When he arrived, a wizened old woman stood before him.
“I am Miko,” she said. “You are my great uncle. And you will do as I say.” In her hands she held a hooked sword engraved with runes that spelled out the words “Pierce the heart of the dragon.”
Try as he might, Nakadai could not speak—not even to verify that this withered crone was indeed the offspring of the pudgy two-year-old nephew he’d known when he lived. Nor could he control his own actions.
Visible through a haze of fire, the woman who called herself Miko revealed that she had learned of the spell the demon had used to damn him, but the power of her birthright had enabled her to summon him back to the land of the living.
She spoke of the foreigners who had come to their shores soon after Nakadai’s death, and how their foul ways had corrupted Japan. She told him about her own daughter, who had married a Chinese man and moved across the ocean to the United States, and had given birth to a son.
That had been the final indignity, and it had spurred Miko to action. Disowning her daughter and cutting her off from all contact with the family, she had proceeded to search the family history, hoping to find something that might grant her the influence needed to turn the tide of corruption. In doing so, she had learned of the spell that had doomed Nakadai.
She then located masters of the arcane, and studied their arts. They had helped her craft a counter-spell that would return him to the land of the living as a weapon for her to wield. But knowing the dangers that lurked wherever evil was involved, she had set out to have the hook sword forged.
It was to be kept in reserve, in case the demon returned and attempted to assert control.
“And now you will help me rid our land of the accursed Western plague,” the ancient woman said, and that was when he realized that her mind had long since given way to insanity.
“Together we will destroy them, and restore Japan to its noble glory.”
But the years had ravaged her body as much as her mind, and before Nakadai could perform any of the tasks Miko intended for him, it surrendered to the years and she died.
Oblivion returned the moment she breathed her last, and blissfully remained until the day that her grandson, Albert Chao, made use of the same spell. This was the half-breed who had so incensed Miko, and at his hands Nakadai was used to fulfill petty revenge fantasies until blessedly, he was banished again at the hands of a Western woman.
When he returned again eighty seasons later, it was again at the hands of Albert Chao. His descendant had become less petty, but his vicious streak remained, and only Miko’s sword—somehow wielded by a foreigner—kept Nakadai from doing more harm.
Again he floated in the void, for what he hoped would be an eternity. But even as he did so, he knew the demon would never allow it to be.
NINETEEN
Dean stood between a fidgety Sammy and a patient Uncle Bobby at the Sioux Falls Airport baggage claim.
Each time someone new came through the door, his ten year-old heart beat just a little bit faster. And each time it wasn’t Dad, he deflated.
He just wanted Dad to come back home safe. The safe part, at least, he knew was the case.
Dad had called Uncle Bobby last night after Dean was supposed to be in bed. But unlike Sammy, he hadn’t been able to sleep. So when the phone rang, he slid out of bed, snuck quietly onto the upstairs landing, and listened to Uncle Bobby’s side of the conversation coming from the kitchen.
“Good.... Yeah, okay.” He paused while John talked on the other end of the line. “Yeah, I figured Wallace would know his business. What?... Oh yeah, sure. That makes sense. Well, send the sword back, you ain’t gonna want to run that sucker through the metal detector, and I sure as hell wouldn’t trust it to the idjits who handle checked luggage. Be lucky if the damn thing don’t wind up in Outer Mongolia by mistake....
“Just charge it to the FedEx account, for cryin’ out loud.... All right. I’ll put it on ice when it gets here, in case we need it again in twenty years. Yeah, we’ll meetcha when the flight lands—I’ll even bring the Impala. It’s runnin’ all nice and smooth now, just needed an oil change and some tunin’.
“What?... Yeah, I said ‘we.’ I’ll bring the boys along. They wanna see you.... Why shouldn’t I bring ‘em.... Good....
“Okay, seeya John.”
After he’d heard the beep of Uncle Bobby ending the call, Dean had been happy. Dad was alive—and based on the way he and Uncle Bobby had been arguing, he was as ornery as ever.
That, Dean knew, meant Dad was okay.
Waiting there in the airport, he understood how important it was for Dad to be away so much—more than Sammy ever could. Sammy hadn’t really known Mom, since he was just a baby when she died. Dean couldn’t imagine that his baby brother would ever truly understand what had happened to her.
If he was honest with himself, he didn’t really understand it, either. There were some days—though he’d never admit this to anyone—when he couldn’t even remember what she looked like.
Some kind of monster had killed Mom, and Dad wouldn’t rest until he found that monster and killed it. Along the way, he’d kill any other monsters who tried to kill other people’s moms.
Because Dad was a hero, and that was what heroes did.
Finally, a familiar dark-haired head appeared behind a bickering couple. Dad moved past them, walking quickly, a broad smile widening inside his stubble.
Sammy hadn’t been paying attention to much of anything, but as soon as Dad walked through the door, he jumped up and ran.
“Daaaaad!”
“What a baby,” Dean said, and he pretended it was no big deal that Dad was back.
“You boys doin’ all right?”
“We’re doin’ great, Dad!” Sammy was practically bouncing up and down. “I beat Dean at checkers and then he won hide-and-seek, but it’s okay ‘cause I beat him at Yahtzee!”
