Heart of the Dragon E-Book

Keith R. A. DeCandido

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

A Supernatural novel that reveals a previously unseen adventure for the Winchester brothers, from the hit TV series! Twenty-three years ago, Sam and Dean Winchester lost their mother to a demonic supernatural force. Following the tragedy, their father taught the boys everything about the paranormal evil that lives in the dark corners of America... and how to kill it. Bobby Singer alerts Sam and Dean to a series of particularly brutal killings in San Francisco's Japantown. It's been 270 new moons since the last time, and it looks like the Heart of the Dragon is back...

Leseprobe

SUPERNATURAL

HEART OF THE DRAGON

KEITH R.A. DECANDIDO

Based on the hit CW series SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke

TITAN BOOKS

Supernatural: Heart of the Dragon

ISBN: 9781848569263

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St

London

SE1 0UP

First edition February 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

SUPERNATURAL ™ & © 2010 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

Cover imagery: Front cover image courtesy of Warner Bros.; Solo Lantern On Bare Branch © Shutterstock.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States.

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS:

Supernatural: The Unholy Cause

by Joe Schreiber

Supernatural: War of the Sons

by Rebecca Dessertine & David Reed

Dedicated to Shihan Paul and everyone else at the dojo.

The writing of this novel coincided with the preparation for taking my first black-belt promotion, which I consider one of the great accomplishments of my life. The study of karate has proven to be such an enlightening and glorious experience, and I will always be grateful to my fellow karateka for their encouragement, wisdom, and spirit.

Osu, Shihan; osu, senpais; osu, my dear friends.

This one’s for you guys.

HISTORIAN’S NOTE

The 2009 portions of this novel take place shortly after the fifth-season episode “Changing Channels.”

Contents

1859

ONE

2009

TWO

1969

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

2009

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

2009

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

1859

ONE

The rain had not let up for the better part of an hour.

Yoshio Nakadai knelt in the shelter on the side of the road in sei-za position—knees and shins on the floor, feet crossed under his buttocks—waiting for the rain to cease. He was in no hurry. This shelter had been built for the very purpose of shielding travelers from rainstorms. The repetitive rhythm of the rain pelting the roof gave him a focus for his meditations.

Yet such focus had been difficult to achieve of late. Even now, emptying his mind proved nigh on impossible.

Once, a samurai such as Nakadai would have committed seppuku—ritual suicide—when his master’s holdings were seized, his lands taken, his title stricken. But such days were in the past. No one knew the ways of honor anymore, and the code of bushi had become a story told to children around the fire, rather than the way of life it was meant to be.

Now Nakadai was just another of the many lordless ronin who wandered the countryside in the hope of using his skills to survive. During the year that had turned since his master had fallen out of favor with Edo, he had worked as a sword for hire protecting people and caravans, and had taken work as an investigator, an arbitrator settling a dispute between two merchants, a builder, and a teacher showing a rich man’s son how to defend himself.

His reputation had served him well, particularly in the towns nearer to Edo. Unlike so many ronin, Nakadai always acted honorably.

He knew no other way. Besides, if a person hired him and he did his job properly and well, they were more likely to hire him again.

However, while Nakadai was able to acquire enough coin with which to live, he was unable to obtain the contentment he longed for. Had he actually committed seppuku, as tradition demanded, he might well have found peace. But to die out of loyalty to a dishonorable man?

Nakadai felt no great love for the shogunate, but in this instance, they had been right to censure his master, who had proven himself a coward and a thief. The dishonor was his master’s, not Nakadai’s.

There was no reason to die for the likes of him.

Yet honor demanded that he do so. He’d pledged fealty, and the fact that his master did not deserve such loyalty didn’t change the fact that Nakadai had so sworn.

That conundrum continued to plague him. His mind refused to empty.

The rhythm of the rain was suddenly broken by the rapid sound of feet squelching in the mud.

