Page 26 of Eat, Slay, Love

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.”

11

The Magdangal line has always been energy-based. We manipulate force and pressure—contain it, redirect it, compress it until it detonates. We sense energy the way others sense weather.

They all know that already.

“What about it?” Rafael asks.

“When you sense a demon,” I begin carefully, treading lightly, “does it ever feel… different? From time to time?”

“Different how?” my mother asks.

“Textured,” I answer. “Like eddies in the current, but not necessarily stronger or weaker. Not entirely stable.”

My father narrows his eyes. “Is this about the incident ten years ago, Mayari?”

There it is. The memory rushes me at breakneck speed. The demon in the West Village. My blade going in clean, into his chest. The woman collapsing in silent, open-mouthed agony, just outside my salt circle. The girl screaming so hard the sound tore through the air like something living. The way the woman took the screaming girl and ran.

And my magic.

I’d sensed the demon clearly enough. That unmistakable current of supernatural energy had been there, the same signature every Magdangal learns to recognize almost as soon as our magic manifests. But something beneath it had felt wrong, at odds with everything I’d been taught that signature meant.