by Lija Fisher
It was hard to miss, that was for sure. Clivo passed a few homes decorated with pastel paints that seemed out of style compared to the wood and stone buildings around them, but this one was ridiculous. It was an old two-story building with splintered wooden trim, and it was painted the most garish purple Clivo had ever seen. The paint was obviously much newer than the house itself, and the structure stood out like a sore thumb compared to the drab buildings around it.
If this really was where the aswang lived, it was not what Clivo had been expecting. He had assumed that the aswang would work hard to keep its identity a secret, but living in a house painted like a circus tent hardly seemed like a good way to remain hidden. Still, all clues pointed to this man being the aswang. He had moved there recently and just happened to call himself the god of man and earth. It seemed like a no-brainer to Clivo.
There was a tiny grass area across from the house, so Clivo grabbed a cold fruit juice from a small market, took a seat beneath a coconut tree, and waited for the man to emerge. Clivo had to chuckle to himself. He had finally done it—he had finally managed to end up sitting in the shade of a tropical tree enjoying a nice drink while waiting for his catch. He allowed himself a moment of relaxed pause before reminding himself that he still had a bat demon to contend with.
Clivo waited for hours for Bathala to emerge from his home. With all the dangers around him, he welcomed the silence and solitude, the moment to just sit in the sun and relax. That was something he hadn’t been able to do since learning about the immortal. But there was nothing to do now but sit and wait, and with any luck, this would all be over soon.
As the sun was beginning to set and Clivo’s stomach started rumbling with hunger, the door to the purple house opened and Bathala emerged. The guy looked nothing like someone who shared a name with anything supernatural. Clivo had been expecting someone regal who carried himself with great poise, but this man was more glitz and glamour. He was middle-aged, with bronzed skin that complemented his luscious mane of obviously dyed golden-blond hair. He was wearing a bright blue three-piece suit with an orange handkerchief tucked in his pocket, and carried a silver cane that he twirled between his fingers as he lifted his face to the sky, joyfully sniffing the evening air.
Bathala began to whistle and sauntered down the steps like a man without a care in the world. Clivo stood up and followed at a safe distance. The streets were busy with people mingling in the refreshing breeze, so he figured it was better to track the man and wait for a better opportunity to confront him, when there weren’t so many people around.
Bathala strutted along, greeting everyone with a friendly wave and a smile, as if he was the mayor of the town. After a couple of blocks he entered a small wooden building with plucky guitar music floating through the open windows. Clivo peeked inside and saw it was a small bar that was quickly filling up with people. Bathala was greeted with a cheer from those who were already there.
Bathala took a seat at a barstool and ordered a drink, cheerfully patting the back of the man next to him.
Clivo figured he had a bit of time before the god of man left, so he grabbed a sandwich from a nearby store and waited across the street, enjoying the cool air of evening. The streets were festive, with people milling about and laughing. All in all it was a pleasant scene, save for the demon bat across the street, who was currently enjoying a fruity cocktail sipped through a straw.
Clivo waited and waited as the noise from the bar got louder and louder. The music’s tempo got faster and the laughter more exuberant as the moon climbed higher in the night sky. Clivo was patient; he was used to doing a lot of waiting during his cryptid catching trips, and waiting in tropical weather was much better than in a cold wilderness where bears could happen upon him at any moment.
After a few hours, Bathala came stumbling out of the bar, his arms wrapped around two equally unsteady men, all three of them singing loudly as they wove their way down the street. Clivo followed, hoping the other men would veer away. Bathala seemed so drunk that Clivo thought he could probably walk right up and take his blood sample without the creature even noticing.
Unfortunately, the men walked Bathala directly to his doorstep and waved as he climbed the stairs, his hand clutching the banister for support. With a final bow of flourish to his friends, Bathala entered his home and slammed the heavy door soundly behind him.