Nakadai opened his eyes and peered into the obscuring rain. He saw a short man running toward the shelter. As soon as the man arrived he futilely tried to wipe the water off his face and brush it from his clothes. Finally surrendering to his sodden state, the newcomer laughed and spoke.

“Greetings, I hope you don’t mind if I share the shelter with you.”

“Of course not,” Nakadai replied quietly. Then he closed his eyes once again, hoping the man would understand that he wished not to be disturbed.

However, such understanding was not forthcoming.

“I honestly thought this rain would have passed by now,” the man continued, peering out from under the roof’s edge. “I figured to myself, ‘Cho, you just have another hour to go before you reach town, you can make it before the rain gets too bad.’ Instead, the downpour just got worse!” Turning back to his companion, the man named Cho studied him more closely.

“Hey, you look familiar.”

Nakadai sighed and opened his eyes. Clearly, he would not achieve a proper meditative state with this Cho person present. Not that he had been in any danger of doing so without him, either.

Rising to his feet, he started to walk the perimeter of the shelter in order to restore full feeling to his legs. The space was so small that he had to step around the newcomer more than once.

“You heading into town, too?” the man asked, following Nakadai with his gaze. “I’m guessing you’re a ronin, aren’t you?” Then he shook his head. “Okay, it wasn’t a great guess, ‘cause you’ve got a nice-looking katana and you seem like you could kill me just by looking at me. But those clothes have seen better decades, if you don’t mind me saying. You hoping to find work?”

“Yes.”

Nakadai continued his perambulations around the shelter, never making eye contact, and looking to the skies from time to time to see if there was a sign that the storm would break.

Despite his most fervent wishes, his companion continued.

“You know, you really do look familiar. I’m a messenger, see, and I get around a lot. Would’ve loved to have been a samurai or even a ronin, but you should see me with a sword. Or I guess you shouldn’t, because I’m very bad at it. Still have the scar, actually.”

Finally, Nakadai turned his head to look at Cho, and he had to admit to himself that he was less than impressed. The messenger possessed muscular legs, as might be expected from one of his profession, but he also had huge eyebrows, unfortunate teeth, flabby arms, and his clothes hung sloppily about his torso. The latter, at least, could be attributed to the storm. But the rest....

One of those flabby arms, the left one, had a lengthy scar running from the elbow to the wrist.

“Pretty sad, huh? But I could always move fast, so I became a runner. Soon enough, folks were hiring me to carry messages. It’s good—I get to travel to other towns and meet lots of people.

“You know, I’m just sure that I know you from somewhere,” he insisted again.

Nakadai turned away. The scar was old and healed, and also rather straight. It probably came from an accident— tripping while holding the sword, perhaps, with the edge slicing into his arm on the way to the ground.

“That’s it!” Cho exclaimed, pointing in his direction. “You’re Doragon Kokoro, aren’t you?”

Nakadai winced.

“I am called Yoshio Nakadai.” He had never liked that nickname. The samurai had singlehandedly killed seven bandits who attacked his master’s caravan while they were on the way to Edo for an audience with the shogun. The bandits had been unskilled, and also drunk, so they could easily have been dispatched by a poorly trained monkey, but his master observed the quantity rather than the quality, and lionized Nakadai’s defense against so many foes. When they arrived in Edo, he referred to Nakadai as having the heart of a dragon, and the nickname of Doragon Kokoro had stayed with him ever since.

Cho shook his head and grinned unevenly, then bowed formally.

“It is an honor to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Nakadai said out of politeness. If Cho was honored, then so be it. He stared out at the sky to find that the downpour was lighter and the horizon was turning blue. “The rain will end soon,” he observed.

“Excellent,” Cho responded, but then his face fell. “Or, perhaps not. You see, while I normally take pride in my work as a messenger, today I am the bearer of bad tidings.”

“That is unfortunate,” Nakadai said, but he didn’t press. He had no interest in the private communications of others.

