Supernatural Heart of the Dragon

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Unfortunately, most of what he saw was construction— right up to and including the Main Library itself. The Bay Area had been hit by a brutal earthquake in October— ironically right in the midst of the first World Series between the Oakland A’s and the San Francisco Giants. While nowhere near as devastating as the famous 1906 quake, there had been a lot of damage, and the city was still in the process of rebuilding.

  When the quake hit, John had actually been at the Roadhouse watching what was supposed to be the third game of the Series with some fellow hunters. The Roadhouse owners, Ellen and Bill Harvelle, had planned it all out: for the duration of the ’89 Series, the place would—for once—be run like a normal sports bar, with guys drinking beer and talking about Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco, and about Will Clark and Rick Reuschel, and about the death of the commissioner, and all sorts of other things that hunters normally didn’t have the time or energy to think about.

  But then while the players warmed up for the third game, the earth shook. Al Michaels, Jim Palmer, and Tim McCarver turned from sports announcers to newscasters.

  Immediately the patrons of the Roadhouse tried to figure out what kind of omen this might be, what the signs were, and what they might have missed. But it soon became apparent that no mystic forces were involved—it was just the San Andreas Fault with a case of the hiccups.

  Now, as he got off the bus, John realized that he had no idea who actually won that Series.

  To his relief, the section of the Main Library that included recent newspapers was still open to the public, and wasn’t among the areas closed off for post-quake repairs. He immediately started digging through all the local papers, trying to find out everything he could about the three murders.

  But the stories themselves didn’t offer much, although the Chronicle had managed to locate pictures of the victims from before their deaths. They were all Chinese-Americans, they were all employed by the Shin’s Delight restaurant— and they all had tattoos on their forearms.

  While the quality of the black-and-white photos was sufficiently poor that John couldn’t make out what the tattoos depicted, he could tell that they were of the same design—whatever it might be—and in the same place. These days, ornate tattoos were mostly the purview of bikers, Marines, and gangsters—John had the same tattoo on his forearm that all the members of Echo 2/1 boasted.

  Chinese-American biker gangs weren’t really the norm.

  He also checked the sports sections from late October. The A’s had swept the Series in four games.

  Go team.

  When he got back to the hotel, John made a phone call to Lucas Jackson, a fellow Marine who’d gone to work for the VA after serving his tour. He left a message asking if there were any Marine veterans named Jack Teng, Michael Li, or Johnny Lao.

  While waiting for that phone call to come back, John went to the hotel gym. It was a pitiful affair, with only a few weights and one of those stairmaster things, but it would do.

  One of the great vampire hunters Daniel Elkins had been an invaluable storehouse of information about the supernatural. He had urged John to follow his example and keep a journal, so that if he died, it would provide Sam and Dean with a roadmap on how to continue his work.

  It was astonishing how little John knew of those who had come before him. Bobby had reinforced that need with his own account of how he got into hunting. Like John, Bobby had lost his wife. And like John, Bobby had no idea who or what it was that had taken her from him.

  But where John’s first instinct was to fight—no doubt born of his Marine training—Bobby’s was to learn. He had sworn that he would never fail someone due to ignorance.

  John had taken both men’s lessons to heart.

  He had also embraced the lessons the Marines had taught him, which included the idea that it was never good to be idle. As Sergeant Lorenzo had always said, “You’re only as strong as the last guy who kicked your ass.”

  So he worked out with the weights while he waited for Lucas to call back.

  By the time he returned to the room, sweaty and sore—but the good kind of sweaty and sore—the message light was blinking on the room’s rotary phone. Picking it up, he dialed zero.

  “Front desk.”

  “This is Room 220. There’s a message for me?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.” John heard the man shuffle through some papers. “It’s from Lucas Jackson. The message is, ‘no soap.’”

  John smiled.

  Back in country, Lucas had never gotten tired of telling the awful, ‘No soap, radio’ joke, mostly to new recruits who didn’t get it—because, of course, there was nothing to get. That proved to John that it was really Lucas returning the call, and also that he hadn’t found any records for the three dead men.

  Which wasn’t a surprise. Still, he’d needed to be sure.

  So they were gangsters.

  Stripping off the t-shirt and shorts he’d worn to the gym, he took a quick shower, then changed into the warmer clothes he’d need to go outside in San Francisco in December.

  Time, he thought, for a nice dinner at Shin’s Delight.

  FOURTEEN

  The second-best day of Albert Chao’s life had been when Tommy Shin took over as the official of this branch of the Triads.

  The best, of course, had been the day Moondoggy Verlander had completed the spell that would allow Albert to summon the Heart of the Dragon. Nothing before that—and nothing since—had matched the sheer magnificence of having such power.

  He needed to get that power back.

  While it had healed his wounds, and continued to do so, without the presence of the spirit itself his greatest weapon remained maddeningly out of reach. Until the spell that banished the spirit wore off, true power would be denied him.

  He couldn’t be hurt or killed—though, for some reason, he continued to age. The spell kept him from permanent harm by healing any injury to his person—though the graver the injury, the longer it took for him to recover.

