“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.
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.
On the other hand, White Goatee could easily have a full house, or even four aces. Not likely, though, judging from his expression.
What worried White Goatee, Dean figured, was that his pile of chips had been slowly but surely increasing all night and into the morning. That wasn’t an accident. The other five players had all dropped out, with most of their money now represented by clay disks that were either stacked in front of Dean or in the middle of the table.
In many ways, he felt ridiculous playing poker when the world was about to end, but they had to get cash somehow. Besides, he felt even more ridiculous thinking so matter-of-factly about the end of the world.
Yet it was true, and there was no escaping it. Sam had been manipulated by a demon named Ruby into freeing Lucifer from his prison. The angels and the demons were squaring off, and humanity was going to pay the price.
The angels insisted that Dean was the vessel for the Archangel Michael, while the demons were just as insistent that Sam was destined to become the vessel for Lucifer. They had been told that this was inevitable, and that they should accept their fates.
Both brothers declined to accept a damned thing. So to speak.
They had no idea how they were going to triumph, but they also knew that they’d find a way, or go down fighting.
First things first, though.
“C’mon, Colonel Sanders,” Dean said, breaking the silence and making everyone in the room jump. “Bet or fold.”
White Goatee sighed.
“Ain’t got me no choice, do I?” He pushed all his chips in. “Hunnert.”
Dean tossed in two fifty-dollar chips.
“Call.”
Grinning, White Goatee flipped over the ace of hearts he had in the hole alongside the three he had up.
“Quads.”
Letting out a long breath, Dean first flipped over the six of hearts. Then he flipped over the four of hearts.
Thinking Dean only had two pair—sixes and fours— White Goatee started to make a grab for the chips.
Then Dean flipped over his third hole card: the five of hearts.
Which gave him the two, three, four, five, and six of hearts: a straight flush, which was the only hand that could beat four of a kind.
He grinned like the cat who ate the canary.
“Oh, hell, no!” White Goatee yelled.
Behind Dean, three men laughed. One was the bartender, who also ran the game. The other two were the only players who’d stuck around after they had lost all their money, curious to see how the rest of the game would go.
The bartender could afford to laugh, since one hundred dollars of everyone’s buy-in went straight to him, in return for the use of the hall. Once Dean paid Bobby back, that left him with three grand in his pocket. And as likely as not, Bobby would let him keep the 600.
Or perhaps not. Bobby hadn’t exactly been in as charitable a mood lately. Being stuck in a wheelchair will do that to you.
“A pleasure, gentlemen,” Dean said as he pushed his chair back. He stepped over to the bar to collect his winnings, and to reclaim his cell phone.
Scowling, White Goatee just slumped in his seat.
“The pleasure’s all yours, boy,” he growled.
Chuckling, the bartender counted out a stack of bills.
“Don’t mind Hal, son,” he said when he was done. “He just ain’t used to losin’.”
“Not surprised,” Dean commented, loud enough for everyone to hear. “He’s good.” Then he broke into a grin again. “But I’m better.”
The two remaining players both rolled their eyes. One of them spoke up.
“Come on back next time you’re in town. I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we’d appreciate a rematch.”
“I’ll bet,” Dean replied cheerfully. Then he headed for the exit, ignoring the daggers that Hal was staring at him from under the cloud of cigar smoke.
Opening the door, Dean winced as the rising sun caught him right in the eyes. For some reason, he had thought the sun wouldn’t be up for at least another hour yet.
Walking out into the parking lot, he reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out his cell phone, turning it back on. There were two messages waiting for him, and he put the phone to his ear to listen.
One was a how’re-you-doing from Ellen Harvelle, who’d been fanatical about checking in with the Winchesters ever since the mess in River Pass.
The other was Sam, letting him know that the omen they had thought was manifesting in East Brady, Pennsylvania, had turned out to be just a
crazy old person with an arson fetish.
By the time Dean finished listening to the messages, he had arrived at the Impala, parked between an SUV and a pickup. Putting the phone away, he hopped in and started the car, checked the rearview mirror—
—and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Castiel’s stubble-covered face and blank expression, suddenly there in the passenger seat.
“Hello, Dean.”
“What the hell, Cass?!”
“Sam and Bobby told me that you were here. Bobby did not wish me to remain in his house.”
Backing the Impala out of the space, Dean peered over his shoulder.
“How many times do I have to remind you about personal space, Cass, huh?”
But despite the moment of panic he’d experienced, Dean found it difficult to be angry with Castiel—an angel who had rebelled against his fellows, convinced that they weren’t truly following the wishes of God.
The angels had killed Castiel for his actions, but then for no discernable reason, he was resurrected. Cass believed that God had done it; the other angels figured it to be Lucifer’s doing, in an attempt to sow the seeds of discord within the heavenly host.
Dean didn’t give a crap about any of that—he just wanted the angels and demons gone.
Cass had become the Winchesters’ friend and ally, and while he had lost some of his abilities—such as healing others—he still had enough angel mojo left to be a big help to Sam and Dean when they needed him.
“I need you and Sam to go to San Francisco,” Castiel continued without acknowledging Dean’s question, as Dean pulled onto the back road on which the bar sat. “The Heart of the Dragon has risen again.”
“Uh, okay,” Dean replied as he turned onto the empty road. “And that means what, exactly? There’s gonna be a dragon in San Francisco?”
“No. But a spirit is returning to this plane—one the demon hordes will be able to use in their war with the angels. There have already been deaths.”
“Okay, then.” That wasn’t much more than he’d started with.
“I know it’s a long way, but this is important, Dean.”
Dean sighed.
“I have to talk to Sam and Bobby first, Cass.”
Supernatural Heart of the Dragon Page 2