“Very unfortunate. I have come from the local daimyo with news that will greatly displease the people I represent. You see,” Cho continued, despite Nakadai’s desire to respect the privacy of both the sender and recipient, “there are two maidens whose fates remain undetermined.”

Nakadai turned to face the messenger.

“What do you mean?”

“A man named Kimota promised his son to two different women. The fathers of both maidens paid the bride-price. Before the deception was discovered, however, Kimota took ill and died.”

“Why did the son not simply repay one of the fathers?” Nakadai asked. “Or both, and choose another woman as his wife?”

“Unfortunately, Kimota engaged in his duplicity in order to pay off gambling debts,” Cho explained. “The money is long gone, and the poor young man is under obligation to two women.”

“It is a difficult problem,” Nakadai agreed, shaking his head. “I assume you were sent to the daimyo to receive judgment.”

“Exactly,” Cho said with a sigh, “but the daimyo has refused to judge on the matter, deeming it beneath his notice to settle the disputes of gamblers.”

Nakadai rubbed his chin. The patter of the rain lessened, and within a minute or two it would be light enough to allow them to continue on their separate journeys.

Then he spoke.

“I have at times,” he said slowly, “acted as an arbitrator in just such disputes, ones that were too sensitive—or too meager—to cause the daimyo to intervene. Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

Cho brightened at the idea.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Both maidens’ fathers had rather expected that the daimyo would solve all their problems.”

Nakadai allowed himself a small smile.

“In my experience, it is rare for a daimyo to solve any problem that is not his own.”

Cho laughed loudly at that.

“Very true,” he agreed, then he straightened and looked directly at the fallen samurai. “We would be honored to have the Heart of the Dragon serve as mediator.”

Wincing again at the nickname, Nakadai walked out from under the shelter.

“Shall we, then?” He turned and strode down the road at a brisk pace.

“Absolutely,” Cho replied enthusiastically, and he ran to catch up and then pass the ronin, until he was leading the way.

As the messenger passed, Nakadai thought he caught a glimpse of a strange expression on his new companion’s face. A trick of the changing light made the man’s eyes appear pitch black.

But he quickly dismissed it as a momentary illusion.

The dispute proved a difficult one for Nakadai to mediate.

Both women were insistent that they were promised to Kimota’s son—a befuddled youngster named Shiro.

First he spoke to one of Shiro’s prospective brides, a woman named Keiko.

“The daimyo is a filthy worm!” she said stridently. “How dare he treat my future as something so horribly unimportant! What kind of a daimyo just leaves us twisting in the wind like that? I tell you, he ought to be hanged! Or at least stripped of his position! He’s almost as bad as Kimota, taking advantage of us like that!

“You’re a samurai, you should do something about it!”

Nakadai listened patiently to Keiko’s shrieking, which only got louder as she continued. Then he thanked her and spoke to the other woman, whose name was Akemi.

Unfortunately, all Akemi did was cry. Nakadai tried asking her questions—something that had been unnecessary with Keiko, who spoke without prompting—but each question received only another sob in reply.

Next, Nakadai spoke to the fathers. He had been concerned that there would be bitterness between the two men, but their shared misfortune had apparently brought them close together as comrades.

“Kimota convinced me,” Keiko’s father started, “to keep the engagement a secret until harvest day.”

Akemi’s father continued.

“He made the same request of me. It’s been a poor year for crops, you see.”

“Kimota’s explanation was that the news of an impending marriage would cheer the rest of the townsfolk, after what we knew would be a poor harvest,” Keiko’s father finished.

Nakadai nodded. He’d wondered how Kimota had managed to keep the twin engagements quiet in so small a town as this, where everyone generally knew the details of everyone else’s affairs.

Finally, Nakadai spoke to Shiro.

“I don’t know what to do,” the young man moaned. He was sitting with his head down, staring at his sandals rather than looking up at Nakadai. “Both women are worthy wives, of course, and I would be happy with either of them. I honestly never expected to marry a woman as fine as either Akemi or Keiko. But Father never even told me any of this. The first I heard of either engagement was when Keiko and Akemi’s fathers both came to me after the funeral.”