Dean was about to point out that Sammy only won one game of Yahtzee, but Uncle Bobby put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
Reluctantly, Dean kept quiet. Sammy was happy to see Dad, and Uncle Bobby didn’t want Dean to rain on his parade.
So all he said was, “Good to see you, Dad.”
“Glad to see both you boys. Oh, and I’ve got something for ya!” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out two tiny plastic rectangles, handing one to Sammy with one hand, and reaching toward Dean with the other.
It was a miniature California license plate, with DEAN where the number would’ve been.
Sammy’s eyes went wide—his said, SAM.
“Wow! This is so great!”
“Can only get ‘em in San Francisco,” Dad said with a smile. “Had to get you boys somethin’ special.”
Since Sammy was so happy to have his, Dean said nothing.
But he knew that items like this could be found in lots of places in California. And that airports in particular had souvenir shops that sold them. He’d only gone flying once, and he really really really really hated it, but he remembered those shops.
Which meant Dad probably grabbed these quickly, on the way to catch the plane. Based on Uncle Bobby’s half of the conversation on the phone last night, he hadn’t even expected his sons to be at the airport.
Then Dad ruffled Sammy’s hair and walked up to Dean. He put his hands on Dean’s shoulders and gave him one of his most serious expressions, the one he used whenever he was saying something really important.
“You took good care of Sammy, didn’t ya?”
Dean swallowed, and suddenly felt incredibly guilty. He remembered, too, the words Dad spoke to him the night Mom died. They were always in his mind, but just now they echoed so very loudly.
“Take your brother outside as fast as you can—don’t look back.
“Now, Dean, go!”
So he straightened his shoulders, and looked his father right in the eye.
“Yes, sir!”
Dad smiled. “That’s my boy.�
��
“C’mon,” Uncle Bobby said, “let’s get outta here.”
They walked to the parking lot. Dean got a little steamed when Sammy started going on and on about the one and only time he beat Dean at Yahtzee, but then he thought about Dad’s words and let it go again.
Dad still fought the bad guys and saved people, but he also cared about his sons.
Because Dad was a hero, and that was what heroes did.
TWENTY
Myra Wu ran through Golden Gate Park under the meager light of a crescent moon, desperate for her life.
Never before had she felt such terror. It clawed at her chest, and wouldn’t let go. Even in her darkest dreams, she couldn’t have imagined such fear could exist.
Not until the day she’d first heard gunshots.
Myra was a San Francisco native, born to a Chinese-American father and a German-American mother. She’d attended a public elementary school, a public high school, and San Francisco State University, where she majored in theater arts and got average grades, not really excelling at anything, but never failing, either.
Some of the professors insisted on spelling it “theatre,” which always amused her.
Regardless, acting had always been a passion for Myra, and while she didn’t get the leading roles, she almost always got a part of some sort. When that didn’t happen, she helped out with the backstage crew. It made her feel as if she belonged.
Once she graduated she continued to live at home with her mother and father, who were always willing to let her do whatever she wanted as long as she didn’t get into trouble with the law.
That caveat was hardly necessary. Myra had never even been sent to detention in school, and her friends were hardly the types to do anything that might get them in trouble with anyone, much less the law. The only police she’d ever seen were the officers who happened to pass her by on the street.
At least until she took the job at Shin’s Delight.
While Myra enjoyed acting tremendously, and possessed genuine talent, she’d never felt the drive to pursue it as a career. She sent out her headshots and went on auditions, which garnered her parts in a bunch of different plays in the Tenderloin, but nothing that attracted any serious attention.
So, in the time-honored tradition of thespians throughout the centuries, she took a job as a waitress. As she accepted the position, she remembered a joke that had been told by one of her professors at SFSU.
A Man meets a woman at a bar.
Man asks, “What do you do?”
Woman says, “I’m an actress.”
Man replies, “Oh yeah? What restaurant?”
Myra’s features displayed only her father’s Chinese heritage, with the exception of the blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother. Her Asian appearance contributed to her difficulty in getting good roles, but they improved her chances of finding employment in the restaurants in Chinatown.
What was more, Myra spoke fluent Chinese and German, in addition to English, so she was eminently qualified to work in a restaurant that still—even in the tourist-heavy times—catered primarily to the locals.
Shin’s Delight on Pacific Avenue was just such a place. Even better, they were hiring.
At first, everything went well. Myra liked talking to people, she liked serving people, and she liked her coworkers. Truth be told, Myra got along with everyone.
With one possible exception—the strange, older man who ran the place.
Albert Chao was a secretive, pointy-nosed fellow who rarely came out of his office. When he did, it was usually to shout at someone in anger—whether justified or not. Or to talk to the police, who came by pretty regularly. Occasionally the visitor was a uniformed officer, but it was far more common to see a detective climbing the stairs.
Myra never understood why the police kept coming to the restaurant. She tried to ask Zhong, the manager, but he just brushed it off.
“It’s nothing that concerns us,” he said, glancing around the main dining room until his eyes lit on one of the tables. “Table four needs water—take care of it.” And he’d clapped his hands to send her on her way.