The men continued on their way, and once they were a safe distance away Clivo bolted up the stairs. The door was firmly locked, and so were the wooden window shutters. He peered through the slats and noticed Bathala facedown on a red velvet sofa, already snoring heavily, his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a happy dog’s. For a man who might have been alive for a few thousand years, he certainly didn’t carry himself with an air of wisdom and strength.
Clivo figured that not even pounding on the door would wake the man from his slumber, and he certainly didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He needed a plan, one that he could put in place the next day.
He headed back to his hotel eager for a good night’s rest, hoping that he would be able to fall asleep even with the evil resistance breathing down his neck.
After shoving as much furniture in front of his door as possible to block any intruders, Clivo fell into a fitful sleep, with images of demon armies bursting through his door filling his dreams.
XVII
The next day, the evil resistance arrived.
It was just one man, but by the looks of him, one was enough. Clivo knew he was part of the evil resistance, because why else would an incredibly nasty-looking man dressed in black leather strut through town carrying a military-style duffel bag?
Clivo watched him from behind the coconut tree, where he was again waiting for Bathala to emerge from his house. He still didn’t have a plan for how to get a sample of Bathala’s blood without causing a commotion, but he was hoping that something brilliant would come to him.
Now, however, he was more focused on the muscular man stalking through town, and he wasn’t the only one—every Filipino turned their head to gawk at the man as he walked by, the spurs on his cowboy boots clinking. He wasn’t subtle, that was for sure.
The man must have felt Clivo’s eyes on him, because he stopped and slowly turned, his face lined with the deep wrinkles of someone who had spent way too many hours in the sun.
Clivo jumped as the man stared at him, but the man didn’t seem in a rush to come after him. Instead, the man gave a crooked smile, raised his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun, and mimed shooting at Clivo. Then he lowered his hand, nodded, and turned and stalked away.
Clivo was utterly confused. The man obviously knew who he was, so why hadn’t he come after him? Why hadn’t he tried to capture Clivo and torture him for information?
Maybe, Clivo thought, the man knows something that I don’t.
The next thing Clivo did was dangerous and perhaps incredibly stupid, but he was burning with curiosity. He ran after the man, skidding to a stop behind him and tugging on the man’s sleeve. “Excuse me,” Clivo said.
The man, who towered over Clivo, turned his head toward him, but didn’t say anything.
“Um, I assume you’re part of the evil resistance?”
The man turned all the way around, his dusty leather clothes crackling as he moved. The guy looked like he had just finished a motorcycle ride across a desert of some apocalyptic wasteland. “They call me The Ender.” His voice was so deep and gravelly it was almost a whisper.
“Who calls you that?” Clivo asked, fascinated by the man in front of him.
“The ones you call the evil resistance. I’m the guy they call when it’s time to end something.” A breeze blew through his burnished red hair, making him look like some kind of ancient Viking warrior. Everything about this guy was like he had just stepped out of an action movie, but one Clivo would rather be watching instead of participating in.
“I see, that’s why you’re called The Ender. Makes sense.” Clivo let
out a nervous chuckle.
The Ender stared at him, his jaw set in a tight line behind his unshaven face.
“So, any chance you’d tell me who the members of the evil resistance are?”
The man snarled, “A group of world leaders whose souls are shriveled from holding power. Just turn on your TV, you can pick ’em out.”
Clivo thought about Lana and Thomas and how they had been working for the grand duchy of Luxembourg. What other world leaders were involved in the search for the immortal? Clivo remembered an old quote, “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” He cleared his throat. “So, um, I’m the guy you probably followed here—Clivo. Clivo Wren?” The Ender just stared at him as if that was of no consequence to him, so Clivo continued, “So, I guess we’re both here to find the same thing. Any information you’d care to share?”
The Ender took off his sunglasses, revealing one gray eye and one empty eye socket, the eyelid sewn closed to cover the space where an eye should have been. He leaned over and put his face right in front of Clivo’s, his breath smelling pleasantly of oranges. “I’m here to end the search for the immortal. It’d be a shame to have to end you in the process.”
