Supernatural: One Year Gone

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LSO
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VAILABLE FROM
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ITAN
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OOKS
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OMING
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OON FROM
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OOKS
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ONE YEAR GONE

REBECCA DESSERTINE

WITH FOREWORD BY ERIC KRIPKE

Based on the hit CW series SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke

TITAN BOOKS

Supernatural: One Year Gone

ISBN: 9780857685421

Published by

Titan Books

A division of

Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St

London

SE1 0UP

First edition May 2011

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

SUPERNATURAL™ & © 2011 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

Cover imagery: Front cover image courtesy of Warner Bros..

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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.

FOREWORD

PROLOGUE - Winter 1692

PROLOGUE - 2010

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

So here’s the thing. The book that you currently hold in your hot little hands (or are reading virtually on your hot little tablet doo-hickey) was written by the
Supernatural
staff member who knows the inside of my sticky skull better than just about anybody. Better than Sera Gamble or Bob Singer, that’s for sure. You see, Rebecca has the unenviable job of my assistant. Which means she has to tolerate my bellowing rants, my hurling hot coffee in her face. Just kidding—I’m not really that kind of boss—more the compulsively neurotic type—a less photogenic Albert Brooks, if you will. But I digress. In truth, I interact with Rebecca more than anybody on the show—all my notes and drafts go across her desk, she performs crucial research, she contributes brilliant show ideas—and most of all, she sees how our grubby little series is made, from a catbird seat like no other. On top of it all—she’s smart. Damn smart. Damn good writer, too. And all of this adds up to the book (or hologram) you are currently grasping in your meathooks. I think you’ll enjoy the corner she’s staked out within our weird little universe. Because she lives inside that universe as much as any of us. Hell, maybe more. Anyway, have fun. And send a silent prayer to Rebecca—she needs it—after all, she’s got to put up with me.

Eric Kripke

Creator & Executive Producer,
Supernatural

Winter 1692

A pale sliver of crescent moon pinches at the sky. A lone pair of footsteps crunches over a snow-encased field. Through spindly black brush, a young girl emerges and makes her way over the frozen earth. Her full black skirts scrape hieroglyphic shapes into the powdery snow. She stops and studies the ground before her; a covered mound pushes upwards from the earth. Scraping off the moss with her mitten-covered hands she reveals a grave. Despite the cold she proceeds to kneel down before it.

From beneath her coat she takes out a folded piece of purple fabric. Unwrapping the triangles of cloth, she lays it ceremonially on the frozen earth. Out of her pockets, she produces various objects and sets them precisely on the shroud. Faint moonlight glints off a silver outline of the pentagram extending to the corners. The girl pulls forth several black candles, fighting the wind as she lights them.

Into a small brass bowl she drops various feather pieces, stone, crystal, and herbs. Then she pulls a small dagger from her coat and presses the blade against her palm. Wincing slightly she slices the soft skin from her index finger to the base. Blood drips into the bowl covering the objects.

From her pocket she produces a worn book, two fists thick. Nervously, she lays it on her lap, brushing the pages apart with her gloved hands. Her voice wavers as she starts to chant, softly at first, tracing the words with her finger as she reads.

The wind whips up, steadily increasing to a screaming gale. The girl shades her eyes from the blowing snow but continues to chant over the howl of the cold air. The flakes before her begin to gather, as if attracted to one another by an unseen force, becoming denser and denser. The whirlwind slowly takes on a shape.

With each howl of the wind more snow coagulates until the figure of a woman solidifies before the girl. The girl peers up at the tall figure. A faint gasp escapes her blue lips. Her eyes move over the vestige of rotting flesh before her. She bows.

“Madam. I’ve missed you so. I serve only you.”

The specter’s glassy, dead eyes seem not to register the plea.

The girl continues. “I’ve done exactly as instructed. I’ve tried so very hard.” She wipes away a small dribble of mucus from her nose. “Council me. I know not how to make more provisions for him.”

The corners of the specter’s mouth turn upwards into a curdled smile.

“Why child, know what ye must. Raise us all.”

The color drains from the girl’s face.

“I... What if I cannot?” Her tear-streaked face turns upwards. “I’m not as strong as you.”

The specter’s lips prune into a rotten scowl. Raising her arm, she gives a quick flick of her wrist. The girl catches her breath as if someone startled her from behind. Her hands fly to her throat as a phantom grip tightens down onto her doe-sized neck. Blood rims her corneas, she fails to draw a breath.