Page 25 of Eat, Slay, Love

“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.