Clivo shuddered and did his best not to gag at the sight of the man’s stitched-shut eyelid. Shouldn’t he be wearing a patch or something? “Any chance I could persuade you to come to the side of the good guys? We’re not evil, and we do great things for other people, which can feel pretty good. No offense, but it seems like you could use some softening up.”
The Ender cracked a smile and put his sunglasses back on. As he straightened up he gave Clivo a solid shove, throwing him onto his butt on the dirt road. “Leave the important stuff to the adults, kid. And stay out of my way, or I will end you.”
Clivo watched the man strut away like a cowboy ending an Old West standoff. Clivo grumbled and wiped the dirt off his hands. The guy had never even caught a cryptid, but he came in there like he owned the place? At least it seemed like he was going to stay out of Clivo’s way … until the time came when they were going after the same thing.
Clivo walked back to Bathala’s house and waited. Hours passed, but there was no sign of Bathala or The Ender. Did he have the right person? If The Ender wasn’t torturing Clivo for information, it must mean that he didn’t need Clivo’s help to find the aswang. But maybe the aswang wasn’t the immortal, and The Ender was going after another creature? Clivo doubted it. The Myth Blasters were better at their research than anybody else. He had to be on the right track.
Clivo sat under his coconut tree all day, sipping fresh squeezed juices and waiting for Bathala to exit. He still didn’t have much of a plan, but he knew without a doubt that today was the day he would check Bathala’s blood, even if he had to tackle the man in broad daylight. With The Ender in town, it was time for Clivo to end this, too.
As the sun slipped into late afternoon, Bathala emerged from his house, this time dressed in a bright yellow suit with a polka-dot handkerchief tucked in the breast pocket. As he had the day before, he twirled the cane in his fingers, happily sniffed the tropical air, and did his stroll to the bar, where he was once again greeted with delighted hellos.
Clivo got his sandwich and retook his perch on the opposite side of the road. Didn’t a man who had lived for thousands of years pick up any other hobbies besides going to the bar?
Clivo waited, watching up and down the street for any sign of The Ender. After a few hours, as the sun was just about to set, The Ender arrived, once again strutting down the street dramatically, dust practically billowing behind him.
He noticed Clivo, but just kept on walking, not once glancing at the bar where Bathala sat.
Clivo stood up and approached a bald Filipino man who was walking by. “Excuse me, sir, what’s in that direction?” he asked, indicating where The Ender had gone.
The man looked where he was pointing and spoke, revealing one gold front tooth. “An archaeological excavation site of an ancient village. But go in the morning. We have curfew tonight.”
The man hurried away, leaving Clivo to wonder what the curfew was for. He was about to ask someone else when Bathala exited the bar, though it was much earlier than the night before. He was steadier on his feet this time, and he began walking back to his home alone just as the sun set behind the palm trees.
Clivo fell into step behind him. He wasn’t worried about being noticed, because the streets were bustling with people seemingly all rushing to get home as the sky darkened. The slamming of window shutters followed Clivo as he walked down the street.
Bathala finally got to the steps of his home and took out his house keys. Just as he unlocked the door, Clivo sprang, running up the stairs behind him with his arms held wide. “My friend! Hello!” he shouted.
Bathala whipped around to look at Clivo, first in happy surprise, and then with wary confusion. His mouth opened to say something as Clivo wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulder and flung him inside.
“Mercy!” the man squealed in a high, lilting voice.
The man flew across the room and landed on a sofa as Clivo slammed and locked the door behind them. Clivo turned, crouched in a fighting stance, just in case the guy went all bat crazy on him.
The man did go crazy, but not by turning into a bat. He began screaming like a frightened girl and throwing everything within his reach at Clivo. First he tossed his cane, then a lampshade, and finally a wooden carving of an elephant.
“Thief! Marauder! Cretin! Bandit! Plunderer!” Bathala yelled, punctuating each word with another thrown object.
