Page 61 of Craving Carla

I move faster than human eyes can track, grabbing the gunman’s arm and twisting until the bone pierces through skin. His scream is cut short as I tear his throat out with my fangs, blood spraying across the room like a crimson fountain.

The bar erupts into chaos. Someone fires a shot that hits me in the shoulder, the impact barely registering. I grab the shooter by his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. My fangssink in deep, tearing through flesh and muscle until I hit the spine. I wrench my head to the side, ripping away a chunk of his neck. He falls, gurgling on his own blood.

A woman tries to run for the door, but I intercept her, gripping her by the waist and sinking my fangs into her jugular. Her blood flows sweeter than the men’s, tainted with the fruity cocktail she was drinking. I drain her dry, letting her body crumple to the floor.

I move through the bar like a whirlwind of death, tearing limbs from bodies, ripping throats out, feeding on the blood that sprays from severed arteries. Bullets hit me—stomach, chest, leg—but I barely feel them, my body already pushing the metal out, healing around the wounds.

A man breaks a chair and drives one of the legs through my stomach. I look down at the wood protruding from my body, then back at him, grinning through bloodstained teeth. I grip the makeshift stake and pull it out, feeling my flesh knit back together. Then I grab him by the hair and the chin and twist in opposite directions, tearing his head clean off his shoulders. Blood fountains from the stump of his neck as his body collapses, twitching.

I throw the head over the bar, where it lands with a wet thunk. Two women who were hiding there scream and make a break for the door, but I let them go. Let them spread the word. Let them tell everyone what happens when you threaten what’s mine.

By the time I’m finished, the bar looks like a slaughterhouse. Bodies lie strewn across the floor, blood soaking into the cheap carpet and pooling on the wooden floorboards. The mirror behind the bar is shattered, bottles broken, tables overturned. The air is thick with the scent of blood, fear, and death.

I’ve killed at least twenty of them—men and women who thought it was sport to hunt supernaturals, who celebrated thedeaths of Carla’s children, who would have hurt her again given the chance.

The burning thirst that drove me here has finally eased, sated by the blood of my enemies. I make my way to the abandoned bar, pick up a glass of whiskey left behind in the chaos, and take a sip. The alcohol burns warmly as it slides down my throat, washing away the taste of blood.

A few minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional death rattle from the not-quite-dead. Then the door opens, and Damon and Kade step in.

Damon is dressed in one of his immaculate suits, not a hair out of place. He steps carefully over a pool of blood, his expression flickering as he accidentally steps on a severed ear, ruining his expensive leather shoes.

Kade, dressed in her sheriff’s uniform—fitted t-shirt, jeans, boots, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight braid—surveys the scene with an appreciative eye.

“What have you done, Amari?” Damon asks, adjusting his suit as he carefully steps forward. Then he stops, his eyes widening slightly as he catches the sound—the steady thump of my heartbeat.

Realization dawns on his face, and he looks to Kade, who just shrugs.

“I don’t see the problem here,” she says, prodding a body with her boot. “These radicals have been giving us shit for months. It’s time we stepped up and did something about it. Show the humans we aren’t to be fucked with.”

Damon sighs, his expression caught between agreement and disapproval. “While I somewhat agree with the sentiment, this wasn’t the way. Scaring humans even more is only going to escalate things. They’re already using the media to spread fear and misinformation—this will only add fuel to the fire.” He gestures at the mess around us.

Kade’s eyes flick to me, then to where my heart beats steady and strong. “So, who’s the lucky woman?”

Before I can answer, we hear the heavy thump of Tofi’s legs on the roof. She leaps down, landing with surprising grace considering her size, and uses one leg to pull open the door. She enters cautiously, surveying the scene of carnage.

I grin at her, gesturing around the room. “Go ahead. There’s plenty to eat.”

Tofi doesn’t hesitate. She scuttles over to one of the bodies, impales it with her fangs, and begins dragging it out the door. Damon and Kade watch, eyes wide, then turn back to me.

Kade grins. “You bagged the spider queen.”

I give her a smug look, unable to hide my satisfaction. Mine. Carla is mine.

Damon groans and pulls his coin from his pocket, flipping it absently. “I suspected he was fated to Carla based on his connection to his little friend.”

“What are you talking about? How is that even possible? Carla doesn’t have the fated scent,” Kade says, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“The morning after Granada fell, Amari discovered an oversized spider,” Damon says, his voice calm and measured. “He called it ‘little friend,’ and they’ve been inseparable ever since. It was one of Carla’s offspring, lost and strayed from the egg sac.” He steps carefully around the remnants of flesh on the floor. “Carla’s fate was always sealed, just as I suspected. Somehow, her children have been masking the scent—just as they’ve been concealing her identity as a Blackwood witch.”

Kade’s grin widens. “Ah, how sweet. Fate’s been preparing you for your woman.”

Damon raises an eyebrow at me. “What does this have to do with killing all these radical humans and making such a mess of things?”

I point at the photographs on the wall, and Damon’s expression darkens as he notices them—the trophy shots of humans with Carla’s dead children.

“They probably took pieces of their body parts to keep as souvenirs,” I say, my voice hardening as memories flood back. “The same way they did with Nat Turner.”

I remember that day in 1831, watching from the shadows as they butchered him. After they hanged him, they didn’t stop there. They flayed him, skinning him like an animal. They cut off his head and hands. Pieces of his body were distributed as souvenirs—skin made into purses, bones fashioned into knives. White families passed these “relics” down through generations, proud tokens of a Black man’s execution.

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