  And invulnerability wasn’t the same as having the ability to hurt people. Once he realized that, Albert took advantage of the kung-fu craze of the early 1970s, when martial arts dojos were opening up all over the place, filled with students all eager to be the next Bruce Lee. There his rapid healing gave him a distinct advantage, and he quickly developed the fighting skills he needed.

  As soon as Albert felt they were sufficiently honed, he offered himself up to the local Triad group. At first he was refused, but he persisted, and found a branch that would have him.

  Growing up in Chinatown, he had always known how much of the power in his community was wielded by the Triads. So he committed himself to working his way up the Triad ladder, and did so for the next two decades.

  Unfortunately, he spent most of that time on the bottom rung. His status as a half-breed—as usual—was a frustrating impediment.

  Eventually, however, he was permitted to work as a low-level enforcer. He acted as a bodyguard for the prostitutes, minded the door at the clubs, and occasionally took care of people who didn’t pay their protection money or repay their loans.

  Never, however, was he permitted to express an opinion. Half the time, they wouldn’t even let him speak.

  That all changed, though, when Tommy Shin took over from the Old Man.

  * * *

  No one had any idea why the Old Man chose to retire. The announcement came out of the blue, and he seemed deeply unhappy about it. Rumor had it that the higher-ups back in China were displeased with something the Old Man had done, and had made it clear that new blood was required.

  Tommy considered himself an American who happened to live in Chinatown, rather than a Chinese who happened live in America. And he did something nobody else in the Triad hierarchy would do: he spoke directly to Albert.

  “This is the land of opportunity,” Tommy had said then. Albert was pretty sure Tommy hadn’t cared who he was talking to—he just liked to hear the sound of his own voice. But that didn’t matter—what m
attered was that it was Albert who was standing there.

  The television was on, and it was tuned to a newscast. There were people in East Germany climbing over the Berlin Wall, unopposed by the security forces that months earlier would have shot them for even attempting such a thing.

  “We can’t let ourselves be tied down to old ways of doing things,” Tommy continued. “Look at that—the Iron Curtain doesn’t even exist anymore. Who’d have believed that any of us would live to see that? So yeah, Albert, I want to hear what you have to say, because the fact that your mother was Japanese isn’t a good enough reason not to listen to you.”

  That was all he needed to hear.

  Now, a month later, Albert had moved up in the ranks. Tommy talked to him, and, reluctantly, so did the others— because Tommy did.

  Which was good, because that was only step one of the plan.

  Step two came on the penultimate new moon of the year, November 28. That was when the spell cast by that stupid blonde gaijin girl finally expired, and Albert once again commanded the Heart of the Dragon.

  Once again he spoke the words, and once again the flames erupted—flames that didn’t burn the surroundings, yet emitted waves of intense energy. Albert basked in the glow of that power, and planned his next move.

  His original plan had been to simply kill everyone who stood in his way, then take control of the Triads, but he hadn’t counted on it taking quite so long to advance in the organization.

  Plus his years working for the Old Man—and then for Tommy—had illustrated the fact that it took more than sheer power. Yes, it helped to wield such a magnificent weapon, but a genuine leader also needed to command respect, and no spell could grant that.

  Albert did not have the respect of his peers, nor of the Triad masters back in China. He would not yet be accepted as the new commander, regardless of the magical resource he now controlled.

  But he could systematically eliminate Tommy’s support system, leaving the Triad boss with only one man he could rely on: Albert Chao. When that day arrived, only Tommy would stand between Albert and the seat of power. It would only be a matter of time before he controlled this branch, and eventually all of the Triads.

  He had to be patient, and methodical. His training at the dojo had instilled that in him.

  Tommy had called him in for a meeting, so he entered through the restaurant. Albert was hoping it was about his collection proposal. The shop owners were always looking for ways to wriggle out of paying protection money, and Albert’s solution, while simple, would solve those problems.

  He’d just timed it poorly.

  As he entered the restaurant, he scanned the tables out of habit from his days as a bodyguard. The vast majority of the patrons were locals, with only one or two round-eyed tourists who had made the effort to dig deeper and find a more authentic eatery.

  Then there was the man with the stubble. He was wearing a Sony walkman, eating his dumplings with a pair of chopsticks that he wielded with surprising ease for an American. Looking more closely, Albert saw dogtags around the man’s neck. Given his age, he’d probably served in Vietnam and learned how to use chopsticks there.

  As Albert walked past, the man looked up sharply. Then he stopped the tape in his walkman and rewound it.

  Albert made a quick detour to Lin, the maître d’.

  “Keep an eye on the man at table seven,” he whispered. “I don’t like the look of him.”

  Lin just stared at him.

  “He’s a paying customer.”

  “Yeah, but he looks like a cop,” Albert said. The SFPD, he knew, was full of guys who had served in the military.

  “Lotta cops in here since Jack, Mike, and Johnny died,” Lin persisted. “Maybe he just likes the dumplings.”

  Albert scowled at him and headed toward the back, to talk to Tommy.

  He’d been trying to figure out who the Heart of the Dragon’s next victim should be, and now he was pretty sure it was going to have to be Lin.

