by Dahlia Adler
I screamed and screamed.
* * *
When I woke, two days later, the room beeped alarms. A nurse swooped to my hospital bed, calming the machines.
“You are very lucky, miss,” a gentleman said from a chair somewhere out of my field of vision. “No one has ever emerged from that bank, much less taken it down as thoroughly as you did. You’re either very lucky or very good.”
My voice sounding raw and rough, I whispered, “Both.”
“Same,” my twin whispered from the next bed over. I gingerly turned my head toward him through the wires and monitors. His face was bruised and swollen, and both arms were in casts. He wore a pale gray hospital gown, same as me.
He was here. We were here. I could breathe again.
“Interpol agents found him clinging to a fungus- and lichen-draped rock in the lake. We pulled him out and brought him here,” the gentleman said to me, then turned to Rik. “No idea how you held on to that for as long as you did.”
Rik didn’t answer.
We were both safe. And the bank was gone. But there was a new distance between us, too.
The gentleman flashed us a badge: IBHS—International Bureau of Hacking and Security. He placed two tablets—clean—a newspaper, and his card, emblazoned with Interpol insignia on the table between us. “Join us,” he said, “when you’re ready.”
“Never,” said Rik.
I looked at the Interpol officer. “I’ll think about it.”
I took a long sip of water from the cup by my bedside while Rik stared at me. “We’ll always be a team,” I told him. “But maybe we can be strong on our own, too.”
The newspaper’s first- and second-page headlines featured news of bank clients collapsing all over the world. A fifth-page item detailed two notorious hackers captured inside the bank, dressed as a maid and a chauffeur. A third body was also found, a former CTO and AI developer named Tarn.
I read until my eyes throbbed and the light was too bright.
I felt very lucky to emerge alive on the other side. Alive, and still myself, and my brother with me, and changed, too, for as we rested, the fungi let us talk to each other silently.
Hello, it said occasionally.
Hello, we each whispered back.
The Murders in the Rue Apartelle, Boracay
Rin Chupeco
inspired by “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”
Besh, I’m going to Prague next year!
Ay sus, it’s not for a boy.
Haha, fine, it is for a boy. But it’s not what you think.
No, it’s not an eldritch this time. I’m so over eldritches. Every eldritch I’ve ever dated wound up cheating on me. Only thing they’re faithful to is booze and that putanggra god of theirs—Gonodra? Golgorot? Whatevs.
No, not a vampire, either. They’re fun at parties, but they’re such a drag during the day. Not husband material at all. Werewolves are the same, and they wind up destroying my stuff, too. Not a siyokoy—fish tails don’t leave room for much else, if you know what I mean. An aswang? There’s some aswangs in this story—but he’s not one of them.
Oh, besh. He’s a normal human boy. That’s what makes it so strange. Half-French, half-Filipino, and the good looks to prove it. His name’s Auguste Dupin, but everyone calls him Ogie.
Yes, the son of the French ambassador to the Philippines. I swear I didn’t know that when I first met him.
You know that full moon party they hold in Boracay every month? The one at Bulabog Beach? That’s where we met. And dios ko, besh, he parties hard. As in, hardcore partying with fairies—drinking their booze, dancing with them, eating their snacks. Diba they say never eat fairy food? Because they’ll turn you into a tree or something? Anyway, he was sandwiched between two of the engkantada with the biggest—well. I filled out really nice last year, and I was still jealous of their assets.
But then he looked right at me. I swear, he was staring at me like he’d seen a ghost.
And then he asked me to dance. Like—all the enchanted fairfolk there, and he asks me?
But then the organizers saw the fairy beer. Not only was it illegal, but it was super illegal for humans to drink. So they confiscated all the booze and the fairies ran off, so now it’s just me and Ogie standing there looking at each other like, anetch? Where did everyone go?
