Page 3 of Craving Carla

I stand until I can stand no more, until I’ve memorized every detail of the destruction. Then I turn to leave, to follow Damon into whatever shadow he’s found to wait out the day.

That’s when I see it.

A spider perched on the trunk of an olive tree. Not just any spider—a tarantula larger than my hand, black as midnight with bristly hairs covering its body. Its legs are longer than any tarantula native to this region, and it moves with a fluidity that seems almost unnatural. It’s unlike any arachnid I’ve seen in this region, and I’ve hunted these hills for centuries.

The spider watches me with an intelligence that gives me pause. I cock my head to the side, studying it. Eight eyes fix on me with an intensity that feels almost... familiar.

“Hello, little friend,” I say, approaching without fear. Humans fear spiders, but I’ve long since outgrown such mortal concerns. “This isn’t a good place for you in this hour.”

The spider doesn’t move, but I sense its attention fixed on me, assessing me as I assess it.

“Humans will see you as a threat,” I continue, feeling oddly compelled to speak to this creature. “They’ll try to kill you, as they kill everything they fear and don’t understand. Best you find a shadow to hide in.”

The tarantula shifts slightly, and I feel a strange connection to it. It seems... lost. Afraid. Out of place in this world of sun and fire and destruction.

“I know that feeling all too well,” I murmur. “I lost my people last night. Everything I once was is ash now.”

The spider descends the tree trunk, each leg moving with care. It makes its way to the ground and stops at my feet, looking up at me with what I can only describe as curiosity.

I kneel down, smiling despite myself, my fangs bared. “I’m not human, but I think you already know that, don’t you?”

To my astonishment, the spider moves in what looks unmistakably like a nod.

A chuckle escapes me, the first sound of joy I’ve made in days. “You are not a normal creature, are you? That’s interesting.”

I extend my hand, palm up, in invitation. The tarantula hesitates only a moment before crawling onto my palm. Its weight is substantial, its movement precise. It makes its way up my arm, finally settling on my shoulder like it belongs there.

The sensation should be unsettling—a massive spider resting against my neck—but instead, it feels right somehow. Like finding something I didn’t know I’d lost.

“I’ll take you with me into the shadows,” I tell it, gently patting its head with one finger. Its bristly exterior is softer than it appears. “We can find a safe place together.”

The spider nods again on my shoulder, and I feel a strange kinship with this lost creature.

“Let’s go, little friend,” I say, turning my back on Granada for the last time.

As we disappear into the shadows, away from human eyes and the revealing light of day, I don’t yet understand the significance of this encounter. I don’t know that this spider is connected to my future, to a fate I cannot yet imagine.

I only know that for the first time since I watched my civilization begin to burn, I don’t feel quite so alone.

1

Carla

Tourist Island - Present Day (Three Months After Healing Hazel)

Damon paces back and forth in front of my desk, his polished Italian leather shoes moving soundlessly across the linoleum floor of the sheriff’s station. Despite the lack of noise, his presence grates on my nerves—probably because of his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, a far cry from the standard deputy uniform. While I look plain in my Wintermoon Sheriff’s Department t-shirt and jeans, complete with the department badge, he looks like he just walked off a GQ cover.

His blonde hair is slicked back with some expensive product that likely costs more than my monthly paycheck, and his sharp green eyes scan the paperwork spread across his sleek mahogany desk. He’s in his high-end ensemble, while I’m dressed like I’d scavenged a clearance rack.

“These security protocols aren’t sufficient,” he mutters, pausing to lift a ceramic mug to his lips. The coffee inside hasthat metallic tang that comes from being laced with blood - his preferred creamer.

I lean back in my chair and roll my eyes. “What’s wrong with my children guarding the border? They’ve been doing a damn good job keeping the radicals out.”

Damon sets down his mug with a clink that through the empty station. It’s just the two of us on night duty, which means I get front-row seats to his brooding vampire act.

“Carla.” His voice holds that centuries-old gravity, a reminder that he’s been around since the fall of Rome. “You’ve lost two of them in the past month. I know you felt their deaths.”

My heart plummets into my stomach. The memory crashes over me like ice water—the sudden severing of connection, the agonizing pain when Verde and Petra fell. They were a mated pair, my children, and they died protecting a group of young shifters trying to reach Wintermoon safely. The radicals had developed a new weapon, something capable of actually killing my supernatural arachnids instead of just stunning them.

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