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 started 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.

Located on the edge of the park, Marx Meadow had plenty of picnic tables that were perfect for their use, and nearby streetlights kept the area safe and well populated, even after the early darkness of winter. Myra read the part of Gina, the heroine’s best friend—which was exactly the kind of role she always got. A lot of the dialogue was really clunky, she thought, but the playwright took a lot of notes.

When it was all done, most of the others announced that they were going out for drinks, and invited her along, but Myra had to be at work early the next morning.

Besides, she hated drinking.

So she said her goodnights and headed north. Since there were plenty of lights, she cut through the trees toward nearby Fulton Street, where she would catch the bus.

Suddenly there was a man on fire, blocking her path.

“Ohmigod,” she said. “Don’t move... wait, no! You have to drop and roll—yes, that’s it! That’ll put it out. Drop and roll!” She grabbed for her purse to pull out her cell phone and call 911.

But then she realized that he wasn’t screaming.

Or doing anything, really.

He just stood there.

“Can you hear me?” she asked, a shiver running up her spine. She glanced around quickly, but there was no one in the vicinity who might help. So she turned her attention back to the burning man.

Still he remained silent. That was when she saw that, even though they were surrounded by trees and bushes, nothing else had caught fire. Not even the grass.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came out. As she did so, the man raised his arms, which was when she noticed the big, curved sword.

It was also when the man finally spoke. His voice sounded like it was coming through a really lousy sound system—kind of murky and staticky. But whatever the guttural words meant, he wasn’t speaking English, Chinese, or German. It sounded to Myra like Japanese, and she thought she recognized the word “dragon” somewhere in there.

Doragon Kokoro. That was what he said.

But somehow, even though she didn’t understand the words, Myra knew.

Moving suddenly, he loomed over her.

She ran.

She didn’t pick a particular direction, she just started moving. Two years of waitressing had blessed her with strong legs, so she was able to move quickly through the trees.

But no matter where she turned, no matter how fast she moved, somehow Doragon Kokoro kept up with her, flames always burning upward, sword raised as if ready to slice her in two.

She lost track of where she was. Adding to her panic was the fact that the park—which even on a cool December night should have been at least a little crowded—was empty. Even when she found herself running across what she recognized as Kennedy Place, there was nobody.

She tried to scream for help, but all that came out was a rasping croak, and it only served to make her breath more ragged. Strong legs were one thing, but she hadn’t gone running for years. Her lungs were beginning to burn, and sharp pains were starting to shoot up through her calves.

Still she pressed on, hoping that she might lose her attacker.

Where is everyone?

Stumbling more than running, she came to the edge of Lloyd Lake, where she had to stop. And as she turned, she knew what she would see.

The burning man was there, sword held high, firelight reflecting in the dark water.

Finally she found her voice, but rather than a scream, it was a whimper.

“Oh God please no I don’t want to die. Please don’t kill me, please. I don’t want to die!”

Her voice rose, Doragon Kokoro hesitated, and Myra stopped, hoping beyond hope that she might have convinced him. She thought for just a moment that she saw sadness in his fire-covered eyes.

“I don’t want to die,” she repeated.

“Neither did I,” he replied as the sword slashed downward.

It was different, this time.

Now Nakadai could communicate with the living. His actions were still under the control of another, but he felt stronger, faster, more capable.

With these changes came a vexing question. He could still feel Albert Chao’s presence, but this time he could not be sure that it was Albert whose influence he followed.

He appeared in a forest lit by torches that burned without flame. Within an instant a woman stood before him, and one thing was clear—whoever she was, she had to die.

And so he pursued her until she had nowhere else to run.

“Oh God please no I don’t want to die. Please don’t kill me, please. I don’t want to die!” she said plaintively.

Nakadai hesitated, her words reminding him of what it was like to be human. Reminding him of what he had felt the day of his own death. How long ago had it been?

The sword slashed downward.

Moments later he stood over her charred, violated corpse by the still water of the lake, wondering how long he would be cursed to endure this.

“Well, well, well,” a voice said from behind him. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Nakadai?”

