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Carla

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

D amon 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 has that 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.

“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. More groups 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 soft pat . 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 soft thunk .

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.”

I scoff so hard I nearly choke. “I don’t like anyone, Damon. No one here likes my children except Amir. Anora tolerates them, but she’s not exactly sending Christmas cards.”

At the mention of hiding, Moria’s legs shift restlessly, and I clap my hands gently. “Time to go back into the shadows, sweetheart.”

She seems bothered by my request, her multiple eyes reflecting hurt, but she obeys. With fluid grace that defies her size, Moria leaps off the desk and climbs the wall. Her large frame somehow compresses enough to squeeze through the ceiling vent, though physics suggests this should be impossible.

Damon smiles as we hear her legs skittering above us, and I glare up at the vent where I can still see the glint of her eyes in the darkness.

“She’s going through separation anxiety,” I explain. “It’ll get better eventually. Just need to give it time.”

“I don’t mind her presence,” Damon says, though he doesn’t look away from the vent. “She just needs to stay hidden from the tourists and human staff.”

He studies the ceiling thoughtfully. “I’ve noticed most, if not all, of your children seem to come in pairs.”

I shrug, the movement feeling heavier than it should. “That’s Fate’s funny way of torturing me. She paired my children but not me.”

“But not Moria?” He raises an eyebrow, still staring at the vent.

“No, not this one,” I say, feeling that familiar pang of kinship with my unpaired child. “That’s why she clings to me, I guess. We’re both alone.”

I stand, my chair rolling back with a squeak. “I’m going to patrol the area, make sure the humans are behaving themselves.”

Before I can take two steps toward the door, Damon flashes in front of me, moving with that vampire speed that still takes me by surprise. One second he’s at his desk, the next he’s blocking my path, all without disturbing so much as a paper on his desk.

“I’ll do it,” he says firmly.

I glare at him and plant my hands on my hips. “When King Amir ordered me to desk duty, I know he didn’t mean it literally.”

I glance back at the vent where Moria’s eyes glimmer, then back at Damon. “Is this because of my children?”