Page 113 of Craving Carla

The silk wraps around Verde and Petra, layer after layer, until their broken bodies are completely encased in soft white shrouds. As the cocoons form, I notice something happening—a faint pink glow emanates from within the silk, reminiscent of the magic Tabatha used to bring me back from death. The magic that made me a doorway between worlds.

The pink glow intensifies, pulsing like a heartbeat. Small motes of light rise from the cocoons, floating upward before dissolving into the night air. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

The larger children begin digging into the soft earth, creating two perfect graves side by side. Their powerful front legs carve through soil and roots with ease, displacing stones and creating smooth-walled chambers for their siblings’ final rest. Once the holes are deep enough, Tofi and Noki gently push the cocoons into their final resting places.

The smaller children come forward, carrying bits of earth in their mandibles, beginning the process of covering the graves. They work methodically, each one adding their contribution to the growing mounds. Some bring small stones to mark the sites, while others weave delicate webs between nearby plants, creating natural monuments that move softly with the breeze.

I notice movement from the edge of the clearing. Moria and Kemnebi crawl toward us, then move past to join their siblings in completing the burial. Moria, who has spent centuries nestled against my heart, and Kemnebi, who found a home with Amari—they work together, binding our families as they help lay their siblings to rest.

Moria carries a small flower, placing it atop Verde’s grave. Kemnebi does the same for Petra. The gesture is so tender, so human in its sentiment, that it breaks something inside me.

A moan escapes my lips, building into a wail. Birds startle from their roosts, taking flight into the sky. My cry holds centuries of loss, not just for Verde and Petra, but for all the suffering we’ve endured, all the hardships we’ve faced.

Amari holds me tighter, one hand stroking my back while the other tangles in my curls. He doesn’t try to quiet me or rush my grief. He simply holds me, letting me cry for as long as I need. His strength supports me when my legs want to give out, his body absorbing the shudders that rack my frame.

When the two gravesites are completely covered, Tofi approaches Amari. Her movements are slower than usual, weighted with grief. She leans against his leg, seeking comfort from him as she mourns her siblings. Amari pulls back from me slightly and leans down to pet her burgundy body, his fingers gentle against her exoskeleton.

“I love you,” he tells her, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry for the loss of your brother and sister.”

Tofi’s multiple eyes look up at him, glowing softly like tiny stars in the darkness.

“This will never happen again,” Amari promises, his voice steady and full of resolve. “Daddy is here now, and I will always make sure you are loved and protected.”

The intensity of his vow settles over us, a quiet force—a shield, a promise, a covenant.

Kemnebi suddenly starts tapping his legs against the forest floor, the sound urgent and insistent. He hisses, drawing Tofi’s attention. She turns to face him, and all the other spider children go silent, as if holding their breath.

Kemnebi’s legs move in complex patterns, and suddenly, images flood my mind—not the devastating ones from before, but something entirely different. I see Amari through Kemnebi’s eyes, through memories spanning centuries.

I see Amari in the 1850s, working with the Underground Railroad, using his vampire speed and strength to transport enslaved people to freedom. In one vivid memory, he carries an exhausted mother and her three small children through a swamp at night, avoiding slave catchers who would havereturned them to brutal captivity. The children cling to him, their faces pressed against his chest as he moves with supernatural grace through terrain that would stop most humans.

The scene shifts to the aftermath of the Civil War. Amari stands before a newly built schoolhouse, surrounded by freed Black children eager for the education that had been denied them. The building bears a small plaque: “Funded by Medina Holdings.” As he watches the children gather at the entrance, his face reflects something deeper than pride—a sense of fulfillment, a hope finally taking root.

Another image: Amari in a sharp suit in the 1960s, discreetly passing a briefcase to civil rights leaders. Inside is enough money to bail out hundreds of arrested protesters and fund legal challenges to segregation laws. He slips away into the night, expecting no recognition for his contribution. The next day, news reports show the protests continuing, stronger than before, with no mention of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible.

I see Amari in a burning building, rushing through flames to rescue children trapped inside a Black church that had been firebombed by white supremacists. His own clothes catch fire, but he doesn’t stop until every child is safe. He endures terrible burns that take days to heal, even with his vampire regeneration, but never complains about the pain.

The images shift to something more personal—Amari finding a lost Kemnebi in Granada as the city falls to Christian forces. I watch as he kneels beside the disoriented arachnid, speaking gentle words in his native tongue, offering comfort and a place by his side. Through decades, centuries, Amari carries Kemnebi with him across continents, never abandoning him, never letting him feel unwanted or burdensome. In moments of danger,Amari would tuck Kemnebi safely inside his coat, shielding him from a world that might not understand or accept him.

I see Amari in a forest clearing much like this one, decades ago, surrounded by members of the KKK in full regalia. They’ve captured a Black man—Bobby—and are preparing to lynch him. Amari moves like a shadow, dismantling the group in seconds, leaving Bobby as the only survivor. I watch as Amari offers him a choice: death or eternal life as a vampire. Bobby chooses to join Amari, becoming his trusted lieutenant. Over the years, they form a bond of brotherhood, fighting side by side against the very forces that almost took Bobby’s life.

The final image shows Amari establishing Medina Corp, building it into a powerhouse that employs thousands of marginalized people, offers scholarships to underprivileged youth, and secretly funds reparation efforts and anti-racism initiatives around the world. I see him reviewing applications for a program that supports first-generation college students, his expression softening as he approves funding for a young woman whose essay deeply moved him.

When the visions fade, my mouth hangs open. I can’t believe the depth and breadth of what Amari has done over the centuries. This isn’t the resume of a womanizing vampire—it’s the life’s work of someone committed to justice, to righting wrongs, to making amends.

The images stop, and Amari looks at me, his head bowed. “I don’t want praise for what I’ve done in the world,” he says quietly.

“Amari—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“No, Carla. You need to understand.” His voice is heavy with centuries of guilt. “What I’ve done is nothing compared to the damage my people helped set in motion. The Moors participated in the early slave trade that later evolved into the chattel slaverysystem. We created a domino effect that’s still causing harm today.”

He looks at each of our children, his expression somber. “Global racism and prejudice that persist to this day. Economic inequality between nations and within societies. Cultural displacement that erased countless traditions and languages. Modern slavery in the form of human trafficking and forced labor. Geopolitical tensions from artificial divisions established during colonial periods.”

His hands clench at his sides. “When you’re in the moment, you don’t see the lasting effects of the mistakes you make. My people were a wonderful civilization of wonders, but we also had our share of mistakes. I’m no hero, just someone trying to balance the scales, knowing full well they can never truly be balanced.”

He looks down at Kemnebi. “Thank you,” he says softly, “but I am no hero.”

All around us, our children send images spelling out “Daddy” and “Love.” The sudden outpouring of affection from them leaves me stunned and speechless.

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