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Cry Little Sister 

This really starts with a story that was written by National Artist Nick Joaquin.

Tito Nick was a journalist and always had an ear out for the best stories. He picked this one up from an inuman session in some local bar and billiards somewhere in Manila, between cold San Miguel and delicious sisig and chicharron dipped in vinegar and chillies for that spicy kick. He turned the story into a fairy tale, a pop story for groovy kids, as they branded it.

It doesn’t make the story any less true.

The story begins with Lilit Bulilit, a tiny woman no bigger than a cat, strutting about in her beehive hair and high heels, flashing her necklace of real, giant perfect pearls. She loved her Coca Cola but always demanded a plastic straw to go with her bottle or ice bag, sucking in all that dark, sugary carbonated goodness with relish.

(This was way before everyone got concerned about plastic straws and the environment.)

She never threw the straws away.

She kept them in her beehive hair, carefully washed, of course - she was fastidious enough that she didn’t want sticky sugary hair. The tinderas at the sari sari stores laughed at her but she didn’t give a damn.

Lilit Bulilit was an aswang .

She used those straws to suck those babies out of their mother’s wombs. 

It was easy, really. The less time they spent in the womb, the less developed, the more succulent and tender they were, oh yum, oh slurp, sweetest of the sweet. And in Tito Nick’s fairy tale, Lilit made it a point to go after those mothers who didn’t really want to be mothers, who were planning to rid themselves of these unwanted children anyway. So Lilit was doing them a favor.

(Tito Nick was Catholic in a Catholic-majority country. Anvils had to be dropped.)

But to everything, as it’s been said, there was a season and there was a time where poor old Lilit couldn’t seem to catch a break as far as her prey was concerned. It seemed that she couldn’t find any women who wanted to be free of their unwanted “blessings.”

She got desperate.

She found herself a mother, who was nearly at full term and a father, who already had four other kids to tend to and weren’t expecting kid number 5. Their finances were stretched and while Nanay tried to do everything to get that budget to go just a little bit farther, Tatay wore himself out trying to make another extra peso.

In a weak moment, Nanay said, “I know this child is our blessing, Lord, but I wish…. maybe… not yet…”  

She stroked her full belly as she did so, tears threatening to fall, even as her other kids crawled about on the floor or tugged at her much-patched housedress.  

Lilit was an aswang. She was hungry. She was desperate. She decided this was enough of a loophole. Enough of an excuse.

She waited until Nanay fell asleep in her exhaustion and hunger.  Waited until Tatay went out on the streets in a cousin's borrowed tricycle, trying to earn those extra pesos.  Waited for the last of the four children in the house to sleep, whimpering in their slumber, bellies barely full of thin lugaw flavored with salt. 

Out came Lilit's straws, her fingers nimble and quick as she threaded them together, blew them to impossible lengths, stealthily sneaking it through the slightly open window.  How gently her magic straw approached Nanay's full belly, the barest touch, not enough to rouse her, but enough to get at the bounty within.  She struck, sucked them up, gobbled them down, quick and neat.  

But this Babe-in-the-Womb was not some barely developed fetus. They were nearing their time, ready to make their entrance into the world. Here they had been in their nice place under Nanay’s heart and suddenly they were whisked away from that safe haven into the stomach of some tiny weirdo lady no bigger than a cat.

This Babe-Out-of-the-Womb was not having that. They fought. They yelled at Lilit from inside her tummy: “Bring me back to my Nanay! Bring me back!”

They kicked at the walls of her stomach with their strong sturdy feet. They punched her insides with their tiny fists. They rolled and twisted in moves that would make a kung fu hero from those classic Hong Kong movies proud.

Lilit was in agony. She begged the Babe-Out-of-the-Womb to stop. 

Obviously, they didn't.  They kicked and punched all the harder.  "Bring me back to Nanay !"  

Lilit had no choice.  She practically crawled back to the Babe-Out-of-the-Womb’s sleeping, unsuspecting mother. She was writhing, her beehive hair sticking out in all directions, one high-heeled shoe missing, hunched over…. until she finally exploded.

Yes, exploded. Gone. She was no bigger than a cat after all and that Babe practically stretched her body to its limit.

