TWENTY-ONE

At age ten, Sam Winchester had become obsessed with maps.

It all started when he kept asking his father where they were going next. It was a reasonable question, since the answer was always different, and Sam was still young enough at the time to think it was exciting to know.

However, neither John nor the fourteen year-old Dean had much time for Sam’s curiosity. So to shut him up, his dad bought him an atlas.

This proved beneficial all around. John and Dean were no longer being pestered all the time, and Sam had found a hobby.

For weeks after he received the atlas, he would spend every minute of his spare time studying the maps it contained, learning how the highways and byways intertwined and intersected, the arrangements of smaller roads, the way some cities sought to lay out their streets in organized patterns. He studied the effects of topography, and the placements of borders and boundaries.

But the thing that most captured the fancy of his ten year-old brain was the U.S. Interstate Highway System—or, as he breathlessly told his father and brother after a trip to a public library in Indiana, “the Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways.” He lectured his indulgent dad and an impatient Dean all about the thirty-fourth President’s championing of the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956, to create a system that would support commerce and serve as arteries should there be a nuclear war.

Sam especially loved the way the interstates were numbered. For the two-digit highways, odd numbers ran north to south, while the even numbers ran east to west. The higher the number, the farther north or east the road was located.

Dean refused to believe him. He claimed it was ridiculous, and that Sam had just made it up, but their father leapt to his younger son’s defense.

“A lot of those highways were being built when I was young,” John Winchester said, much to Sam’s delight. “Where there was a hill, they just cut right through it, and built the bridges over the rivers. Other times they followed the paths for existing roads.” He grinned at his sons. “’Course, there wasn’t much need for that in Kansas—don’t have much in the way of hills there.”

Dean just hunched back in his seat and scowled, calling them a couple of dexters.

Like most childhood obsessions, this one burned itself out fairly quickly. But Sam still retained the facility for maps that it had engendered, and it wasn’t long before he was doing all the navigating for the Winchester family hunts.

To a great degree Mapquest and Google Maps had subverted the need for the atlas. Even so, Sam didn’t entirely trust them. Too often they sent the brothers the wrong way down a one-way street or across a bridge that no longer existed—if it ever had. So for every trip Sam pulled out a traditional map and used it as a backup.

Invariably he was able to find a more efficient route than the one suggested by the computer.

Dean and Sam both knew all the best ways to get from the Singer Salvage Yard in South Dakota to pretty much every major highway. Interstate 80, the one on which they were currently motoring, stretched across the country from New York to San Francisco, and was probably the highway on which the Impala spent the most time. It was a straight shot west from Omaha, Nebraska to the Bay Bridge.

As soon as they finished scouring Bobby’s library, looking for everything he had about Doragon Kokoro, Sam and Dean had hit the road. It was midday, and Sam took the first leg while Dean—who’d been up all night playing poker—slept in the passenger seat. Then, by the time evening rolled around, Dean took over.

That meant two things.

First, the music from the tape deck got louder, beginning with Metallica’s ...And Justice for All.

Second, it meant Sam had the opportunity to reread the journal. Bobby’s books and papers hadn’t turned up a lot, nor had the internet, but it was a start, and now he wanted to review what John had written.

Their father’s perspective, viewed in light of Bobby’s material, added some interesting wrinkles.

“Huh,” he muttered.

Dean reached to turn down the music just as ‘The Shortest Straw’ was starting.

“What?”

Sam blinked. He hadn’t meant to speak out loud.

“I was just rereading Dad’s notes,” he explained. “He had an interesting take on Albert Chao, the guy who summoned the spirit the last two times. Dad saw him as the typical summoner type. Y’know, a weaselly little guy who isn’t able to make it in the world—or at least not in the world the way he thinks it ought to be. So he goes all occult, to make up for his own shortcomings.”

“He should try a blue pill, instead,” Dean said sarcastically. “Anyhow, it shouldn’t matter. From what little I read, Dad didn’t think Chao had a snowball’s chance in hell of staying alive after the spirit got banished.”

Sam shook his head.

“I don’t know, Dean. Everything I read at Bobby’s says that this Chao guy has to be the one to summon it. He’s the one with the ronin as his ancestor, and according to the texts, the spirit remains tethered to whoever summons it, and renders that person impervious to harm.”

“So, what, we can’t shoot this guy?”

