IN ITALY, MANY YEARS AFTER SPAIN CONQUERED THE PHILIPPINES
ISADORA OF THE PAST
The air was filled with a mix of scents. Different kinds of sweetness. Tempting. It made me thirstier. It seemed to make me hungrier. But I needed to be patient. I needed to wait. I needed to endure the hunger and thirst.
As I disembarked from the ship, I observed the men I passed by. Tall, handsome, and seemingly filling. I wanted to taste the blood of men of different races. Perfect timing, as my ship arrived at the pier tonight.
Stop it, Isadora.
The various noises around me were familiar. Even though I was used to it, it still grated on me.
As I walked down the narrow streets of Italy, I tried to avoid being noticed. The darkness of the night was my ally in concealing my identity. My eyes scanned every corner, searching for the perfect victim. No one should know who I am, what I am.
The lights from the lamps provided a little illumination in the dark street. I entered a small café and sat in the most secluded corner. I bought a cup of coffee and tried to calm myself. It’s not time yet, Isadora. You need to wait.
While waiting for my coffee, I watched the people coming and going. There was a couple, walking hand in hand, their eyes filled with love. There was also an old man, quietly reading a newspaper. But my attention was drawn to a young man sitting alone—no, he wasn’t alone. He had just been joined by others. They laughed as one of the men said something. I noticed the rosary hanging around his neck.
Ah. Just like the foolish Spaniards in the Philippines. He also believes in God.
But there was something charismatic about his demeanor, as if he were inviting me. When our eyes met, time seemed to stop. His eyes seemed to pierce through my soul. Once again, I reprimanded myself. Not now, Isadora.
My coffee arrived, and I took it slowly. A small sip of warmth was all I felt; it wasn’t enough to erase the cold feeling in my heart.
"I need to wait," I whispered to myself.
"Indeed, Isadora. You need to wait," said a woman who sat in front of me. "Besides, you don’t know the language here."
I frowned at the woman. "You underestimate me, Katarina. Someone like me can also learn a language, you know."
What does she think of me? That I can only offer beauty?
She laughed softly. "I forget you have intellect, Isadora. You lack self-control, which sometimes makes me think you're ignorant."
"Fool," I replied, taking a sip from my cup.
"What is your purpose here in Rome, Isadora?"
I laughed softly, shaking my head as I placed the cup on the table. "As a foreigner, my first purpose is to…" My smile widened. "eat."
"Ingrate," Katarina said, standing up. "Just make sure I don’t get involved in your foolishness."
Foolishness?
I didn’t come here for foolishness.
I came here to eat.
Katarina left me alone. Once I finished my coffee, I stood up and left the café. I spent my time wandering around the place until I found myself in an area where many men and a few women were drinking wine. Tavern.
Compared to the Philippines, I felt more free here.
Free to kill?
Yes. Free to kill.
As I laughed and chatted with the men who wanted to take me home, I caught sight of something. From a table, the man I saw earlier at the café sat. His friends laughed at him because, from what I overheard, he couldn’t drink beer.
The man grinned, seemingly unaffected by their teasing. "Non sono come te, sono migliore," he said. I'm not like you, I'm better.
Learning their language was easy for me because it was close to Spanish. In my mind, their words automatically translated into Spanish or Filipino. So I watched them. But suddenly, our eyes met.
I continued to study his face. His eyes were deep and dark, as if hiding a secret. Every look at him brought a strange thirst and hunger to my body. It wasn’t romantic—no. It was a fierce desire I had long been suppressing. I wanted to approach him and take his life, taste his blood.
The son of Don Francisco might get angry if he knew a Filipina desired a foreigner—who was it? Jose? I once spoke to that man, and I could say he was very intelligent, although a womanizer.
The man looked away from me. So I didn’t stare at him any longer because compared to him… there were more dishes around me.
Dishes that willingly approached me.
As the night deepened, my hunger burned even more. Every twitch of my companions' lips, every movement of their bodies, brought me a strong desire to come closer. With every moment, my longing to feel their blood on my lips grew stronger.
The man named Mariano gently tucked my hair behind my ear. "I think you look better with your hair down," he said in Italian.
I laughed politely. "Is that so, sir? Maybe I do look better with my hair loose." I was about to speak again when I was suddenly interrupted and quickly turned to the person who passed by my side.
So fragrant.
So enticing.
Who was that person?
I looked for the person, but they were gone.
I ignored the men and followed that scent. I found myself standing in front of him in his room.
"Sei bello," he softly said.
I had heard from many different lips that I was alluring.
"Is my beauty enough for you to allow me to kill you?" I asked in his language. He was shocked and couldn’t hide the swallow of his throat. When I approached him, he quickly backed away.
I thought he was scared of me. But no. His dark eyes were fixed on me. As if he was the one who would drain me of blood tonight.
"Are you a devil?" he asked.
I pondered. "Perhaps." And I was hungry.
So I lunged at him, and he didn’t have a chance to run away. I didn’t go for his neck first. I wanted to see his fear to whet my appetite. I quickly climbed on top of him. I grabbed his wrist and sank my fangs into his flesh.
I couldn’t help but press my teeth into his skin; the pulse of his wrist pounded against me like loud music in the silence of the night. My teeth traced his skin, and every drop of his blood embraced my being.
But instead of fear or pain, what I saw in his eyes was... excitement?
I stopped and pulled away from him.
"Is there a problem?" he asked in his language, his voice low.
"Damn it," I cursed, a small smile on my lips. But I was startled when he sat up from lying on his bed. I remained sitting on his lap. He stared at me, seemingly unafraid of a monster like me.
"Your face is familiar to me," he said. "I see you in my dreams."
"What?"
He must be crazy.
I should find another victim. I don’t have time for—
I was about to leave when he grabbed my waist with his left arm, the one without a wound from my bite.
"What is your name?" he asked.
And that’s when I looked at his room.
On the wall was a large painting. It was painted.
My face.
What nonsense is this?! Did the church send him from the Philippines to kill me?!
I growled at him. I pushed him back forcefully and sank my fangs into his neck.
But my skin burned when his cross touched my chest. I quickly moved away from him while his blood dripped from the side of my mouth.
"Damn it," I cursed again, clutching my chest where there was a deep wound. "You’re a Spaniard. One of those hunting me!" I said in Filipino.
But he seemed not to understand my words. He carefully sat up, slowly removing the cross from his neck, and when our eyes met, I just stared at him. He really was insane!
"Your cross is the only weapon you have against me," I said softly.
But he lay down on his bed again. His palms rested on my thighs—inside my lush clothing.
"I don’t need the cross," he said. "For I have already sinned tonight," he whispered in his language.
I stared at his gentle face, but his eyes were dark. "You’re insane."
"My father told me that a devil appears in my dreams every night… that I should remove her from my mind, or else… God will punish me."
Hah. It seems his father was right.
I bent down to his level. My long hair cascaded down the sides of his face. With my lips close to his, I spoke in his language. "Then prepare to be punished by your God."
And I finally sank my fangs into his neck.
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