Clivo’s forearms were getting bruised from deflecting all the objects. “Stop it! I just need to stab you for a second!”
That was obviously the wrong thing to say, as Bathala’s eyes went wide with fright and he began running around the house, tossing his exquisite furniture behind him as he went. “Murder most foul! Butchery! Bloodshed!”
Bathala ran into the kitchen, but Clivo entered through another hallway and jumped in front of the man, who let out another squeal. Clivo pointed his finger at him. “Are you the aswang?”
This stopped the man cold in his tracks. He put his hand on his chest in shock and said, “Me? Do I look like a flying werewolf to you?”
“Then you won’t mind if I do this.” Clivo jumped forward and stabbed the man’s hand with the blood sampler.
The man recoiled with a scream and slumped against a wall, cupping his hand in agony. “Argh! I’ve been pierced!”
Clivo held his breath as he watched Bathala’s blood travel up the chamber. “Come on, come on.”
The sampler beeped and the all-too-familiar words flashed on the screen: NOT IMMORTAL.
Clivo roared in frustration and looked around the brightly tiled kitchen for something to throw, finally settling on a checked dish towel that he hurled harmlessly against the wall.
“Mercy!” Bathala said, his hand once again flying to his chest.
Clivo took a deep breath to calm himself, then helped Bathala to his feet. Clivo grabbed the dish towel he had just thrown and placed it gently over the small pinprick on Bathala’s hand. “I’m really sorry. I’ve been on a long journey searching for something, and I thought you were it.”
Bathala seemed to relax a little. “I must say, I’ve never been mistaken for a legendary creature before, although I’m rather flattered by the notion. What put such a silly idea in your head?”
Clivo scrubbed his hands through his hair, “It’s a long story, but calling yourself the god of man and earth was one tip.”
Bathala let out a surprised laugh. “My parents always did have a sense of humor about them, my name included. I never thought I was actually at risk of being mistaken for a god, however.”
“You’re not going to call the police on me, are you?” Clivo asked, wincing.
Bathala looked out the window at the quickly approaching night. “I suppose I should, seeing as how you broke into my house and stabbed me and all. But
curfew is coming and not even the police dare go out at night. Speaking of which, you should probably hurry up and get out of here or you’ll have to spend the night. No offense, but I don’t think I could sleep with you around.”
“Understood, and again, I’m really sorry.”
Bathala brushed it off. “It’s okay, my young warrior. This night always puts people on edge.”
Bathala walked Clivo to the front door. “By the way, what’s the curfew for?” Clivo asked, getting ready to open the door and leave.
Bathala looked confused by Clivo’s not knowing. “It’s the full moon. We all stay inside for safety because the aswang flies tonight. If you’re looking for the aswang, you should be out there.”
Clivo looked through a shutter at the full moon just as an inhuman cry pierced the air.
“Shoot,” Clivo said. With jet lag and the time change, Clivo suddenly realized he had gotten the day of the full moon wrong. He’d thought it was tomorrow, not tonight.
Obviously The Ender knew it was the full moon, though, and knew where to find the aswang. That’s why he hadn’t bothered to ask Clivo any questions—he’d known the answers already.
“There she goes,” Bathala said reverently as another cry pierced the air. “It’s too late now. Best you spend the night here, or it’ll tear you to shreds and not think twice.”
Clivo ignored him. He flung the door open and ran down the stairs, Bathala’s cries of warning echoing behind him, and headed in the direction The Ender had gone in earlier. As he ran, a swoosh of air sounded behind him and he turned to see a creature with giant wings shooting up from somewhere in the town and flying toward the moon, its powerful wings pushing it upward with ease.
Suddenly something hit the creature, crumpling a wing and sending it hurtling to the ground.
Shock went through Clivo as he realized The Ender must have shot the aswang. If he didn’t do something, and fast, the evil resistance would take possession of the immortal and all would be lost. It really would be the end.