And then his bodyguard appeared—six-foot-tall golem in a business suit—and we learned who Ogie was. The organizers panicked, because who do you think people’d blame if he died at their party? They wanted to bring him to the hospital, but he said he was fine—he’d had fairy beer before. They gave us both the VIP treatment—water, tote bags, food, a room to wait in while they called a Benz to bring us home. I was so embarrassed, since I lived at that small rental in Station 3 and they probably thought I was a paid escort or something. But Ogie said oh, just take us both to the Shangri-la resort and besh, I nearly fell over. At that point I stopped caring if they thought I was his mistress because oh my sushmita, I’m going to Shangri-la!
It was so beautiful there, ’teh. One night costs like my monthly salary, but they have indoor Jacuzzis!
Ogie said he used to live in the mansion up Diniwid Beach, but his dad kicked him out because he threw too many loud parties. So he was demoted to Shangri-la with his golem bodyguard, who’d been with him since he was seven.
Ogie was a happy drunk, but I liked him better when he was sober. He wanted to enjoy his last year of freedom before he went off to university in Europe and became a respectable diplomat like his dad. Also, the government was closing Boracay for six months, so he wouldn’t be back for a while even if he wanted to.
We didn’t sleep together that first night. He even apologized for inconveniencing me, said I could stay for as long as I wanted.
“I don’t want to impose,” I said, because my mudra taught me to be respectful, too. “And I don’t want to cause problems.”
“Problems?” He had a gorgeous accent. “You?”
“Yes, me,” I said, because I wanted to be honest upfront. Alam mo, it’s hard enough to be a woman without all the judgment. So hard waiting for your body and the surgeries and the injections to catch up to the rest of the real you.
I don’t know how he knew, but he did. “You won’t.” He said it so confidently. “Trust me,” and I wanted to cry because I’ve never met anyone who was this understanding. Even my mudra thought there was something wrong with me at first.
Yes, besh, I know it was dangerous. I mean, you never really know if the pretty boy you’re with might be a serial killer, right?
But I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.
Those were the best days of my life. We explored the beach and swam. We ate six-course meals by this private chef who used to cook for the third prince of Atlantis. We island-hopped on a yacht, snorkeled, and lounged on deck while he played whale songs on his phone and the kraken-fishermen grilled us all these tilapia and prawns. His bodyguard (his name was Ansel) followed him around, but he was so good he was almost invisible.
Of course I enjoyed being treated like a princess. But it wasn’t just that—it was him, you know? If all he could afford was a date at a carinderia, I still would have stayed. I wasn’t with him because he was rich. I know why people would think that, but I never asked for money or gifts.
Ogie’s father was never around, and I knew that disappointed him. His mother’s Mischa Montemayor, the Filipina socialite, but they’re not close, either. He’d had one serious girlfriend, and from the quiet way he talked about her I think she dumped him. But he was so intelligent. He was a valedictorian pala at the Boracay European International School! And he spoke six languages! He’d climbed both Everest and Kilimanjaro, and was an expert at Krav Maga. He was going to study international economics and commercial diplomacy at Charles University in Prague so he could follow in his father’s footsteps. It’s not like I’m dumb—I mean, haller, Philippine Science High School graduate, incoming University of the Philippines freshman—but he ta
kes smarts to another level.
And he stopped drinking as much. “I’m only tempted when I’m bored,” he said, shrugging like that was normal. “And I’m not bored now that I have company.”
I didn’t know why he kept me around. He didn’t try to force it like some of the Kanos at the bars do. Not that I don’t appreciate that. I mean, when I went home with him that first time I was more interested in where I’d be sleeping than who I might be sleeping with. I thought maybe I wasn’t his type, and he just wanted someone to be with now that most of his friends had left Boracay and were partying somewhere else.
But on the fourth night, I accidentally found a picture of his ex. It was on his dresser, half hidden—long black hair, dark eyes. Super pretty—as in, gandara park to the max. I wasn’t trying to pry, by the way.
“The one that got away,” Ogie admitted. He tried to sound like he didn’t mind. “Everyone liked her. Ansel treated her like a daughter.”
