The Green Lama: Crimson Circle by Adam Lance Garcia

side of the city. I can run miles in seconds. And it is only the tip of the iceberg…” He paused to lick his chapped lips, struggling with the next statement. He freed his hand from Tsarong and clenched it into a fist. The verdant veins on his hand pulsated as a vibrant green light grew out from the center of his fist, electrical energy crackling in the air. “I’m becoming the Asura, a god amongst men.”
    “And is that something you truly want?” Tsarong asked, unmoved by Jethro’s display of strength. “You shouldn’t be so cavalier, Tulku. Is any of this what a Bodhisattva should want?”
    “Don’t lecture me on what I should and should not want,” Jethro bit back. “I am no longer your weapon against the darkness. My destiny is mine alone to discover, and I will not let you dictate to me what direction I should take.”
    “Even if that means subverting all that you once hoped to achieve?”
    Jethro unclenched his fist. The energy dissipated into the air as a green mist, but the pulsating veins on his scarred hand remained. “No. You… You’re right. I only ever wanted to find some purpose, but… I have this power now…So if there is some good that can come with these abilities, if I can make the world just a little bit better with the time I have left—”
    “And you plan to control these powers while they control your temper?”
    “I am in control!” Jethro snapped. An electric buzz filled the air before a light bulb on the other side of the room exploded with a sizzling pop.
    Tsarong raised his eyebrows. “Have you told Miss Farrell, yet?”
    Jethro pinched his eyes shut and sighed. “No need to worry her.”
    “She will find out eventually. She deserves to know,” Tsarong said as Jethro turned away. “There are difficult times ahead, Tulku, but I think you already knew that.”
    “More prophecies, Tsarong?” Jethro asked; his voice tinged with sadness.
    “We’re long past the time of prophecy,” Tsarong said as much to himself as to Jethro. “We’re on our own… in need of miracles.”
    • • •
    FOUNDED BY Francis Darren Black in 1839, the village of Black Rock sits in a small valley about a hundred miles north of New York City. The town proper is bordered by the “Three Hills,” relatively minor hills that act as both the town’s official border as well as its fortification from the outside world. Black Rock Hill sat to the east, Tinwood to the northwest and South Grand to the southwest. It was a tranquil village, the kind from storybooks and landscape paintings hit hard by the Depression. The farms that once surrounded the town proper were barren, forgotten relics of a prosperous time; the shops around Cody Square were closed down, boarded up and abandoned. Black Rock, for all intents and purposes, was a dead town. Which made it perfect.
    Valco and Murdoch had ridden most of the trip up in silence, their driver barely acknowledging their presence. Valco stared out the window as the city tapered off and trees and farms grew up around them. The Hudson faded from a brown and green to a vibrant blue, reminding Valco of his youth, ropes and swings in Syracuse. They passed by Norton and Tanner, pinpricks on a map that brought back other memories, darker ones he desperately tried to forget.
    Murdoch subtly cleared his throat. “Dr. Valco, I’ve been meaning—May I call you Harrison?”
    “Please,” Valco said with a nod. He fiddled with his bowler cap hooked on his knee.
    Murdoch gave him a thin smile. “Harrison, I’ve been meaning to ask you a… delicate question.”
    Valco gestured for Murdoch to proceed.
    “The Crimson Hand—the man who attacked Cleveland—you had direct dealings with him, no?”
    Valco shifted uncomfortably. “Pelham and I were friends—old friends, in fact… At least, that’s how it seemed. We worked in the same building on West Twenty-Fourth after he ‘retired’ from brain surgery.” Valco chuckled despite himself. “We used to grab