Nanay woke up to find Baby by her side, with a big beautiful pearl around their fist and all its mates scattered around them, the remnants of Lilit Bulilit’s perfect pearl necklace.

That Babe would eventually be baptized with the name of Vincent Benitez. There’s a couple of middle names in there, from a beloved Ninong who knew their way around creatures of the night with a buntot-pagi, plus a saint or two. 

Vincent would always be Enteng or Bunsoy to the rest of his family though.

He would always keep that first beautiful pearl.  In time, it was placed in a velvet pouch on a strong sturdy cord, a necklace worn against his chest, hidden beneath his clothes. 

Aswangs would know of him because of that pearl.  

That story became part of the Benitez Clan Lore. Maybe it was a little exaggerated or maybe it was exactly as Tito Nick wrote it, over swigs of San Miguel Beer and crisp bites of chicharron, high blood pressure be damned.

Either way, Lilit Bulilit was the first aswang Vincent had ever killed.

She wouldn’t be the last.

I Am The Devil That You Forgot

Vincent Benitez doesn’t indiscriminately go after every creature that goes bump in the night. 

He has Opinions on this. Many a hunter with fanatic leanings have felt the weight and might of said Opinions and learned to disregard them at their own peril. 

This had amused his Ninong Julian Belmont to no end.  “Ah, yes, a hunter-priest with a broad mind and a working common sense brain.  You will not believe how rare that is.”

Wrath was a sin that Vincent had on occasion, which he made sure to confess about on a regular basis.  Once, his favorite confessor and dear friend, Luisito “Chito” Mendoza, had said, “Enteng, it’s not Wrath you’re feeling anymore.  It’s Annoyance.  I give you dispensation to throw annoyances into the Pasig River.  Or Manila Bay, whichever is closest!” 

Vincent hasn’t had a reason to throw Annoyances in either the bay or river - at least not for a long time now.  

He was, however, far busier making friends among the very many infamous critters of local myth and legend.  He doesn’t really clock this, but they all universally adore the tiny aswang hunter-turned-priest.  It’s a known fact that when Vincent used to celebrate the Mass in his Tondo parish, there would always be a few “special guests” in the congregation. 

The Holy Father was nonplussed when he’d learned about it from the panicked Papal Nuncio, who was about ready to call in an entire team of exorcists and hunters from Rome. But as he had once famously said, “Who am I to judge?”

Vincent has been to Biringan and back again, several times. As a teenager, he didn’t realize what was so special about that until his Ate Magda finally had to explain it to him, with a mixture of horror and amusement. At that point, his biggest problem was his engkanto friend who had something of a crush on him.

(They settled that nonsense amicably, by the way.)

Vincent ends up getting sent into the toughest missions, starting with the Congo and eventually ending in Baghdad.  Through it all, he manages, against all odds, perhaps, to safely keep the large, perfect pearl that he’s had since babyhood. 

His Nanay made him a pouch to place that pearl in, kept close against his chest as a necklace.  Something about that pearl, his Nanay claimed, would help keep him safe from aswangs.  There was some truth to that.  Most aswangs who realize that he’s the owner of that pearl are absolutely terrified.

The aswangs who do decide to take it up against him don’t live long enough to regret it. Vincent doesn’t fool around with the blessed buntot-pagi that he can wield like nobody’s business, with a few extra tricks thrown in that he had learned from his Ninong Julian. 

The pearl and the buntot-pagi were two of the things that he’d managed to bring with him from Baghdad, so that he could take part in the conclave.  

He just didn’t expect that he would have to use that buntot-pagi again, right in the heart of the Vatican.  

Or that he would be in papal white when he did so.  

The attack came during his first Mass as Pope - which was meant to be a private thanksgiving with the clergy, after his election.  A larger celebration would be done much later, with all the necessary fanfare, open to the public at large.  

That had been the plan, at least. 

But the pack of vampires and aswangs that had come calling thought otherwise.  

They thought that their shock and awe tactics would work.  In the chaos, they thought they had the new Pope cornered, with his protectors dead, dying or at least out for the count.  

(Vincent had dimly remembered that the date of his election, ironically, had coincided with a blood moon night, a time when the powers of darkness were meant to be at their strongest.)

