Page 97 of Craving Carla

I shrug, unable to hide my smug grin. “It’s not my fault she’s a Daddy’s Girl.”

Carla rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at her lips before she turns back to our daughter.

“You’re masking my powers including my fated scent. Who are you protecting me from?” she asks again, her voice firmer this time.

Suddenly, all the children go alert, bodies tensing as if responding to an unseen threat. They begin sending images to both of us, the same words as before flickering in my mind: “Remember, Mommy.”

Carla sighs, shoulders slumping in frustration. “I don’t know what they want me to remember.”

The children stomp their feet harder, the rhythm increasing in urgency. Then the images begin.

They come in a rush, so vivid and overwhelming that I stagger back a step, my mind struggling to process what I’m seeing. The forest around us fades, replaced by a different landscape, a different time. I’m standing outside a small cottage, its thatched roof sagging in places, smoke curling from a crudechimney. Carla walks to stand beside me, her hand finding mine again, anchoring me in this strange vision.

“It’s 1068 A.D., England. I was eight years old,” she says, her voice hollow with memory. I look at her—my Carla, present-day Carla—and see the shadow of ancient pain in her eyes. “I remember because my adopted parents got news that Henry the First was born. He became King of England in 1100 A.D., but I was in the shadows by then. My adopted parents were slaves brought over from Africa.”

I nod, squeezing her hand. “I know about the slave trade systems of the time.”

The Arabs and Berbers of North Africa captured Africans from the sub-Saharan regions, forcing them north across the Sahara. The Moors—my people—participated in this trade, though differently than the later European chattel system. In medieval England, slaves were property but still recognized as human, with certain limited rights. Not that it made slavery acceptable, but the systematic dehumanization hadn’t yet evolved into what Europeans would later create.

“My mother wanted a child, but couldn’t reproduce,” Carla continues, drawing me back to her story. “So when she found a baby in a small cot during her walk in the forest, collecting water for her lord and lady, she couldn’t resist. And for some reason, the lord and lady never questioned her about it. They let her keep the baby.” Her voice catches slightly. “My mother had a husband, another slave, but it wasn’t recognized because of the times. He didn’t want me, and made it known over the years.”

Shouting erupts from inside the cottage. The door flies open, and a small figure stumbles out—a child, no more than eight, wearing nothing but a long, tattered dress. Her wild curls frame a face marked with blood at the corner of her mouth. I recognize those striking green eyes immediately, though they’re filled nowwith pain, hatred, and heartbreak rather than the warmth I’ve come to know.

“My lord tried to rape me at the age of eight,” Carla says beside me, her voice disturbingly calm. “And somehow, my powers activated like some defensive mechanism. I almost killed him.”

“Carla,” I breathe her name, reaching for her, but she steps forward, hand outstretched toward her younger self. The child walks right through her, like Carla is the ghost in this memory, not the other way around. We watch as young Carla moves forward, disappearing into the forest until darkness swallows her small form.

“I had a spider friend. I called her Mimi,” Carla continues, a small smile touching her lips despite the horrors she’s recounting. “She was always with me. I couldn’t speak to her like I do with our children, but we had an understanding. She was just a house spider, but I could tell there was something different about me, the way I connected with her.”

The images blur again, like paint smeared across a canvas, and then we’re standing in a different part of the forest. It’s raining, water pouring from a leaden sky, yet we feel nothing—no droplets, no chill. But the mud beneath our shoes feels solid, oddly real for this memory-vision.

Young Carla sits huddled in a small cave, arms wrapped around her legs, rocking back and forth as she cries. She looks impossibly small, fragile in a way that stings. This child will grow into my fierce, proud mate, but right now, she’s just a terrified little girl, alone in the world.

Present-day Carla looks at me, a strange mix of sadness and pride in her eyes. “This is when they were born.”

Young Carla’s head snaps up at a sound from deeper in the cave—a crackling, like twigs breaking. I hear it too, oddly crisp in this vision-memory. Then I see them—hundreds of spidersemerging from a hatching egg sac, surrounding the child’s feet. They’re large for normal spiders, about the size of young Carla’s small hand, but nowhere near the giants they will become.

Images of “Mommy” flash through my mind repeatedly, a psychic chorus from these newly hatched creatures. Young Carla continues crying, oblivious to their communication, focused only on her growling stomach.

Some of the spiders scurry out of the cave, disappearing into the rainy forest. They return moments later, somehow carrying pieces of bread. Present-day Carla turns away from the scene, tears streaming down her face. I place my hand on her shoulder, offering silent comfort, but I can’t look away from this pivotal moment in her life.

“They went into the village and stole food to feed me,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “They understood me, and what I needed.”

I watch as young Carla looks up from behind her knees, noticing the bread. She grabs it immediately, tearing into it with the desperate hunger of a child who doesn’t know when she’ll eat again. The spiders begin to form a web around her, creating a makeshift blanket to keep her warm. I see the exact moment when young Carla’s eyes shift from terror to something else—understanding, acceptance, security. She feels safe. Protected.

The images change again, blurring into another time, another forest. But this time, I hear voices before I see anything—angry human voices, shouting, calling for blood. A mob approaches through the trees, torches illuminating hate-twisted faces as they search for the Spider Witch and her unnatural children.

An adult Carla steps from a cave—looking exactly as she does now, dressed in tattered clothing, her wild curls framing her face. Her children slip from the shadows around her, somelarger than others, positioning themselves protectively in front of their mother.

Present-day Carla stiffens beside me, her hand gripping mine tighter. “I don’t remember this,” she says, confusion evident in her voice.

I pull her hand to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her skin. “Then let’s remember together,” I tell her, turning back to the scene unfolding before us.

Past-Carla stands at the edge of the cave, looking down at the approaching mob with a mixture of confusion and sadness. “I’ve done nothing but care for your village,” she calls to them, her voice carrying through the forest. “My children have given you more than balanced leverage. Your village is free of rats and other rodents, as well as many insects that threaten your produce.”

The mob’s shouting grows louder, drowning out her words. She continues, desperation creeping into her voice. “I stay in the shadows, never encroaching on your space, and my children have not once harmed a human.”

But they aren’t listening. Their faces contort with hatred, fear driving them to violence against what they don’t understand.

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