Turning, he saw a blond-haired young man wearing short pants and a sleeveless shirt.

“It sure is good to see you again,” the blond man said with a bright smile. “Of course, this isn’t quite going according to plan, but it’s a start.”

“I do not know of what you speak,” Nakadai said to the stranger. “But it is of no consequence. I will go now.”

“Not so fast, chuckles.” The man gestured.

Suddenly Nakadai found that he could not move.

Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the stranger. This was a Westerner—he was no descendant of Nakadai’s, so how could he control him, unless...?

“You.”

“Yup.” Blue eyes and white irises were replaced by solid black. “I like this guy a lot more than Cho the messenger. He was one ugly cuss.”

“What do you want?” Though he could speak, the ronin still could not move.

The demon grinned, revealing perfect white teeth.

“What do you think I want?” he said, and this time there was a hint of the gutteral he had heard in Akemi’s voice. “You don’t think I had you burned alive just for kicks ‘n’ grins, do you?”

“I would not presume to understand how your mind functions.”

The demon laughed raucously.

“Fair enough,” he responded. “But no, I had me a long-term plan for you, Nakadai. Or should I say, ‘Heart of the Dragon’? I gotta admit, it tickles the hell outta me that you got stuck with that moniker for over 200 years. You did hate it so.”

“A plan?” Nakadai spat.

“Of course! And it’s finally time for that plan to bear fruit.”

“What is so special about now?”

The demon threw its head back and laughed again.

“Haven’t you been paying attention? I realize it’s not quite your bag, but the end of days has come! Y’know, ’death comes on a pale horse’? Dogs and cats sleeping together.... Mass hysteria? It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine!”

Having no idea what the demon was babbling about, Nakadai simply stared.

Shaking his head, the demon sighed dramatically.

“You spirits of the damned, you have no appreciation of the classics. Look,” he held out his arms, as if to indicate the whole world, “what we’re talking about here is the Apocalypse. Demons and angels squaring off, and may the best seraph win. And you, Nakadai-san, are my ace in the hole.”

Nakadai frowned.

“I do not understand.”

“Surely you’ve noticed that you’ve got more mojo this time around. Before, you couldn’t do much more than swing your sword like a flaming fool. But things are different now.

“The seals are broken, Lucifer is free, God’s not in his Heaven, and all’s wrong with the world. So it’s time for you and me to go kick some angel ass.”

Another sigh.

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. That grand-niece of yours did a nice job of piggybacking onto my spell, and of creating that counter-spell. It’s too bad she was totally binky-bonkers—she could’ve had one helluva career as a witch.

“Be that as it may, what’s done is done, and her grandson’s got you all sucked into his groove.”

Nakadai shook his head in disgust.

“I knew I detected his hand in this,” he said. “So he has once again brought me back to commit evil in his name.”

“Nope—not this time. Thanks to that bastard John Winchester you were well and truly ensconced in the penalty box.”

Nakadai almost flinched at the venom with which the demon spoke. He wondered what the man—this John Winchester—had done to earn the demon’s hatred.

“But when the new moon came around,” the creature continued, “your little schmuck of a descendent didn’t even bother to call you back. Truth is, this is what you were built for—the Apocalypse. You’re our secret weapon.

“Yet Albert’s bound to call you sooner or later, and thanks to his loony tunes grandmother, as long as he’s got his hooks into you, the best I can do is make you do things on his behalf. But in order to keep you around, we need to keep him alive, too. If he bites the big one, then poof, you’re gone in a flash.

“This chick saw something she shouldn’t have.” He gestured at the corpse lying at Nakadai’s feet. “Can you believe that idiot was going to let her live? Moron. And he’s got bigger problems, too.”

The demon stared at Nakadai thoughtfully for a moment.

“Time’s running out. The angels are kicking our asses, and we need you. So just a warning, big guy—you’re gonna be playing for the home team soon enough.”

With that, the blond-haired head tilted backward, and black smoke came pouring out of his mouth. Once the smoke disappeared into the night sky, the man fell to the grass-and-dirt ground.

Dead.

Then Nakadai began to fade away, to remain in limbo until he was summoned again.

But by whom?