Page 60 of Craving Carla

The men are dressed in what I’ve come to recognize as radical uniform—faded jeans, heavy boots, leather biker jackets despite the cool weather, and baseball caps emblazoned with slogans like “HUMANS FIRST” and “PURGE THE UNNATURALS.” Their weapons are military-grade—the kind that shouldn’t be available to civilians.

Tofi stiffens beside me, her entire body going rigid. She sends me images of one of the men—the one in the center with the scraggly beard and missing front tooth. He was at the borderthat night, one of the men who was there when Verde and Petra died. The one who called Carla a “witch bitch” before they ambushed her children.

“Good to know,” I murmur to Tofi. “He dies first.”

The men raise their weapons, aiming at Tofi, who braces herself for impact. But I’m faster. Much faster.

I move with vampire speed, appearing in front of the first man before he can even register I’ve moved. I grab his wrist, twisting until the bone snaps and his weapon clatters to the ground. His scream is cut short as I grip his neck and twist, the sickening crack of his spine breaking.

The second man gets off a shot that misses Tofi by inches. I’m on him next, grabbing his gun and bending the barrel back until it touches the trigger guard. I slam it into his face, the metal driving into his skull with enough force to shatter his frontal bone. He drops like a stone, blood pooling beneath him.

The third man—the one who called my woman a “witch bitch”—tries to run. I let him get three steps before I’m in front of him, cutting off his escape.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask, my voice deceptively calm.

“Please,” he begs, his voice cracking with fear. “I have a family?—”

“So does she,” I snarl, thinking of Carla and the children she lost because of men like him. “The woman you called a ‘witch bitch’ at the border. The one whose children you helped murder.”

Recognition flashes in his eyes, followed by defiance. “Those fucking monsters deserved to die,” he spits. “And so do you.”

I smile, feeling my fangs extend fully. “After you.”

I grab him by the throat, lifting him off the ground. His legs kick uselessly as he struggles for air. I could snap his neck—make it quick—but that’s too merciful for what he’s done.

Instead, I drag my nail across his throat, deep enough to cut but not enough to kill him instantly. Blood spurts from the wound, coating my hand and arm. The smell hits me like a freight train—coppery, warm, alive.

I drop him to the ground, watching as he clutches at his throat, trying desperately to stem the flow. Then I kneel beside him, bending down to his ear.

“This is for Verde and Petra,” I whisper, then sink my fangs into his carotid artery.

His blood floods my mouth—hot, thick, and pulsing with life. It’s not as sweet as Carla’s, but it sates the burning thirst that’s been clawing at my throat. I drink deeply, feeling his life force drain into me, strengthening me, filling me.

When I’m finished, I drop his lifeless body to the ground. Blood drips from my chin, soaking into my shirt. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then kick the bodies aside and reach for the door.

“Stay back,” I tell Tofi, but she’s already moving, climbing up the side of the building with incredible speed and agility, positioning herself on the roof. Smart girl.

I push open the door, stepping inside. The bar falls silent immediately, all eyes turning to me. Blood runs down my cheek, dripping onto the floor with soft, steady taps.

The interior is exactly what you’d expect from a place like this—a long bar stretches along one wall, tables and booths are scattered throughout, with a pool table in the back corner and a dartboard sporting a crude drawing of King Amir’s face pinned to it.

The patrons—men in work clothes or camo, women in outfits that leave little to the imagination—all reek of beer, sweat, and that unmistakable scent I now associate with radicals: a mix of fear and hatred, sharp and foul, like rotting meat.

The walls are covered with photographs—hunting trophies, but not of deer or elk. These are pictures of humans standing over the bodies of supernaturals, grinning proudly with weapons in hand. Vampires with stakes through their hearts, shifters in half-form with silver bullets in their skulls, and—my blood boils when I see it—a photo of the man I just killed standing over a massive spider, its legs curled in death.

Verde or Petra. One of my children. Carla’s babies.

I know Tofi and the others killed the men who directly killed Verde and Petra, but it’s these men, these radicals who celebrate their deaths as if they made the kill themselves. Who turn the murder of sentient beings into a source of pride.

Several men approach, hands moving to weapons concealed beneath jackets. The bartender reaches beneath the counter, likely for a shotgun.

“You need to get the fuck out of our bar,” one of the men says, stepping forward. He’s large, with a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck of a spider crushed under a boot.

I smile, blood still dripping from my chin. “I saw the sign outside. ‘No supernaturals allowed.’ But here’s the thing—I don’t give a fuck.”

Another man points a gun directly at my face. “Last warning, bloodsucker.”

The rage that’s been building inside me since I saw Carla’s bruised face, since I saw the photo on the wall, since I felt my heart beat for her—it all erupts at once. I lose control completely.

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