Normally when he performed such arbitration, Nakadai’s queries would eventually reveal some critical fact that had remained hidden, and that would point to his best course of action. But in this case, all he could find was what he had learned from Cho at the shelter: Kimota had tricked two men into paying a bride-price for Shiro. Since Shiro could only marry one, he’d be obligated to return the other’s money, which would leave both him and his new bride utterly destitute.

For the first time since his master had been disgraced, Nakadai found himself uncertain of how to proceed.

The town boasted a modest inn, and on his third night there, Nakadai sat up late, cleaning his katana by candlelight. The rhythm of wiping the cloth on the curved blade helped him organize his thoughts.

He heard footsteps moving through the town’s main street. At this hour, most of the populace was asleep, so the steps echoed loudly through the night.

They also grew closer to the inn.

Within moments, the swathed shadow of a female figure, cast by a wavering candle, fell across the paper door that led to Nakadai’s room. The shadow’s arm thrust forward, and the door slid open.

It was Akemi. She fell to her knees.

“Forgive my intrusion at this late hour, Doragon Kokoro, but I must speak with you.”

Nakadai gritted his teeth. Cho had introduced him to the townspeople as the Heart of the Dragon, and he was not pleased that the name had taken hold. Nor did he like the idea of people simply entering his room unannounced.

However, he had yet to actually hear from Akemi, as these were the first words that had come from her mouth while in his presence. So he nodded to her, sheathing his sword.

She rose, shut the door, then walked toward him, kneeling again in front of him and bowing low.

“I wish to plead with you to rule for my father.”

“You were both equally wronged,” he replied. “Why should Keiko suffer and you benefit?”

Suddenly, Akemi’s eyes changed from pale blue to pitch black.

“Because, oh mighty Heart of the Dragon, I won’t give you a choice.” As she spoke, her tone became strangely guttural.

Instantly Nakadai was on his feet with his sword unsheathed. With the transformation of her eyes came an alteration in her face. It morphed into something not quite human.

“What are you?” he demanded.

“Originally? Just a demon trying to set the people of this town against one another. For amusement, really. Turning humans against people they trust—now that’s a party.” Akemi’s head shook back and forth. “But these peasants refuse to cooperate! Instead of fighting over who gets to marry that tiresome little rodent Shiro, as I was hoping they would, they whined to the daimyo, begging for assistance.

“But then I found you.”

Now Akemi’s face formed an expression that could barely be called a smile.

“Now I get to do something that’ll provide a lot more than simple entertainment. And you’ll be the one to assist me.”

Nakadai remained in a defensive posture, but he resisted the urge to launch himself at the intruder.

“I will never assist a creature such as yourself, demon, if that is what you truly are.”

“Really? So what happens next?” the demon purred with a voice like gravel. “You attack me? If you do so, then you harm poor, helpless Akemi—and the peasants will condemn you as the murderer of an innocent woman.”

Nakadai knew that the monster spoke true—yet he could hardly stand defenseless, either.

So he retained his stance and let the demon speak.

“You see,” it said with a hint of Akemi’s voice, “one day I will have need of you. Not today, nor even soon, but when the day of this task arrives, it will require the sacrifice of a hero.” The black eyes stared hard at Nakadai. “Do you know how hard it is to find a true hero, especially in these wretched days?

“By the time I possessed Cho—seeking to pass the time—and pretended to go to the daimyo, I had given up hope of ever again meeting a virtuous man. But then I saw you in the shelter, and I realized I had my hero. Then it was just a matter of luring you here, and that was the easiest thing in the world.”

“I will not participate in any plan of yours.”

“Your cooperation is neither required nor necessary,” the thing that controlled Akemi said with a chuckle.

Before the stunned ronin could react, the demon proceeded to rend Akemi’s garments and slam her head into the inn’s support pillar.

Then she screamed.

