Chapter 10
We fuck all night, in increasingly elaborate ways.
We’d each gone our entire lives without having a sexual partner who could keep up in this specific, particular depravity.
For him, someone with magic, someone who could gather and redirect energy and focus it somewhere (his prostrate, in this case) while he fucked.
For me, someone with supernatural strength and speed and claws and horns.
Someone to whom my magic responds in ways I still don’t entirely understand.
It’s a match made in hell.
“Can we stay in all day? Just nap and fuck and eat cheese?” I ask Jonah when the light starts spilling into his bedroom, snuggling into his side and melting into his sheets. “This is already the best day of my life.”
He laughs, squeezing me closer. I run my fingers over the scars on his torso, and decide that I want to learn how he got each and every one. “That does sound divine, but I can’t, Mayari. I have to go to the soup kitchen.”
I sit up. “Fuck, I forgot. He’s coming. Someone’s coming.”
He sits up too, and starts smoothing hair down over my head. “It’s okay. It isn’t your problem. This is my family, that I’m meant to protect.” He gets his claws out and uses them to scratch my scalp.
I become jelly and re-spill into his side. “Belvedere, right? Why does that name sound so familiar?”
His hand stops for a moment, then resumes its petting. “He’s just a demon,” he says eventually. “A full one. Nothing I can’t handle on my own.”
“I’m assuming he feeds fully on people,” I say. “Core and rot and all.”
“Mmhm,” he says, humming against my hair.
“Not sure if you know this about me, but I’m an awful demon slayer,” I tell him.
“Oh, I’m very aware.”
“I could help you end him,” I offer.
His claws dig into my scalp for a millisecond before retracting completely. “No thanks,” he jokes mildly.
I dig my elbow into his side. “I just killed a pretty strong demon.”
“And almost died doing it,” he mutters.
“Hey, but I didn’t die. That’s what counts!”
He shakes his head with a smile. Kisses me on the forehead before climbing out of his bed. “It’s fine, Mayari. We’ll be fine.” He walks around the room gathering clothes while I admire the muscles shifting in his back and backside. “Can I see you tonight?”
I shake the hearts out of my eyes. “Yes. Please.”
Jonah stops and looks at me before walking out of the room, dragging his eyes down my nude form.
“Like what you see?”
He smiles a soft smile, just for me. “It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had anyone in my bed. I like seeing you there, Nightmare. I hope you'll stay for a while.”
I do stay, for a few hours, dozing in and out, entering various rabbit holes about things like historic caving disasters and the appropriate way to prune a bonsai tree (it’s an art form, apparently).
Just for shits and giggles, I enter Belvedere demon into my phone.
Page one is a vineyard in Tuscany. Page two is a luxury hotel chain, and page three is a Reddit thread titled ‘Is My Ex Possessed?’. There’s also a Pinterest board labeled Dark Academia Aesthetic (Belvedere Core).
I refine.
“Belvedere occult.”
“Belvedere folklore.”
“Belvedere urban legend NYC.”
That’s when things get mildly interesting.
There’s a half-broken blog from 2009—black background, red serif font, aggressive capital letters—cataloging something called The Belvedere Visitor. The blogger describes a “well-dressed man with old eyes” who shows up during “seasons of indulgence.” Dramatic, and probably fanfiction.
Another result is an archived article from the seventies about a string of unexplained deaths near Central Park.
Witnesses described “a tall man in a suit” seen walking calmly away from the park.
No charges or suspects. The article ends with a quote from a local priest warning about “predators who feast on excess.”
My magic hums. I scroll further.
A conspiracy forum thread from five years ago mentions “Belvedere” as a nickname among amateur paranormal hunters for an entity that appears around Halloween.
Refined and well-dressed, never sloppy. “Doesn’t kill unless provoked,” one user writes, before another replies, “Nah, that’s a myth. He eats humans whole, willy-nilly.”
My pulse ticks.
There’s also a blurry photo embedded halfway down the page. It’s probably fake—grainy, overexposed—but there’s a shape in it. A man stepping out of the shadows, head slightly tilted. The image is distorted, pixels bleeding around his outline.
When I hover my cursor over it, my magic gives a sharp, precise pull.
I sit up straighter. “Okay,” I murmur.
