Page 10 of Craving Carla

I press a hand to the space where a heartbeat once resided, finding only hollow silence. I’ve been dead so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel that rhythmic pulse, to have proof of life coursing through my veins. Maybe that’s why I chase thesemeaningless encounters—desperately searching for something, anything, to remind me I’m more than just a walking corpse.

The sun rises somewhere beyond the heavy curtains, painting the room in muted gold. My little friend appears to be sleeping, though I can never tell for certain. His eyes don’t close like mammals’, and he enters a state somewhere between sleep and meditation.

I close my eyes, keeping my hand on my chest, thinking of the moment when my woman makes me feel alive again. She’s out there—I know it now. The pull is stronger in Detroit, stronger than it’s ever been. Soon, I’ll find her.

And when I do, she’s going to have her hands full with me.

I drift toward sleep with images of Wintermoon in my mind, wondering what—or who—Damon wants me to meet. With my luck, it’ll be another political alliance or some ancient vampire looking for entertainment.

But as I sink deeper into rest, my little friend shifts slightly beside me, and I catch the faintest trace of something familiar in the air. Something that makes my dead heart almost skip in a way it hasn’t for centuries.

Maybe this trip to Wintermoon will be more interesting than I thought.

3

Carla

One Week Later—Tourist Island

If I don’t get off desk duty, I’m going to lose my mind.

I trudge down the street, my footsteps against the worn stones as I make my hundredth patrol around the tourist island today.

The weather is caught between summer and fall, that awkward in-between where you’re never quite dressed right. I pull my light Wintermoon Sheriff’s Department jacket tighter around me, the badge smooth and cool under my fingers.

The paperwork from this morning still haunts me. Complaint after complaint about the most trivial bullshit—a couple argued over who got the better view from their hotel room, some entitled asshole demanding we arrest a witch for “looking at him wrong,” and my personal favorite, a woman insisting her room was haunted because the television changed channels by itself. She’d pissed off a witch working in the bakery earlier. Of course the electronics were acting up.

A group of tourists cluster near the fountain in the town square, their phones out, whispering and pointing. Not at the ornate stonework or the magical water display that changes colors every few minutes. At me. They’re staring at me like I’m the main attraction in some twisted zoo exhibit.

I can feel Moria nearby, lurking in the shadows between buildings, her frustration bleeding into mine through our connection. She wants to drop down and give these ignorant humans something real to complain about. Hell, so do I.

The urge to call my children out of hiding claws at me. It would be so easy. One command and dozens of my beautiful, terrifying arachnids would spill from every shadow, every crack, every hidden space. The tourists would scatter like cockroaches, their screams through the streets.

But I know the consequences. King Amir’s been more than patient with me, but he’s made it clear—cause a scene on the tourist island, and I’m banned permanently. No more patrols, no more purpose, just endless desk duty in that suffocating station.

I turn away from the gawking tourists and cross toward the bakery where Leah’s putting on her usual show. Through the large windows, I can see her levitating chunks of fudge in intricate patterns above a crowd of mesmerized humans. Her vampire-witch hybrid abilities never cease to amaze people. The fudge dances through the air like living things, occasionally breaking apart to float individual pieces directly into waiting mouths.

The humans watching her eat it up—literally and figuratively. They applaud and take pictures, completely entranced. It makes my stomach turn. They act like she’s performing just for their entertainment, not realizing she’s sharing a part of herself, her heritage, her power.

I’m about to cross the street when Leah teleports in front of me, her usual cheerful grin stretching across her face. Her fangsflash as she smiles, and her dark brown eyes sparkle with an energy I’ve never quite been able to match.

“How’s your day going, Carla?” she asks, wiping flour dust from her hands onto her apron.

I study her for a moment. Flour clings to her caramel-toned skin, her hair, her cute flowery dress. She looks like she’s been wrestling with dough all morning, and yet somehow she still manages to look effortlessly beautiful. Another one of those perfectly put-together supernaturals who make it look so easy.

“I’d rather be at the border,” I answer, stepping around her.

She falls into step beside me, matching my pace. “I know it’s not ideal being on the tourist island all the time. It drives Kade nuts sometimes. She was so happy when you and King Amir arrived and gave her a break here and there.”

I smile at her, recognizing the attempt at small talk. Leah’s always been decent to me, but there’s still that invisible barrier between us. She doesn’t hate my children like so many others do, but she doesn’t exactly welcome them either.

“That’s pretty cool,” I say, but I keep moving.

“Anora’s asked about you a couple of times during my visits,” she announces, stopping abruptly and stepping in front of me. “She asked why you don’t come to the palace anymore.”

The words sting more than I expect. I groan, stopping in my tracks as she plants her hands on her hips in that way that says we’re not moving until we talk about it.

“What’s going on, Carla?” she pushes.

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