As she continued to do so, Nakadai’s heart sank, and he realized that there was no defense against this. He knew he had only a few seconds before someone responded to her screams. His only option was to stay and try to explain what had happened. The alternative was to choose the coward’s path and flee.

Honor would not permit him to run.

Footsteps clattered in the street, mixing with the woman’s cries to shatter the stillness. The door to the inn was thrown open, and a half-dozen men stared in horror at the sight of Nakadai with his sword drawn, and Akemi, lying naked, bleeding, and writhing on the floor.

One of the men was Akemi’s father. He called out his daughter’s name and knelt beside her, cradling her wounded head, wiping the blood from her eyes.

“What did he do to you, my precious daughter?”

Whimpering, the demon—whose eyes had returned to normal—replied in Akemi’s voice, “I tried to plead with him to rule for our side, and he attacked me!” She lifted her head and glared malevolently at Nakadai. “Said I wasn’t fit to be a bride, and that when he was done, I’d never be!”

Akemi’s father whirled on him.

“You dare violate my daughter?”

Another of the townspeople spoke up.

“We thought Doragon Kokoro was a man of honor! But you’re just more filthy ronin scum!”

“I did not touch your daughter,” Nakadai said, knowing it was futile. “She has been possessed by a demon.”

The voice of Akemi pierced the night air.

“He’s lying!”

“Of course he is,” her father said. Then he turned to the men who stood in the doorway. “Seize him!”

Nakadai could have resisted with the greatest of ease. These were peasants, after all. He could have killed all six of them—and Akemi as well—without difficulty, and made his escape.

But his katana had never claimed the blood of an innocent. It would not do so now, even if that meant Nakadai’s own death.

No, he knew then that his fate had been sealed the moment the demon entered his room, wearing Akemi’s skin. Or perhaps it had been sealed the moment he took shelter from the rain.

So he let the men grab him, take his sword, bind him, and take him to the town square. More townspeople gathered along the way, roused by the hubbub. He was bound to a post and guards were assigned to watch him. But they need not have bothered—he would await the sunrise with dignity.

At sunrise, the entire town was called to the square to mete out justice. Akemi’s father told everyone what Doragon Kokoro had done to his daughter, and he spat in the dust as he spoke.

“Will anyone speak in defense of the ronin?” he challenged.

Nobody spoke.

Ropes biting into his wrists at his back, Nakadai regarded the crowd that had gathered before him. In their eyes, he saw revulsion at what they thought had been done to Akemi, and disappointment that the Heart of the Dragon was apparently less than his reputation. He longed to speak the truth, but knew it would do no good.

Akemi’s father turned to look at him. His eyes swam over with black.

So the demon has found a new vessel, Nakadai mused.

“It seems that you have been condemned, ronin,” it said, no hint of the guttural in its voice. “You should have sought your pleasures in a whorehouse instead of with my daughter, filth.” He spat again, this time at Nakadai’s feet.

Of Cho and Akemi, the prisoner saw no sign. He wondered what became of those who had been possessed, after the demon departed. He suspected that it didn’t bear thinking about.

His eyes returning to normal, Akemi’s father spun to face the crowd.

“Yoshio Nakadai, the so-called Heart of the Dragon, will be burned to death for his crimes!”

The crowd cheered their assent, hurling epithets.

Nakadai was appalled.

“I demand the right of seppuku!” he cried.

Turning back, the demon snarled with the voice of Akemi’s father.

“You have violated my daughter! You are in no position to ’demand’ anything, ronin scum!”

Nakadai moved to protest, and then silenced himself. To refuse a proper death for a samurai, even a ronin, was unheard of. But he also knew that any further objection would be fruitless.

Several of the townspeople pounded a bamboo pole into the ground, well away from their dwellings, while others grabbed him, dragged him over, and tied him there. Some made certain his bindings were firm, while others placed sticks at his feet, piling them up to his knees.

Akemi’s father left, then reappeared holding a torch.