Most of this is nonsense. Aesthetic goth Tumblr nonsense from when Tumblr was still good. But scattered inside the garbage are patterns. There’s death and disappearance, indulgence and Halloween. A well-dressed man who doesn’t bother hiding.
I rub the heel of my hand against my sternum, where the humming of my magic feels strongest. I need to ask my family about our magic.
About their knowledge of demon feeding, and maybe about Belvedere.
I also need to tell them about the fact that I didn’t hesitate this time, and I motherfucking slayed a demon.
I scoop my catsuit off the floor and decide it is no longer appropriate for public wear (Jonah wanted to fuck me in it, and so he tore a big hole in the crotch so that he could).
I drop it back onto the chair and move to his dresser instead.
The top drawer yields a soft gray T-shirt, the second a black hoodie, and the third a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring.
I tug everything on, cinch the waist tight, shove my feet into my boots, and go to visit my parents.
“Did you seriously just Walk of Shame directly to our parents’ house?” my second-oldest brother Gabriel asks me incredulously.
“Walk of Pride,” I correct. “Because I motherfucking slayed a demon and then got some,” I tell him, emphasizing with finger guns.
“Ew,” he breathes.
“I almost died,” I tell him proudly. “Where is everyone?”
“We’re in the kitchen.”
I follow Gabriel down the hallway. But calling it a hallway feels inaccurate, because it is more like a wing.
The Magdangal house occupies what used to be three separate townhouses facing Central Park. A century or so ago, my great-grandfather bought the neighboring properties, knocked down the interior walls, and fused them into one sprawling, multi-level estate that now stares down Manhattan.
From the outside, it’s limestone and iron balconies and discreet old-money intimidation.
Inside, it is unapologetically Filipino.
The floors are dark narra wood, polished to a deep, warm glow.
Capiz shell chandeliers hang from the ceiling, refracting light in soft, pearly halos.
Hand-carved Filipino furniture anchors each room—massive hardwood tables, woven rattan-backed chairs, intricate inlays of mother-of-pearl.
A towering bahay kubo-inspired architectural alcove frames the central staircase, its balusters carved in patterns passed down for generations.
On the walls hang large oil portraits of Magdangals in Barong Tagalog and ternos, each posed with a blade incorporated into the composition. A bolo knife here. A three-foot-long kris there.
Antique Filipino chests brought over by ship. Old woven textiles mounted like art. Family photos layered in gold frames, tracing our lineage from the Philippines to New York City.
It smells faintly of calamansi and incense.
We pass the formal dining room—the one space in the house reserved exclusively for the monthly Tribunal meeting, its carved kamagong table stretching long enough to seat representatives from all five borough slayer families in rigid order.
Beyond it sits what we call the Armory, technically labeled a “gallery,” though its climate-controlled cases hold everything from blessed blades to relic-studded crossbows, each weapon cataloged and polished.
The kitchen is where everyone actually lives.
It’s massive and bright, all obscene marble counters and industrial ovens, but grounded by familiarity. A rice cooker spits out steam on the counter. A wok sits drying by the sink. Someone has clearly been frying something in oil and garlic.
My other three brothers are clustered around the oversized island.
Rafael, the oldest, leans against the counter as if he owns not just the house but the concept of gravity. Andres is perched on a stool, scrolling through his phone. Leo is eating something directly out of a pan.
And at the head of the island—
My parents.
My mother sits perfectly upright on one of the high stools, barong-inspired blouse crisp and immaculate, hair swept back in a sleek twist. Even in the kitchen, she looks tribunal-ready. My father, dark and imposing in a suit that costs more than most people’s annual salary, stands next to her.
Everyone’s eyes focus on me.
“Ew,” my other three brothers say in unison.
I grin.
Gabriel clears his throat. “She claims she killed someone.”
“Demon,” I correct.
Six pairs of eyes sharpen.
Rafael pushes off the counter. “You got a kill?”
I lift my chin. “A big one.”
Silence.
My mother studies me, gaze sweeping over my stance, my breathing, the steadiness of my hands. She’s checking for weakness. “Huh,” she says at last.
That’s it. No great job. No well done. Not even a reluctant nod of approval. I would take a raised eyebrow of acknowledgment at this point.
Nothing comes.
I roll my eyes. “I have some questions about our magic.”