloody trails, her face a horror of lacerations revealing the muscles beneath and, most terrifying of all, her eyes were black as coal. “Monsters.”

A sharp pain wrapped around Wilfred’s spine as the thing, the Other, crawled up inside him. His mind glimmered weakly as the monster took over, pushing Wilfred into a cage, bound and chained, left alone to watch the world play out like shadows on the wall. He could feel the creature drive his fingers into his skin. There was pain, of course, but it was like the itch from a lost limb, ever present but untenable. He had become little more than a suit worn by something unaccustomed to the concept of flesh and blood, tearing at meat and bone with the care and curiosity of a child pulling the wings off a fly curious to see what would happen next. It would never stop, never fade, it would drive and dig into him until it left nothing behind but a large gaping wound. Death would be a release.

That was the nightmare, and there was no way to wake.

He heard gunfire echo in recesses of his mind, memories flooding back with the staccato fury of a New York alleyway in the midst of a mob war. He began to recall who he was, what he used to be. Even then he was more monster than man. He used to love the sound when he busted heads for Pete Barry, the thrill of twisting the knife in a man’s gut and watching him bleed out. But that was yesterday, another life where violence and blood were business, occupational hazards recouped in dollars and smokes. That was when he was alive. The truth was he died the night of the
Bartlett
crash along with Josh Reynolds. He remembered the steel of the ship shattering his ribs, turning his limbs into putty. But something black and malignant had taken hold of him and brought him back as a vessel driven forward by little more than hate.

Ichor dripped down his face, as the creature used his own hands to dig into his flesh, screaming and howling like a wolf in the night. Deep inside, Wilfred sobbed and begged, but no one would hear, not the creature wearing his body, nor the woman laughing nearby. This was his personal little perdition, but there would be no redemption here.

• • •

The inside of Ken’s skull was a raging storm, spinning violently; he had a concussion, a goddamn concussion. He blinked heavily, while his head tried to force its way to the ground. He tried to push through it and find his way to Jean, he owed her that much and more.

A thin pattern of blood speckled the manhole cover, the end of a violent crumb trail worthy of Hansel and Gretel. More than a few times, Ken had to double back to retrace his steps but the trail had led him here which meant the only direction left was down.

Ken looked up at the sharp blue fall sky as the sun began to arch past the skyscrapers. It was too beautiful a day for this, he decided, as if crime and danger should only wait for alternately foggy or dark and stormy nights. But nothing was ever so neat and tidy like the movies. That was the big secret, the thing they never told you when you were getting into the vigilante business; it wasn’t always alleyways and dark shadows. More than anything, it was dirty and didn’t always end happily. The
Bartlett
was proof of that.

He knelt down, holstered his gun and began to pry his fingers beneath the manhole cover, expecting the worst.

• • •

“Morning, Dumont.”

Jethro gasped as his eyes opened to darkness. “Jean?” he breathed as he pushed himself off the cold cement floor, his head throbbing. His eyes adjusted to see the beautiful redhead seated against the opposite wall. “Jean Farrell?”

“Last I checked,” she said with a serene smile.

Jethro caught himself wishing, not for the first time, he could tell her who he really was, knowing he never would. “Where are we?” he asked nervously, once again playing the role of the vacuous millionaire playboy. The ever-present sound of water echoed off the slime covered brick walls towering around them. A complex array of piping was just visible in the shadows above.

“Sewers, judging by the pipes, the water, and the smell.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same question, but I have a feeling I already know the answer.”

“I was at the police station with John when we were attacked. There was… a woman. She tore through the station like it was cardboard. I saw her rip out the throats of two officers… I’ve never seen such… fury. And her face…”

Jean shivered despite herself. “Ken and I were down by the docks investigating that whole Liberty Island thing when this guy attacked us. Looked like something out of a Universal monster film. Face ripped to shreds. Dragged me here about… three hours ago? Four? Damn if I can tell down in this pit. The woman tossed you in shortly after. How’s it feel to get beat up by a woman, by the way? Must feel emasculating.” She let the last word hang between them.