  While climbing the wooden staircase that led to Tommy’s office, he started whispering the spell.

  John cursed himself for his obviousness, but he couldn’t help looking up sharply when his electromagnetic field detector—which looked like a normal Sony walkman— started spiking.

  The person the EMF was responding to, a man with a pointed nose and dark hair tied into a little ponytail, had already been giving John the hairy eyeball, and it only grew more intense when John looked over at him so suddenly.

  John hoped it was just the standard reaction to an American in a place dominated by Chinese—he’d had similar experiences in Vietnam, and had learned the hard way to stick to places that catered to American soldiers. But given the spike, he couldn’t take the chance.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guy talking to the maître d’ and gesturing in John’s direction. That pretty much clinched it—he had to assume that he’d been made.

  Which meant that guy might well have been Albert Chao, the one responsible for bringing back the Heart of the Dragon. Bobby hadn’t had a picture, or even a physical description, so he couldn’t be completely sure.

  But he could find out.

  Quickly gulping down the remainder of his dumplings, John shrugged on his bomber jacket, left a ten-dollar bill on the table without bothering to wait for the check—he didn’t want to lose time—grabbed the large mailing tube from under the table, and headed for the exit.

  The maître d’ didn’t even acknowledge John’s departure. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Bobby had mentioned that Chao was a half-breed, and that was a type that full-blooded Chinese often ignored, so John might have caught a break.

  Once out on Pacific Avenue, John turned and went into the alley that ran between Shin’s Delight and a souvenir shop. To his relief, the alleyway was open—many large cities these days had taken to gating them to keep out homeless people.

  He reached the back of the building, where three dumpsters contained all the restaurant’s garbage. The stench of rotting food assaulted his nose, but he didn’t let it slow him down—he’d smelled far worse over the past six years. Along the way, he stepped in brackish water that simply joined the dozens of other unidentifiable stains already present on his hiking boots.

  Once he got past the third dumpster, he found a large metal door that was covered in chipped brown paint the same color as the bricks. Using the trash receptacles to hide himself from street view—not that many people were staring down the alley, in any case—he removed the hook sword from the mailing tube.

  The door had two locks, one on the knob, and a deadbolt above it. Trying the knob, he found that it turned all the way, so it wasn’t locked—but the door didn’t budge, which meant the deadbolt was in place.

  Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, John pulled out the lockpicks that had been a gift from Caleb two years earlier. Well, half a gift—the other half had been showing him how to use them. After eighteen months, he finally started getting the hang of it.

  After a few moments of fiddling, the tumblers dropped into place.

  Turning the knob, John had to yank to get it open, and cursed silently at the sound it made. As he did so, he held up the sword in a ready position.

  But there was nobody there. Just a dark hallway that led along the back of the building.

  Slowly stepping inside, John closed and locked the door behind him—it wouldn’t do for someone to notice anything amiss—then waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. There was a light somewhere down the hall, providing him with some illumination. He almost tripped over a couple of giant Hefty bags filled with refuse that hadn’t made their way out to the dumpsters yet. The walls were covered in cracked wooden paneling.

  He could hear chatter in Chinese, coming from the direction of the light, and the crackling sound of oil frying. He moved slowly and silently toward the sounds, and found an entryway to the kitchen, as well as a spiral staircase that went up to the second floor.

>   Dozens of people dressed in dirty white uniforms moved about the kitchen, the chatter and the cooking creating a constant stream of sound, enough that the kitchen staff didn’t notice John moving quickly up the staircase.

  The stairs emptied out onto another hallway with similar wood paneling, but in better shape. One wall boasted pictures in both black-and-white and color, showing various people on streets that could’ve been here in Chinatown, or in China itself. Closer inspection, however, revealed the flower-lined twists and turns of Lombard Street visible in the background.

  The other wall had three closed doors and one open one. As he slowly moved down the corridor, staying close to the wall to avoid creaking floorboards, John heard two voices. Both, to his surprise, were speaking English.

  Moving closer, John could start to make out the conversation.

  “I understand,” one of them said, “but we still have to consider—”

  “Right now, Al, the only thing I’m ‘considering’ is how to kill whoever’s responsible for this. I’ve lost three good lieutenants, and someone needs to pay for that!”

  “Of course, Tommy, I understand, but we also have to make sure that business as usual goes on.”

  John had a suspicion it had been ‘Al’ who had set off the EMF spike and given him the evil eye, since that matched the first name Bobby had given him.

  Before he could act, though, he heard a piercing scream from the direction of the large wooden staircase at the far end of the hall—followed by dozens more screams, all emanating from the restaurant below.

  FIFTEEN

  Lin Sun loved his job.

  It was a simple job, one that didn’t require a great deal of effort, but which allowed him to talk to people. Lin had always been what Americans referred to as a “people person.”

  As a boy he’d come to San Francisco with his family, and immediately started making friends. Unlike his older brother and younger sister—who were reserved at best, chronically shy at worst, just like Mother, Father, and Grandfather—Lin got along with everyone he met.