Sam shrugged.

“Well, we can, but it won’t do any good. Best bet is to do what Dad did—cast the spell on the sword. Unfortunately, that’ll just banish the warrior for another twenty years.”

Dean’s expression turned grim.

“You’re assuming the world’s still gonna be around in twenty years. Hell, I ain’t puttin’ any money on makin’ it another twenty days.”

That elicited a sigh from Sam.

“Yeah, you’ve got a point. But Cass seems to think this Heart of the Dragon is important, so we’ve got to do what we can.”

Neither brother had much to say after that, so Dean turned Metallica back up. The tape had moved on to ‘Harvester of Sorrow,’ and Sam went back to trying to decipher his father’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

Eventually, he drifted off to sleep himself. By the time he woke up, the sun was coming up in the east and the Impala was zipping out of Sacramento.

“So, we got a plan?” Dean asked without a preamble.

Sam rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Coffee?”

Dean chuckled.

“Next rest stop we see.”

Flipping their dad’s leather-bound notebook open to the right page, Sam looked for a name.

“We might as well head for the motel Dad stayed in—the Emperor Norton Lodge. It’s on Ellis Street, not all that far from Chinatown. Then, I guess we try the restaurant where Dad banished the spirit last time.”

Dean shot him a look.

“Emperor Norton?”

Sam paused before he replied.

“You don’t know about Emperor Norton?”

“Not unless you’re talking about Art Carney’s character on The Honeymooners,” Dean replied. “And I don’t think he even made it to Grand High Exalted Mystic Ruler of the Raccoons.”

Sam laughed.

“I can’t believe you never heard the story. Joshua Norton was a failed businessman who completely lost it. In 1859, he declared himself ‘Norton I, Emperor of these United States and Protector of Mexico.’ He dissolved Congress, created his own currency—Oh, and he also levied a fine of twenty-five dollars on anyone who called the city ‘’Frisco.’”

Dean snorted.

“Yeah, well, if we run across him, I’ll give him a twenty and a five.”

“Nobody took him seriously, but everybody loved him. And he had some good ideas. One of his decrees was that they should build the Bay Bridge and construct the BART. In fact, I think I remember reading a few years back that they tried to get the bridge renamed after him.”

“Fine, so we’ll stay in the royal suite and get some Chinese food. Meanwhile, there’s a diner at the next exit.”

Sam looked up and saw a blue sign that indicated what eateries were available at the upcoming exit. Besides the diner, there were three fast-food joints and a Starbucks. He was tempted to suggest the Starbucks—thanks to Dean’s poker winnings, they could actually afford it—but decided not to open that particular can of worms. They’d been back hunting together for a while now, and things were going well.

But the wounds were still relatively fresh. It wasn’t so much that Sam had started the Apocalypse.

No, Sam thought to himself, that sucks, but what really hurt Dean was that I trusted Ruby more than I did him. I lied to him, and I betrayed him.

He should have known better.

If there’s one thing we’ve got to remember, it’s that we’re better together than we are apart.

So he decided he didn’t need to go to Starbucks.

He just nodded as Dean moved into the right lane.

Albert was in a good mood when he woke up that morning.

Preferring a commute that only required him to go down a flight of stairs, he maintained an apartment over Shin’s Delight. As he came out of the bathroom, his cell phone rang.

At first Albert had loved the invention of the cell phone. With cell phones, he could talk to any of his people without delay, and that had been very convenient as he had solidified his power over Tommy Shin’s branch of the Triads. Just as Tommy had been far ahead of the Old Man in the exploitation of technology, Albert had become even cannier in its use.

Unfortunately, so had law enforcement. Just as he had used the phones to maintain a constant awareness of their activities, it had become ridiculously easy for the police to track down his people, as well.

The disposable cell phone had alleviated the problem to a great degree—easily purchased at any convenience store, and impossible for the cops to tap into.

So Albert changed his cell phone once a month, like clockwork. The accounts were all in the names of the children who ran errands for the Triads—the most low-level personnel in his organization, who knew absolutely nothing and couldn’t be tried as adults, in any case.

The cell phone that was ringing now was registered to the son of the drycleaner two doors down. In return for the use of the boy’s name, the father received a slight discount on his monthly payments. Albert reached over, saw that he had a message from Oscar Randolph, and the display indicated that it was Han calling. So he flipped it open.