She’d done as he asked, but refused to be distracted.
Careful not to let Zhong know what she was doing, Myra asked around. But all she uncovered were rumors, and she didn’t like what they implied.
So she decided to let it drop.
A nearby small business had decided to celebrate the approaching Christmas holidays by bringing all forty of its employees to Shin’s Delight for lunch. That, in addition to the usual crowd, kept the entire staff hopping, and meant that their supplies ran out faster than expected. Soon they were running low on cloth napkins, so Zhong sent Myra upstairs to the supply closet to retrieve some that he had stashed there for just such an eventuality.
Her path took her past Albert Chao’s office, and she stepped quietly in order to remain unnoticed. As she did so, she heard what sounded like a car backfiring.
Except the sound came from immediately behind the closed door to the office. She wondered if it could have come in through one of the office windows, but then she smelled smoke.
Followed by laughter.
And then another shot.
Myra froze, clutching an armful of napkins to her chest. And somebody screamed.
The scream ended as abruptly as it had begun, only to be replaced by a whimpering sound. Concerned that someone might be hurt, she overcame her natural instinct—which cried out for her to run as fast as she could—and knocked on the door.
“Hello? Is everyone all right? I thought I heard something!”
The only response was the sound of another report— and then the whimpering stopped.
Once again Myra found that she couldn’t move, and to her the silence that followed was even more frightening than the noises had been.
Floorboards creaked, and the door opened slowly.
Albert Chao had a thick shock of white hair that stuck straight up on top and hung halfway down his back, making him look like an Asian mad scientist. He squinted at her with cruel eyes that sat menacingly over his pointed nose. That wasn’t the scary part, however. Pretty much every time she had seen him, he had looked like that.
No, what frightened her was the red stain on his chest. Myra had seen enough stage accidents to know exactly what a bloodstain looked like, and that was it.
“What do you want?” he asked in a frighteningly even tone.
Myra’s heart beat so fast she could feel it pounding against her ribs.
“I, uh—I was coming up to get more—more napkins, and uh—uh, I heard—”
“You heard nothing,” Mr. Chao said firmly. “You saw nothing. Do you understand?”
She nodded so rapidly that she feared her head might fly off her neck.
“Okay! Of course! I mean—” she stammered. “Do you... do you need any help?”
“Go. Now.”
The next thing Myra knew, she was back downstairs with the napkins in hand, thrusting them into Zhong’s arms. She had no recollection of actually running down the staircase.
Yet there she was.
Zhong peered at her with concern.
“You all right?” he asked. “You look like you saw a ghost!”
“I, uh—” But she couldn’t find the words, so she just stood there. Waiting for her to speak, Zhong finally ran out of patience.
“Well, get over it. We’ve still got to get through lunch.”
Sensitivity had never been his strong suit.
Despite Zhong’s business-as-usual attitude, a pall of tension hung over the restaurant. Myra hadn’t been the only person to hear gunshots, yet no one would speak of it. What’s more, people she knew disappeared—not the dining room staff, but people who worked in the offices upstairs, and she assumed they had quit due to the stress.
But Myra had no such option—she really needed this job.
Things grew worse over the subsequent two days, as more cops than usual came by. And they s
tarted talking to the staff. Finally she learned that bodies had been found in Ghirardelli Square, and the deceased had been tentatively identified as employees of Shin’s Delight. Tentatively, because they’d been very badly burned.
When it was her turn to be interviewed, Myra was tempted to tell the detectives about the incident with Mr. Chao. But if she did that, she might have to tell them about the rumors too. Rumors she hadn’t been willing to believe until the day they’d needed more napkins.
That Shin’s Delight was a front for the mob.
Myra didn’t know what mobsters looked like. Sure, she’d seen some odd-looking people going up and down the stairs, some of them entering by the front door, others through the back. But they were no stranger than the people employed by theatrical tech crews to do the heavy lifting. She never assumed they were gangsters, so why would she think that about the people in the restaurant?
So when the detective from the local precinct—a slightly heavyset man in an ill-fitting charcoal suit—asked her if she’d noticed anything unusual, Myra just told him that she didn’t know anything.
In many ways, it was the complete truth, she told herself. Nothing she had seen made sense, so how could she claim to “know” anything?
After she talked to the detective, the tension only got worse, and it began to involve her directly.
Each day it seemed as if Mr. Chao came downstairs just to glare at her. She overheard him asking Zhong about her work, and if she was talking unnecessarily with the other employees.
Zhong, bless him, sang her praises—or as close as he ever got to it.
“Haven’t caught her stealing anything yet,” he’d said flatly.
One December night after work she made plans to go to Golden Gate Park.
A burgeoning playwright acquaintance wanted to do a “table read” of the first act of his new piece, to make sure the dialogue sounded natural, and he’d asked a bunch of actors to help out. Like most up-and-coming writers, he couldn’t afford to rent a place to do it, and he didn’t live in a large enough apartment to hold them all, so he invited his volunteers to Marx Meadow “for a table read without a table,” as he put it.
Supernatural Heart of the Dragon Page 14
