Page 4 of Craving Carla

“They died honorably,” I say, my voice low. “They knew the risks.”

“Which is exactly why King Amir pulled them from border duty.” Damon resumes his pacing, each step like a countdown to my sanity. “You’ve been relegated to desk duty for a reason, Carla. We can’t keep losing them - or you.”

I fold my arms, missing the familiar weight of Moria clinging to me like a living brooch. My youngest, my most devoted child, usually rests against me, her legs wrapped around my shoulders like a protective shroud. Now she’s forced to hide, relegated to the shadows and ventilation systems like some kind of pest.

“This is bullshit,” I mutter. “Ever since the Brookstone and Blackburn massacre, every radical group from here to California has been targeting us. They’re getting organized, Damon. Moregroups are popping up every day, and I’m stuck here playing secretary while my children cower in the shadows.”

Damon pauses, his hand reaching into his pocket to withdraw a silver coin—a Roman denarius, worn smooth by centuries of handling. He begins flipping it, the metal glinting with each rotation.

The coin lands in his palm with a softpat. Heads, as usual.

“Different faces, different names, different methods, but the same festering hatred underneath.” His green eyes grow distant, like he’s seeing something from his long past. “I’ve watched this cycle repeat for over two millennia. The Romans persecuted Christians, then Christians persecuted anyone who wasn’t Christian. The Moors conquered Spain, then were driven out by the Reconquista. Now humans create weapons to kill our kind, and when those weapons turn on them, they blame us for the consequences.”

I snort, watching the coin dance between his fingers. “Another history lesson? Jeez, Damon, you’re like a walking Wikipedia page.”

He chuckles, the sound containing centuries of dark humor. “History matters, Carla. Those who ignore it are doomed to repeat its mistakes. And right now, we’re seeing the same patterns take shape—fear breeding hatred, hatred breeding violence.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t around for the fall of Rome or whatever tragedy you’re referencing now.” I gesture to myself with both hands. “I was born right after the Great War, when the curse was cast. Maybe Fate realized supernaturals would need protection, and I’m that insurance policy.”

“Protection,” Damon muses, flipping his coin again. “Though I have my own theory about why you were created.”

The coin lands perfectly in his palm. Always heads. I’ve never seen him get tails, which makes me wonder if the damn thing is rigged.

“Let me guess - more theories.” I lean back in my chair until it creaks ominously. “You think I was born to protect Anora, protect Wintermoon, blah blah blah. That’s probably why I had to endure just as much suffering as other supernaturals after the curse. Maybe that’s also why no one can smell the fated scent on me.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth. Everyone else gets a fated mate, someone created specifically for them. Me? I get to watch everyone else find their happily ever after while I’m stuck without even the faintest trace of that sweet, intoxicating scent that marks someone as yours.

Damon’s coin pauses mid-flip. He studies me with those ancient green eyes, and for a moment, something shifts in his expression.

“I have theories about that too,” he says quietly.

“Damon. I’m done with theories, done with history lessons, and done with fucking desk duty.” I slam my hand down on the metal desk. “My children aren’t afraid of death. Death with honor is better than hiding in shadows. It’s what they were born for.”

The coin resumes its arc through the air.Pat. Heads again.

“You may be done with theories, but they might hold the key to understanding your purpose.” Damon’s voice holds a strange intensity. “You know Wintermoon isn’t good at showing appreciation, but you are a daughter of this land. You belong here just as much as anyone else. Your children belong here.”

He closes his fist around the coin. “If they’re in danger, they’ll be protected. The King and Queen have commanded it, and Kade and I support that decision.”

I slump in my chair, suddenly feeling every one of my years. A constant ache that never quite fades. I reach up to touch the spot where Moria usually rests, finding only empty air.

That’s when the familiar weight lands on the desk in front of me with a softthunk.

Moria appears as if from nowhere, her massive form easily the size of a dinner plate. Her body reflects an unnatural black sheen, like polished obsidian, and her bristly hairs. Eight dark, intelligent eyes fix on me with what I can only describe as a mix of devotion and concern.

Damon raises an eyebrow but doesn’t seem surprised. “Interesting how they can make themselves almost undetectable. Well, not to King Amir. He always knows when they’re around.”

I gently run my hand over Moria’s back, feeling the soft texture of her fur beneath my palm. She’s warm, like all my children, with a pulse that beats just slightly off from a human rhythm.

“Moria, baby, you have to stay out of view,” I murmur, but my tone holds no real scolding.

Damon pauses again, his fist still clenched around his coin. He stares at Moria with a strange expression, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve never considered it until this moment, but there’s something quite remarkable about that particular one.”

“What are you going on about now?” I keep stroking Moria’s back, feeling her relax under my touch.

“I know someone who might be able to help,” Damon says, and there’s excitement in his voice. “A friend you might actually like.”

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