“It’s that waitress Myra Wu,” Han said. “They found her body in Golden Gate Park. It was just like Roy and Jack.”

Muttering a curse in Japanese, Albert snapped the phone shut.

How can this be possible?

Albert hadn’t wanted Myra killed any more than he’d wanted Roy or Jack killed. Sure, she had been a minor annoyance, but he’d checked and confirmed that she hadn’t said anything to the police. Indeed, he appreciated employees who kept their mouths shut without needing to be threatened. As for Roy and Jack, they were idiots, and they’d fouled up the gun deal with that motorcycle gang, but Albert hadn’t been all that sanguine about dealing with the thugs anyhow.

None of them had done anything that warranted having them killed.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The Heart of the Dragon is back, he mused, his mind reeling. But it can’t be. There’s no one else....

It had been twenty years since a gaijin named John Winchester had cast a spell to banish the spirit for another eighty seasons. That had forced Albert to fend for himself, and he’d found ways to do so. With Tommy Shin’s subsequent death, Albert hadn’t needed occult assistance. He had everything he wanted.

He’d come to realize that Doragon Kokoro wasn’t a pistol to pull out any time he felt like it. Such a weapon needed to be held in reserve. And no such time had arisen.

Still cursing under his breath, he got dressed and headed downstairs.

Zhong was waiting for him outside his office door.

“Is it true about Myra?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Albert replied. He reached into his pants pocket and fished out the key to his office.

“Dammit,” Zhong said. “Now I have to hire another waitress.”

Under other circumstances, Albert might have smiled. Zhong was never sentimental—it made him a good manager.

He opened the door, and Zhong followed him inside.

“People have been talking,” he said hesitantly.

Albert looked up at him, he was surprised as Zhong was never hesitant.

“Talking about what?”

“The Heart of the Dragon,” his manager replied. “Look, I wasn’t here back then, and I don’t give a damn what happened to Lin. If you wanted to spread word around that you controlled some sort of demon, that was your business—Hell, it worked. No one questions your authority. But the chatter is springing up again, and it’s getting out of hand. Ever since they found Roy and Jack’s bodies in Ghirardelli Square.”

Sitting down at his desk, Albert turned his computer on. While it booted up, he turned to face Zhong.

“What if they were true?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Albert said, and he turned back to his computer. On second thought, it didn’t make sense to take Zhong into his confidence. Besides, he would probably just think his boss had gone insane. The Heart of the Dragon was just a story, and Albert was perfectly content to keep it that way.

But then, who killed Roy, Jack, and Myra? And why do it in a way that pointed to the spirit?

“You can rest assured, Zhong, that I have not summoned any spirits lately to kill people who annoy me.”

“And why not?” came the response.

Albert blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“If the spirit’s free,” Zhong continued, “why not put it to good use?”

Albert blinked again.

“What’re you talking about?”

Zhong grinned. That was even more out of character.

“I’m talking about Doragon Kokoro, Albert. I’m talking about the spirit you raised forty years ago, and could’ve raised again, but haven’t. The question is, why?”

As he spoke, Zhong’s eyes flicked to a deep black that seemed to penetrate deep into his skull.

Albert rose to his feet.

“What do you want, demon?”

Zhong’s features expressed surprise.

“You actually know what I am?”

“Ever since I had the Heart of the Dragon ripped from my grasp a second time, I’ve made a point of learning more about the occult,” Albert said, fingering a charm he wore around his neck. He even had a consultant on the payroll— an old gaijin named Oscar Randolph—though he hadn’t made much use of the man for a while now.

“I know what you are, demon. What I do not know is why you are here.”

The creature wearing Zhong’s face used it to sneer.

“Because you have something that belongs to me,” he said, all trace of amusement gone. “Doragon Kokoro is mine, Albert Chao. I created him. And I still have control over him but, right now, only if what he does corresponds to your wishes.”

“Yet I had no wish to kill those people!” Albert snapped.

“Sure you did,” the demon said in Zhong’s voice. “Maybe not consciously, but in the back of your mind—in that place where you keep the little boy who was always rejected, who never got what he wanted. He wanted those three dead.

“As for what I want, it’s simple: I want my spirit back. Playing puppet-master is good for a few laughs, but I have some angels that need killing.

“So you’re going to hand him over.”

