Page 56

Amari

S o there’s a chance. Not that I had given up hope, but knowing there’s another Blackwood on Wintermoon who might be able to help us brings a sense of relief I didn’t know I needed.

Carla’s quiet as we get close to the border her eyes fixed on the passing trees, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against her thigh.

She doesn’t seem too thrilled about this particular cousin. I wonder why, but I don’t push.

The patrol cabin appears through the trees as I steer around the last bend in the road. It’s smaller than I remember from my assessment visit—a plain box of weathered wood with a small porch jutting from the front. Not exactly the accommodations I’m used to, but it will serve our purpose for now.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter, cutting the engine.

Carla doesn’t respond, just unbuckles her seatbelt and steps out of the SUV. I watch her through the windshield for a moment—the way her curls, the slight stiffness in her shoulders as she stretches. Even in simple jeans and a t-shirt, she captivates me.

We spend the next hour unpacking. I set up my workstation at the small desk in the corner by the window—my iMac, laptop and tablet.

The cabin is modest but functional—an open kitchen and living area, one bedroom with an attached bathroom, and a small back porch that faces the forest. Nothing like my penthouse, but I’m finding I don’t mind the simplicity as much as I expected.

Carla moves through the kitchen, unpacking groceries and stocking the fridge and pantries.

Her fingers trace the edges of each cabinet as if mapping the space, claiming it.

When she finishes, she stands in the middle of the kitchen for a moment, eyes sweeping over her work, then nods to herself.

She grabs her jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

I’m at the entrance before she reaches it, vampire speed leaving a brief current of disturbed air in my wake. She frowns up at me, brows pulling together.

“Where are you going?” I ask, my voice sharper than intended.

“To see the children.” She says it simply, as if I should have known. And perhaps I should have.

I reach for the doorknob and open it for her, the cool evening air rushing in to greet us. “You’re coming?” she asks, suspicion coloring her tone.

I glare at her, then gesture for her to exit.

What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I’m following her.

These are our children. Even if they don’t fully accept me yet, I’m not letting her wander into the forest alone.

Not with Brookstone and Blackburn’s people still out there somewhere, possibly armed with weapons designed to kill our children.

She sighs and steps out, tilting her head back to look at the night sky.

Stars are just beginning to appear, pinpricks of light against the darkening blue canvas.

She adjusts her jacket, pulling it tighter around her body, then does something I hadn’t expected—she grabs my hand.

Her skin is warm against mine, sending a pleasant shock up my arm.

Without a word, she starts walking down the steps, pulling me with her.

“I haven’t seen them since yesterday,” she explains, her voice soft. “And I need to speak with Tofi about something. She asked me to remember, so I want to know what it is.”

I nod, letting her pull me through the trees.

The forest closes around us, a living shelter of pine and oak and maple.

Fallen leaves scatter as we walk, releasing the earthy scent of autumn decay.

The sounds of the forest envelop us—the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, the distant call of an owl, the whisper of wind through branches.

We stop at a small clearing, where soft light filters down through the trees.

I grin, sensing them nearby. She doesn’t have to call for them this time.

They step out from their hiding places immediately, legs tapping rhythmically as they approach.

Tofi and Noki lead the way, their massive forms moving with eerie grace for creatures their size.

Carla’s face transforms, joy lighting her features as her children surround her.

She kneels, arms outstretched to receive them, cooing and murmuring endearments.

Some reach for her with their front legs, tapping gently against her arms in greeting.

She kisses a few of them, her lips pressing against their bristly exteriors as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Tofi approaches me directly, leaning against my leg like a loyal guard dog seeking attention. I smile down at her, reaching to pat her head gently, my fingers running over the burgundy markings that distinguish her from her siblings.

“See? I took care of Mommy,” I tell her, my voice low and warm. Carla notices us and smiles, approaching Tofi and me.

“You gave Mommy a message?” she asks, her voice cautious, hopeful.

Tofi focuses on Carla, multiple eyes fixed steadily on her.

“I want to ask you to lift the veil, or at least tell me why it’s in place,” Carla says, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her request. “Is it to protect me from my fated mate?”

Tofi leans harder against me, as if urging me to be more for her mother. I chuckle at the not-so-subtle encouragement, but my amusement dies when Tofi suddenly hisses at Carla, stomping her legs forcefully into the forest floor.

“Tofi, that’s not okay,” I chide, still petting her. “You cannot speak to your mother that way.” The words feel strange on my tongue—fatherly, protective, authoritative. A role I never expected to fill.

Carla looks up at me with narrowed eyes, suspicion clear in her expression.

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 crude chimney.

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 now with 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. ”