“You look a lot like her,” he added.
Aha, I thought. This was the former Serious Girlfriend, and maybe I was his rebound, but that was okay. I appreciated his honesty. “There are many reasons why I’m different from her.” I laughed.
“You’re more similar than you know. And being different doesn’t mean I don’t find you appealing. I hope—I hope the guys here don’t treat you poorly because of it?”
Besh, I froze. I wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt.
“Was that the wrong thing to say? I’m sorry.”
“It’s not,” I said. “It’s just that you guessed right. Guys get very … hostile, when they find out.”
“Guys are assholes.”
“Sorry.”
His brow furrowed. “Don’t apologize. You don’t deserve any of that.” And then his voice went so quiet. “Did they hurt you?”
“I always leave before things get bad,” I said, because it was easier than saying yes.
“I’ll never hurt you.”
He was like a puppy. So cute.
So many reasons to not get involved with an ambassador’s son, besh.
So many.
Pero like the French say—c’est la vie, diba?
* * *
I did mention that he was really smart, right? Sometimes Ogie would be restless at night, so we’d go out and join the groups wandering Station 3 or watch the firedancers or stay at the clubs. He didn’t drink—he was more interested in watching people than in a pitcher of Pineapple Sling.
He’d make a lot of observations, too. Like he’d say that American guy was a former veteran, retired with a wife back home, but that one of the bartenders was his mistress. Or that the girl on my left has four kids and a husband she’s separated from. Or the tall man in front of us had been to jail and was looking for a sugar mommy. I didn’t believe him at first—it’s not like they’d admit that they’re divorced or that they’re convicts if I asked.
Except one day I did get to ask one of the manananggals he analyzed, and she admitted to divorcing three husbands like he said—they had a hard time adjusting to life with a girl who could bisect her own waist and fly away with her upper body, I guess. So he was right with her, at least.
One more thing though, because it happened the night of the murders—
—yes, yes, I’ll tell you all about it!—
—we’d stopped at the Coco Bar with a group of eldritches—the bar with that Brain Train challenge where you knock off ten shots in a row? Well, Ogie gave up after two, and the eldritches were acting so smug. One of them was all, The Doom Has Come For You, Fear The Trembling of The Sarnath For We Shall Drink You Under and I was so mad because that sounded like something my ex would say, too.
Anyway, I took them on and I won and got my T-shirt and my name on the Wall of Fame and everything. And I did it faster than any of the eldritches, ha! But then they got mad, and Ogie had to break one of the wooden stools to make a point. The eldritches backed off. Ogie paid for the stool, too, like a true gentleman. His golem bodyguard just sat there like he was used to it.
But I was still drunk and wanted calamansi muffins for some reason, so we left the bar and Ogie helped me walk up to Station 2 looking for the cafe that sold them.
He was quiet the whole time until we got to the end of the street. Maybe he was embarrassed about the eldritches, although I thought he was so brave. And my mind was wandering at that point—the music felt so loud, mare. I glared at the DJ as we passed, but I felt a lot better after we’d passed the clubs and reached the open-air cafes with their milder sixties music. You think the Beach Boys ever visited Boracay, mare? People love them here.
“That’s true,” he said, all of a sudden, “Dirty Computer will endure not only as a musical masterpiece, but as the protest album of our generation.”
“Yeah!” I cheered, then realized I hadn’t said anything. “Wait. Ogie, syet, how’d you—”
“—know you were thinking about Janelle Monae’s latest album? It was the DJ.”
I’m like, ano daw? The DJ?
“The DJ playing the open bar at the Epic.”
But he wasn’t playing any of Janelle Monae’s songs.