The townspeople all backed away.

“You die today for your crimes, Doragon Kokoro,” the demon shouted, loud enough for all to hear. An amused grin briefly twisted its mouth.

He bent over to thrust the torch into the sticks. As he did so, he whispered words in a language that Nakadai did not know, and that only the ronin could hear.

There was a foul purpose here, but as the flames licked his legs and his battered robes caught fire, he could not divine what it was.

Though the flames burned the living flesh from his bones, the Heart of the Dragon died without screaming, while the population of an entire town cheered his death.

The demon watched through Akemi’s father’s eyes as Yoshio Nakadai burned. Even as the flames consumed the ronin’s body, a fire of a different kind was consuming his soul.

The creature was pleased with itself. So many of its kind were concerned with quick fixes—a soul here, some political influence there. Such things were so—so trivial.

No, it preferred to play for the bigger stakes.

Not that the small stakes didn’t have their rewards. He looked around at the people of this town, who had been so easily manipulated by Kimota. The demon hadn’t had anything to do with that—in fact, it was Kimota’s manipulations that had drawn its attention to this otherwise insignificant little spot in the first place.

Such delightful machinations attracted him like a fly to shit.

But once the demon had realized what was happening, it had decided to have some fun. It had gifted Kimota with a fatal illness, turned the people even more against one another, and then wore the town messenger to guarantee that no help would be forthcoming from the daimyo, thus enraging them further.

That anger, the outrage—that was fun. But being able to lure a noble soul to the town, that was art. And it was art that would survive long past this delicious moment.

While it had no idea how long it might take, the demon was fully aware that one day the demons and the angels were going to go to war, that Lucifer’s minions and God’s minions would launch their epic final battle.

Most demons would be little more than foot soldiers, and they’d be happy with their lot. But this demon had plans. It had managed to escape Hell, thanks to a bored man who possessed an ancient scroll and didn’t value his own soul particularly highly. Since that day it had roamed the Earth, getting ready for the big one.

It wasn’t sure how long it would take, but being an immortal demon, it could afford to be patient.

The eldritch flames, summoned through a whispered spell, entwined themselves around the Heart of the Dragon, blackening his purity and his nobility even as the physical flames melted his flesh and muscle and bone.

When the time came, the spirit of Yoshio Nakadai would become a weapon of unimaginable power in the hands of demonkind: a noble soul put to ignoble use.

2009

TWO

Dean Winchester stared calmly across the table at the man with the white goatee.

They were the only two players remaining in an all-night poker game, and Dean had a substantial pile of chips in front of him. White Goatee only had one hundred-dollars’ worth left, and he was contemplating his cards nervously while puffing on his twelfth cigar of the night. That he did so while sitting under the red NO SMOKING sign had been a source of amusement when the game started, but now it was just tiresome.

Dean doubted he’d ever get the smell of cheap cigar out of his leather jacket, but that was the price he had to pay. Well that and the game’s 600-dollar buy-in, which Dean had been forced to borrow from Bobby Singer. He and his brother Sam had been reduced to an almost penniless state, which meant that they needed a big score in order to keep doing things like eating and putting gas in Dean’s 1967 Chevrolet Impala. After all, starving to death or being stuck on the road without gas were extra inconveniences when you were trying to prevent the Apocalypse.

White Goatee stared at Dean’s four up cards: a two of hearts, three of clubs, four of hearts, and a six of spades. As for him, he had three aces showing, as well as a four of diamonds. Dean had consistently matched his opponent’s bets, never raising him. He could afford to be magnanimous, given his monster pile of chips and the fact that White Goatee was on his last legs.

I really ought to learn this guy’s name, Dean mused.

Then he thought about it.

Nah. Why bother?

The problem for White Goatee was that he couldn’t be sure if Dean was betting for the fun of it or not. After all, Dean was able to match all bets, even with a crap hand. His up cards indicated a likely straight, or maybe two pair or three of a kind.