They didn’t expect the Pope to fight back.  

They didn’t expect that he could move with an unexpected lightness and speed, that what they had deemed “useless old relics” like salt and water, had power in his hands, that he had managed to already take down at least 5 of their coven, obliterating them into ash and dust.

Still, he was outnumbered and they were legion.

There was a sound, like thunder, a low rumbling noise that made the ground shake, a sound that reverberated right into one’s very bones.

It was a growl, feral and menacing.

It came from one of the cardinals.

(It was the Dean himself.)

Cardinal Thomas Jacopo Lomeli Lawrence stood up, choir robes torn, swaying slightly on his feet. He spoke words that the fledglings didn’t understand.

(The words were in Latin. One of them meant blood.)

The blood that had been spilled on the ground from the wounded and dead was behaving strangely, trickling in an unnatural fashion in this cardinal’s direction.

As if it were being absorbed by his body.

No. It was being absorbed by his body .

The age spots and wrinkles and creases slowly disappeared from his skin. His hair, thinning from age, grew full and lush again. The years were being stripped away from him until he stood straight and young and strong once more.

His eyes, which were once a deep blue, were a molten gold now.

“You. Will. Not. Touch. Him.”

Those Prayers Will Make You Bleed

Vincent usually has a sixth sense of sorts when it comes to identifying the Things That Go Bump in the Night, the Ghoulies, the Ghosties and the Long-Leggedy Beasties.  

He’s not sure why this didn’t go off when he first met Cardinal Thomas Lawrence. 

All he knew was that he felt safe, since the moment Vincent had fallen asleep in Sister Agnes’ office, only to wake up and gaze into those beautiful blue eyes.

Oh dear. 

When everything had settled, when people had started sitting up, groaning with their injuries, but blessedly still alive, Vincent’s first impulse was to run towards his drastically-changed cardinal.

Which was Thomas’ first impulse as well. And: 

“Are you all right?” 

Also: 

“I should be asking you that!”

There was commentary from the peanut gallery - Vincent recognized Sabbadin’s voice - but he was ignoring that for now.  

Thomas sighed.  “You needn’t worry - I’ll go away - I don’t mean anyone here any harm…” 

“What are you talking about?” 

Those golden eyes were fast fading back to that blessed, familiar blue.  “Surely you didn’t just miss…this?” Thomas gestured at himself sheepishly, specifically calling attention to those sharp fangs.  

“That you’re a dhampir and helped save our lives?” 

“And you’re obviously a very skilled hunter and I should be very near the top of your Things-to-Kill List?  While I carry the name Lawrence, I belong to the House of Draculesti.  I’m sure you know your history. ” 

Vincent scoffed.  “Thomas Jacopo Lomeli Lawrence, my godfather is a Belmont.  History.  Yes, I know it very well.” 

“Oh.”  His eyes grew wide.  Vincent would never tire of looking into them. “Oh.” 

Vincent knew he was in serious trouble when he realized that he would absolutely have no issues letting Thomas near his neck or any other vulnerable body part.  He could just clearly see Thomas building up all this angst and attempting to keep his distance now.  

Yeah, no, Vincent was having none of that. “Pffft. Yun lang? Eto na, mahal, libreng kagat.”

Okay, he actually didn’t mean to say that thought out loud. Ooops.  Also, Vincent was going to try, very hard, not to think about the mahal that slipped out just like that. 

So much trouble, God have mercy on him. 

Thomas, who was yet to understand Tagalog, was confused. Adorably so. “Pardon me?”

“Never mind that.  Remind me to cook you some dinuguan , very soon.” 

Their story wasn’t over yet, obviously.  But it seemed to be off to a very good start. 

Postscript:  The Peanut Gallery Comment

“Oh sweet Christ,” groaned Cardinal Giulio Sabbadin, trying to help up a dazed Cardinal Aldo Bellini.  “They’re just a few heartbeats away from finishing each other’s sandwiches.” 

Everyone who wasn’t Thomas Lawrence and Vincent Benitez stared at him, except for Monsignor Raymond O’Malley, who raised his hand and said, “I understood that reference.” 

Cardinal Sabbadin had a few more choice words to say involving bad vampire romance novels and movies, but they would keep, for now. 

-end-