Albert smiled. With that declaration, the demon had revealed that Albert had power over him.

He continued to finger the charm, which he’d purchased several years ago from Bela Talbot, a friend of Oscar’s. Bela had promised that it was a powerful talisman that protected him from possession, and it obviously worked. If the demon had wanted control of the Heart of the Dragon, all it had to do was possess Albert.

Unless it couldn’t.

“Then you have a problem, demon, because I will not relinquish control of my ancestor’s spirit. Not to anyone or anything. You’ll have to kill me—but, oh yes, you can’t, can you?” That last was added with a wide smile. “Not unless you want Doragon Kokoro to disappear back into oblivion.”

“No—and I can’t possess you as long as you have that... thing around your neck.” Yet strangely, it was the demon’s turn to smile. “But don’t imagine that I can’t hurt you, Albert Chao. I’ve already proven that.”

“By killing three of my people?” Albert dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “Pfah. Their lives mattered little to me. Many have tried to hurt me over the years, demon, but I am still here.”

“Many humans have tried to hurt you, but that’s not really a yardstick I’m gonna take too terribly seriously.”

The demon sighed. “Look, maybe we can work out a deal.”

He leaned over the desk, and his pitch black eyes caused Albert to shudder involuntarily.

“I just need to borrow Nakadai for a while. I can make it worth your while.”

Albert laughed.

“What will you grant me, demon? A lesson to those who ostracized me? Petty revenge against slights, both real and imagined? Had you made such an offer when first I summoned my ancestor, I gladly would have accepted. In my callow youth, that was precisely what I used the Heart of the Dragon for. I was a pathetic child, treating all injustices as if they were of great consequence.”

Albert leaned forward, putting his palms flat on his desk.

“I am no longer that child. It was the lack of the spirit that truly granted me my heart’s desire. I came to the attention of the Triads through my own hard work, using my skills to overcome my half-breed status. I have stayed in power for twenty years without the spirit. Having the Heart of the Dragon taken away was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Zhong snorted like an animal.

“Skills. Right. That would be the invulnerability granted to you by Doragon Kokoro, yes? Without it, you’d be worm food.”

“Perhaps,” Albert responded, determined to remain resolute. “But the spirit is mine, to do with it as I wish.”

The demon walked up to the desk and leaned into Albert’s face. On its breath, Albert could smell the peanut sauce that Zhong slathered on all of his food.

“Then give it to me,” it hissed.

Albert stood up straight.

“I will consider your offer, demon. Come back tomorrow for an answer.”

The black eyes stared at him for several seconds without blinking.

Then Zhong’s head leaned back and a stream of black smoke issued forth from his gaping mouth, funneling upward toward the ceiling like an obsidian tornado.

Then it was gone, and Zhong collapsed to the ground unconscious.

Albert called downstairs for someone to take care of Zhong, then he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

He hadn’t returned Oscar’s message, hadn’t even listened to it, because he thought he was done with the occult. Throughout the ’90s, he’d been obsessed with learning everything he could, but in recent years he’d had little use for it. He’d even been considering taking Oscar off the payroll. Now, though, it seemed the occult would be useful to him once again.

Opening the phone, he listened to the message.

“Hey yo, Albert, it’s Oscar. Listen, I know you ain’t been givin’ much of a crap about what I gotta tell you, but remember that tracking spell you asked me to cast a while back, looking for that hook sword? Well, you ain’t gonna believe this, but the spell just reactivated. Nearly set my damn house on fire, too.

“Look, call me back, okay?”

Albert cursed himself for a fool.

Forty years ago, a bald man and his wife and daughter had thwarted him, and wrenched from him the greatest weapon he had ever possessed. But what he hadn’t possessed were the resources to find out where they came from.

Twenty years ago, it had happened again—and again, at the hands of a white man. This time he had been able to turn up a name: John Winchester.

But nothing more.

In 1996, Albert found Oscar Randolph, who had a house in Mill Valley that he’d inherited from his father, a doctor who died in the Korean War.

When Albert went to the old house in the San Francisco suburb for the first time, a weathered Caucasian with a thick white beard and very little white hair answered the door. He had on a faded flannel shirt, worn-out jeans, and unpolished cowboy boots.

“What the hell do you want?”

“My name is Albert Chao, and I wish to hire you.”

The man laughed heartily.

