Catarina Rosales Marquez surveyed her garden of fruit and vegetables in the windswept hills of Mindanao. The Aswang Queen of Domminga Mountains, Catarina ruled with an iron thumb, her sleek black hair like a whip, replete with eyes of black pearls that shone like a viper's.Catarina had a secret: she abhorred human flesh. Having gone to college for Biology in Manila, Catarina had genetically engineered fruits: mangoes, lanzones, calamansi for teas - everything jade and green under the sun of Bathala that produced the florid juices of the jungle - into sustenance for aswang, with human proteins.But the Aswang of Domminga Mountains were traditional: you were born, you died, and you feasted upon tender suckling babies, like stuck pig that bled providence of ruby hearts, silver alveoli, and tender bones for stews. Catarina had tried without fail to have the Ikapati Tribe, her queenship's name, to adopt her peaceful ways.Ikapati, who she

  Rose was dropped off. She was lost.Blondes were always lost.But, buoyant, Rose wandered on, whistling a Protestant hymnal.Her father, Bill Smith, a backwoods preacher in the hills of San Jose, had come from Tennessee. He had followed the promise of California gold. He had brought with him mountain charming, snake tongues and hoodoo magick.Rose was a river walker. Rose could charm warts off a priest. Rose could sing to burns and soothe them with her mountain woman magick.And... as for Rose's cooking - why, it could make any woman fall desperately in love!"Domminga Mountains... you're like the Smokies out in Tennessee, dense, thick, juicy. Like the best of mysteries, you won't yield the Philippine eagle to me easily. But that won't stop me from trying, eh, dear Domminga? Aswang or no, I won't fear a haint. Daddy always told me to be brave."Rose fiddled with her GIS tracker. The triangulation system of

 After a feast of lechon, Rose had warmed up to Catarina's icy exterior. Finishing off the last of the Napa valley wine, all they did was flirt as Ambrosio served them roast pig and sigsig, grilled pineapple and papaya skewers. "So, Rose, you have the Second Sight? Are you a Babaylan shaman?" Catarina asked, her plum lipstick and pert pink cheeks like a golden China doll. Catarina's amaranth eyes sparkled secretively.Rose blushed, then finished desert – strawberry a la mode Ambrosio had specially prepared. He cleaned their places with precision. "I'm a water witch. And my Second Sight says there is a curse on Aswang Mountain."Catarina flinched, a tear in her bright purple eye. Rose reached over to squeeze her hand. "Fuck, I'm pathetic. I'm failing as a Queen if I can't at least present a façade of control. What do you make of this curse, dear Rose?"Rose interlaced her fingers with Catarina's. Catarina traced her

She's got moonglow tits that bob in night waters, perfect round globes like curled-up white rabbits with black peaks of areola and gray nipples because she's all poison and ebony eyes and milky skin. She's curled up in my closet in a nest fit for the Zu bird and sweet seraph curses and she crows and speaks the language of birds that are girls, or girls that are monsters, with scaled legs and owl wings from ancient Sumerian carvings, but she's not perched on two lions, her thin wan legs are jumping on your bed and you're throwing pillows at each other and painting her lips and talons with a pop of cherry poison. It's all fun and games until arsenic kisses and slashed throats of words fly, it's all spin the bottle with succubi until neon lights at your favorite strip mall get busted to splinters by her rage. She's wailing, she's railing, and it's so fun to terrorize the neighborhood with your monster girl. She smells like mothball and tastes like whiskey but it's all swell, all is