“Thank you, Jean, I’m happy to see you too. It’s been what, three months?”

“Two months and twenty three days. Not that I’ve been counting, mind you,” she added hurriedly. Despite the gloom, Jethro noticed her cheeks reddened ever so slightly. “But, our last adventure left a bit of an impact.”

“I bet. You ditched me at dinner. I can honestly say that’s never happened to me before.”

“First time for everything. And I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you.”

Jethro laughed sardonically. “Are you still working with our mutual viridescent friend?”

Jean raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Viridescent mean green?”

Jethro nodded. “Viridescent means green.”

“Then yes. Not a week goes by that I’m not roped into something ridiculous. It’s damn near exhausting.”

“But you’re smiling.”

Jean shrugged. “Never said I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Well, that explains why you’re so calm.” He climbed painfully up to his feet, bruises and bones crying out. It had been too long since he had taken his radioactive salts; his strength and energy were quickly running dry. “So, seeing as you’re the expert then, I’m assuming you’ve a plan to get us out of this?”

She pointedly crossed her arms. “You mean besides wait for the Green Lama to show up?”

“And here I thought you would have diversified.”

“Why mix it up when the classics work so well?” Her sarcasm misted the air.

“I was actually hoping for something more… immediate.”

“If you’re looking for miracles, Dumont, you should’ve just asked,” she said, drawing a small pistol from her boot. “Hey, when you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you always come prepared,” she added off his bemused expression. She placed the gun in her coat pocket, walked over to the far wall, and started feeling for handholds. “Scarface knocked away my revolver, but he didn’t bother to check to see if I was carrying a spare. He’s clearly new at this kidnapping thing.”

“You had a gun? You had a gun this whole time?” Jethro thought about it for a moment then laughed. “That’s oddly comforting.”

“If I had taken it out earlier, I would have had to drag your unconscious butt all through the sewers,” she said, answering his unasked question. “Besides, I never would have seen that cute look on your face.”

“Last I checked the Green Lama didn’t really approve of guns.”

“I’ve always felt that was a grey area. You know, aim for the foot, not the head sort of thing.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how he feels,” Jethro commented dryly. “So, what’s the plan? I’m assuming you have one.”

Hands on her hips, Jean stepped back from the wall and looked up to the shadows. “Oh yeah, definitely. I’ve got plans out the wazoo. I just need to figure out which one I’m going to use. Don’t worry, Dumont, a girl might have kicked your ass today, but another’s gonna save it. I think that’s what we call poetic justice.”

“Wait. Did you say I had a ’cute look on my face?’”

“Turn of phrase, Dumont. Don’t get excited,” she said without looking back. She pointed up at the wall. “This wall ends about twelve feet up, if you can prop me up on your shoulders I might be able to reach the top. How tall are you?”

“Five Ten.”

Jean gave him a skeptical glance. “Seriously?”

Jethro flapped his arms. “Why would I lie about that?”

“The Green Lama’s a cool six feet.”

Jethro smiled subtly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he used platform shoes to make himself seem more imposing to the criminal element.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jean scoffed, though Jethro could hear the doubt in her voice. “Come on, let’s get this over with. And keep your eyes on the floor. I don’t want you getting any ideas.”

Jethro knelt down to let her step onto his shoulders. Gripping her ankles, he slowly stood while Jean palmed her way up the wall.

“Can you reach?”

Jean stretched her arms as far they could go, the tips of her fingers falling several inches short of the edge. “Almost… You know if the Green Lama were here…”

“Here. Step on to my hands. I’ll lift you up.”

She looked down at him distrustfully. “You think you can actually lift me up, Mr. Millionaire Playboy?”

“A little faith would go a long way, Jean.”

“If I fall and break my neck…” She carefully placed one foot at a time into Jethro’s hands. “I’m coming back to haunt you.”