“You wanna hire me? That suit your wearin’s worth more’n my house, and that tattoo you got means you’re Triad. The hell you need me for?”

“The Triads’ connections do not extend to the spirit world,” Albert pressed. “Yours do. That information is of value to me.”

“Yeah?” Oscar scratched the chin under his thick beard. “So you don’t want me to kill nothin’?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad.”

Albert frowned.

“Why is that?”

Oscar grinned again.

“’Cause I was hopin’ I’d get to kill something. Hell, that’s the only thing I miss from huntin’.” The grin fell. “So whaddaya want?”

“Information.”

“Any good reason I should take the offer?”

With a small smile, Albert replied.

“Because you do not wish to starve to death. Your father’s inheritance has run out. Your investments have failed. Within six months, you will join the ranks of the homeless and be destitute. I can save you from that.”

For several seconds, Oscar stared at Albert. Finally he spoke.

“This information you need—would it involve rattin’ out other hunters?”

“Possibly.”

Oscar broke into another grin.

“Works for me. Buncha morons, all of ‘em. Bustin’ their asses to stop evil, and evil keeps getting’ stronger. Waste’a time. Sick’a the whole lot of ‘em, and I’m more than happy to stick it to ‘em.”

He thrust out a hand.

“You got yourself an employee, Mr. Chao.”

Oscar called himself a “hunter,” and from what he said, that’s exactly what John Winchester had been, as well.

That Oscar had reached retirement impressed Albert. The information he’d collected in seven years was sketchy, but one thing he’d learned was that most of those who chose to hunt the supernatural didn’t live long enough to retire.

Over the years, Oscar had provided more and more information, even as Albert became less and less interested in hearing it. It wasn’t all reliable, and much of it was contradictory, but it still provided some insight into the world that had intersected with his every time he summoned the Heart of the Dragon.

Just a year ago Oscar had confirmed as best he could that John Winchester was dead. The stories ranged from word that he had been killed by vampires to possession by a demon, being shot with an antique gun, and eaten by ghouls. One story had him dying the mundane death of being run over by a truck.

However, Winchester apparently had two sons who had become impressive hunters in their own right. Albert didn’t believe all the stories Oscar shared—they were ridiculous even by the standards of the supernatural.

Profits were up. If the Apocalypse was coming, then clearly it was good for business.

At that point, however, Oscar had mentioned that he could cast a spell that would alert him if the hook sword ever came back within the San Francisco city limits. Since the date was approaching when Albert would once again be able to summon Nakadai, he had told the old hunter to cast it.

Then he forgot all about it—until today.

He returned Oscar’s call.

“Yo?”

“Where’s the sword, Oscar?”

“Good to hear from you, Oscar. How you been, Oscar? Sure has been a long time since we talked, Oscar,” the old man said sarcastically.

Albert had no patience for it.

“I was just visited by a demon who is exerting control over the Heart of the Dragon. If the hook sword is in San Francisco, I need it. Where is it?”

“Somewhere on Ellis Street,” the hunter replied, all traces of sarcasm gone from his voice. “Just got in this morning, and I went right down there to locate the exact spot. I couldn’t pin it down ‘zactly, but I got close—I’m sure of it. Emailed you a map with the address.”

Albert quickly checked his email, then forwarded the missive on to Tiny’s account.

“Thank you, Oscar,” he said. “And keep your phone handy. I may have need of your services again soon.”

“No problem. Want me to whip up a Devil’s Trap for you? Might come in handy if you need to go toe-to-toe with a demon.”

“That would be excellent,” Albert replied. “Bring it by the restaurant today.”

“You got it.”

Then Albert cut off Oscar and called Tiny.

“I just sent you a map which pinpoints a block. On that block is a hotel, I want you to locate two young men who have checked into that hotel—they’re brothers, so they may have the same last name. They have in their possession a hook sword that has kanji characters on it. I want that sword.

“Take Jake with you. Don’t feel bad about killing anyone who tries to stop you.”

“Yeah, Boss.”

One of the reasons Albert liked Tiny was that his vocabulary consisted almost exclusively of the two words, “Yeah, Boss.” At least, that was all he said when he was talking with Albert, which was what mattered.

Even though he had no use of the spirit—at least not now—the Heart of the Dragon belonged to Albert.

He would not let some smart-ass demon take it from him.