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  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

  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.