“It was obvious that your train of thought ran this way—Taylor Swift, the DJ, politics, the Beach Boys, androids, Dirty Computer. It makes sense once you apply logic and reasoning. One of my ancestors coined a word to explain it—ratiocination. I know you love Monae and I know you’ve done research into her latest album, so admittedly, knowing this beforehand worked in my favor. When we walked past the Epic after leaving the Coco Bar, Taylor Swift’s Reputation was on blast. I saw you frown, annoyed, and surmised you were not a fan. And when the DJ leaned into the mic to call her the Queen of Pop, I saw your irritation increase. Then your eyes wandered through the crowd, resting on a man wearing a shirt that said Let’s Get Political, and you rolled your eyes. You were thinking of Swift and her reluctance to discuss her political opinions in the public sphere even as she claims that she speaks for the youth.”
(Yes besh, I know she’s awesome now and I freely admit my mistake, but at that time all I was really concerned with was how he was boggling my mind!)
“As you stepped away, I saw your attention diverted by the faint strains of Beach Boys music playing from a separate, quieter bar, and this time a small smile stole across your lips. You were thinking about how their music and their outspoken politics more closely align with yours.
“You then murmured something that sounded like ‘android’ and by context I took it as a reference to ArchAndroid, Monae’s second album—also an important political album. You nodded resolutely to yourself then, and your eyes sparkled. I knew that you knew the Beach Boys’ lead vocalist, Brian Wilson, worked with Janelle Monae for her latest album, Dirty Computer, which was even more unabashedly political, and so I agreed—if there is any justice in the world, history will be kinder to Monae than it will be to Swift.”
“Are you a mind reader?” I demanded. He explained everything so well, but I was still super drunk, so as far as I was concerned, this was magic.
He grinned. “I was rather hoping,” he said, taking a step toward me, “that you would find it a turn-on.”
(I did, besh!)
* * *
Ogie had already showered when I woke the next morning; he was eating breakfast and reading the newspaper when I came in. “You missed all the excitement,” he said. “Look at this.”
I’m sure you’ve heard of the murders, diba? I mean, all the big newspapers in the Philippines reported it when it happened: AMERICANS IN BORACAY MURDERED, LIVERS MISSING. Here, let me google the article:
An American and his son were killed in Boracay’s Station 3 at White Beach in the early hours of the morning, according to local authorities.
The gruesome remains were found by a maid and a security guard at the Rue Apartelle, rented to one Allan Dayton-Smith and his son, Lance, both from Texas, United States. The door was locked when the maid arrived to clean their room, but after finding b
lood seeping out from behind the locked door she fled and called a passing guard, who subsequently broke in.
“Andami talaga (There was so much of it),” said Alma Fuentes, 65, as she described the scene. “Di namin alam saan tatapak, kasi baka matakpan rin kami ng dugo. Puro dugo kasi yung kuwarto. Parang kinatay sila. (We didn’t know where to step without being covered in blood. The room was full of it. The bodies looked like they’d been butchered.)”
“The murderers might have taken advantage of the loud music and parties going on at that time to commit the crime, tapos tumakas (and then escaped),” police superintendent Barnaby Sta. Ana said.
Records show that the Dayton-Smiths were both at Boracay on vacation, and that they were frequent visitors to the island, having stayed for the whole month of March in 2015 and again in 2017. The police say they are trying to get in touch with the victims’ family.
“After our initial investigation, it was found that their livers were also missing,” Sta. Ana added.
The murders come on the heels of an expected closure of Boracay island for six months starting April 28, to upgrade the island’s overtaxed sewage system and to investigate the sanitation standards that led to a rise in pollution in the last few years.
It is rare for a murder to be committed in Boracay. In 2017, only one murder was reported by the local police; the case remains unsolved.
I don’t know how big this was in Manila, but people in Boracay wouldn’t stop talking about it. Ogie was hooked. We talked to fishermen, bartenders, business owners, jewelry sellers, massage therapists. Everyone thought it was the aswangs because the Americans’ livers were missing and really, who goes out of their way to eat livers other than the aswangs?
“I don’t think it was the aswangs,” Ogie said. “And it’s disappointing how easily people succumb to hostility of the Other when they have no other answers to offer.”