Rose was dropped off. She was lost.

Blondes were always lost.

But, buoyant, Rose wandered on, whistling a Protestant hymnal.

Her father, Bill Smith, a backwoods preacher in the hills of San Jose, had come from Tennessee. He had followed the promise of California gold. He had brought with him mountain charming, snake tongues and hoodoo magick.

Rose was a river walker. Rose could charm warts off a priest. Rose could sing to burns and soothe them with her mountain woman magick.

And... as for Rose's cooking - why, it could make any woman fall desperately in love!

"Domminga Mountains... you're like the Smokies out in Tennessee, dense, thick, juicy. Like the best of mysteries, you won't yield the Philippine eagle to me easily. But that won't stop me from trying, eh, dear Domminga? Aswang or no, I won't fear a haint. Daddy always told me to be brave."

Rose fiddled with her GIS tracker. The triangulation system of the mapping device stuck.

Rose sighed. "Ugh, count on my technology to crap out in the middle of this lush wilderness. No worries! I have a month's worth of food, a camping pack, antimalarials, tinder and matches - everything a wild-struck wanderer needs!"

Rose's mid-sized breasts bounced, and her beachy blonde waves shone in the austere sun. Her pert German nose flared as if smelling her next great adventure. Rosy sighted a rare spectacle in the canopy and pulled out her spyglasses:

"Oh, a flying fox!"

The bat, red furred and giant, fed on honey from a tropical rose. Suddenly, there was a whir of pollen, and a half naked, sinfully handsome Pilipino man stood in tribal dress before her. There was an obsidian spear in his hands, and he wore dark green combat boots.

"Welcome to Domminga Mountains, kano. You're trespassing, Legally Blonde." He winked.

Rose froze, then pulled out her gun. "And you magically turned from a bat?"

"Yep."

"Okay, so... you're an aswang. Well, shit fucking bricks. I guess a bullet won't kill you."

"Put the gun down, blondie. You gotta offer something to Lady Iktapati. Foreigners, coming here for our resources, outsourced labor - never once asking us, what can we give the Philippines? The gods? How can a blonde ate pay the tithe to the goddess of Domminga Mountains?"

Rose crossed herself, her golden crucifix shining on her anxious collarbone.

Rose quirked a blonde eyebrow, then smiled, putting her gun down. "Is this Ms. Iktapati good with alcohol?"

The strange aswang winked. "You get me, kano."

Rose pulled out some cheap Napa Valley wine from her backpack, and she and the aswang took sips. It wasn't like postdocs were loaded. Still, it was a good vintage - it had been a good year for rain. Dry, dusty, the grass brown. Then, suddenly, green under California stars.

"Daddy always spoke of Southern haints, back in America. You one of them, stranger?"

"This is the Philippines, blondie. The land of warrior shaman, Aswang, and no place for American Gods."

Rose bit her lip. She offered him her hand: a strong American handshake from a head-hot American: "My apologies. I'd rather you called me Rose. And I can call you...?"

"Ambrosio. The Queen is expecting you."

Rose laughed. "And will this enchanting Queen eat me?"

Ambrosio laughed in turn, a ruddy sound, like dew on the frond of a durian blossom.

"No, you will be taste-testing. We need a human's touch."

"Oh? Why?"

"Dear Rose, you've wandered across the human realm, and into the Spirit Realm. This is Ikapati Kingdom, on Aswang Mountain... you're in the land of the Gods."