Page 7

Carla

One Week Later—Tourist Island

I f I don’t get off desk duty, I’m going to lose my mind.

I trudge down the street, my footsteps against the worn stones as I make my hundredth patrol around the tourist island today.

The weather is caught between summer and fall, that awkward in-between where you’re never quite dressed right. I pull my light Wintermoon Sheriff’s Department jacket tighter around me, the badge smooth and cool under my fingers.

The paperwork from this morning still haunts me.

Complaint after complaint about the most trivial bullshit—a couple argued over who got the better view from their hotel room, some entitled asshole demanding we arrest a witch for “looking at him wrong,” and my personal favorite, a woman insisting her room was haunted because the television changed channels by itself.

She’d pissed off a witch working in the bakery earlier.

Of course the electronics were acting up.

A group of tourists cluster near the fountain in the town square, their phones out, whispering and pointing. Not at the ornate stonework or the magical water display that changes colors every few minutes. At me. They’re staring at me like I’m the main attraction in some twisted zoo exhibit.

I can feel Moria nearby, lurking in the shadows between buildings, her frustration bleeding into mine through our connection. She wants to drop down and give these ignorant humans something real to complain about. Hell, so do I.

The urge to call my children out of hiding claws at me. It would be so easy. One command and dozens of my beautiful, terrifying arachnids would spill from every shadow, every crack, every hidden space. The tourists would scatter like cockroaches, their screams through the streets.

But I know the consequences. King Amir’s been more than patient with me, but he’s made it clear—cause a scene on the tourist island, and I’m banned permanently. No more patrols, no more purpose, just endless desk duty in that suffocating station.

I turn away from the gawking tourists and cross toward the bakery where Leah’s putting on her usual show.

Through the large windows, I can see her levitating chunks of fudge in intricate patterns above a crowd of mesmerized humans.

Her vampire-witch hybrid abilities never cease to amaze people.

The fudge dances through the air like living things, occasionally breaking apart to float individual pieces directly into waiting mouths.

The humans watching her eat it up—literally and figuratively. They applaud and take pictures, completely entranced. It makes my stomach turn. They act like she’s performing just for their entertainment, not realizing she’s sharing a part of herself, her heritage, her power.

I’m about to cross the street when Leah teleports in front of me, her usual cheerful grin stretching across her face. Her fangs flash as she smiles, and her dark brown eyes sparkle with an energy I’ve never quite been able to match.

“How’s your day going, Carla?” she asks, wiping flour dust from her hands onto her apron.

I study her for a moment. Flour clings to her caramel-toned skin, her hair, her cute flowery dress.

She looks like she’s been wrestling with dough all morning, and yet somehow she still manages to look effortlessly beautiful.

Another one of those perfectly put-together supernaturals who make it look so easy.

“I’d rather be at the border,” I answer, stepping around her.

She falls into step beside me, matching my pace. “I know it’s not ideal being on the tourist island all the time. It drives Kade nuts sometimes. She was so happy when you and King Amir arrived and gave her a break here and there.”

I smile at her, recognizing the attempt at small talk. Leah’s always been decent to me, but there’s still that invisible barrier between us. She doesn’t hate my children like so many others do, but she doesn’t exactly welcome them either.

“That’s pretty cool,” I say, but I keep moving.

“Anora’s asked about you a couple of times during my visits,” she announces, stopping abruptly and stepping in front of me. “She asked why you don’t come to the palace anymore.”

The words sting more than I expect. I groan, stopping in my tracks as she plants her hands on her hips in that way that says we’re not moving until we talk about it.

“What’s going on, Carla?” she pushes.

My face falls as I think about Yara and Kofi, the two magnificent arachnids I gifted to Anora and Amir.

They’re my largest children—Yara standing nearly four feet tall with legs spanning wider than a carriage wheel, and Kofi equally massive with his shiny black body like polished stone.

When I announced to my children that I was offering them to serve at the palace, they were overjoyed.

It gave them purpose, honor, a chance to prove their wort

But I know Anora wants to return them to me.

I can feel it in the way she looks at them when I visit, the careful distance she maintains.

She’s trying to be polite, but she doesn’t want them there.

And when I take them back, they’ll return to my home in the forest feeling rejected, ashamed among their siblings.

My children will understand that humans can’t appreciate them, but supernatural rejection cuts deeper. They expect better from our own kind.

“Nothing,” I say, though my voice wavers slightly.

Leah’s expression softens. “Carla, please try and open up to me. I know I haven’t exactly been the greatest when it comes to communicating with you, and I’m sorry. But I don’t want you to be closed off or feel unwelcome here. You are a daughter of Wintermoon. This is your home.”

Daughter of Wintermoon. The title feels hollow. Sure, I have citizenship, a job, a place to sleep. But daughters belong. They’re welcomed, celebrated, embraced. I’m tolerated. There’s a difference.

“I’m going to step into Midnight Moon to see how Ackley’s doing,” I say, waving her off.

I expect her to teleport in front of me again, to press the issue. Instead, she huffs and lets me go. Part of me is grateful; another part wishes she’d pushed harder, proved that someone actually cares enough to make me talk.

The humans scatter as I cross the street, some literally jumping out of my path. Their exaggerated fear would be comical if it wasn’t so predictable. I can hear their whispered comments—“That’s the spider witch,” “Don’t get too close,” “Why do they let her patrol here?”

Each word is a tiny cut, but I’ve learned to let them roll off me. Mostly.

I walk down the short hill to Midnight Moon, the nightclub that serves as a bizarre intersection between supernatural and human worlds.

During the day it’s nearly empty, but come evening, it transforms into a twisted playground where humans offer themselves as feeding fodder for vampires, thinking it’s some exotic thrill.

The building looks smaller in daylight—just a two-story structure with blacked-out windows and a neon sign that isn’t lit. But come nightfall, it’ll be packed with curious humans and hungry supernaturals.

As I approach the entrance, a group of human women notice me and start snickering. They hold up their phones, trying to be subtle about capturing pictures or video. My fists clench at my sides. The urge to hiss at them burns in my throat, but I swallow it down.

I can’t afford another incident report.

I pull open the heavy door and step inside, letting it shut behind me with a solid thunk.

The interior is dimly lit, with strategically placed lighting that creates pockets of shadow and pools of amber light.

The main area consists of a central dance floor, a DJ booth that’s currently silent, several seating booths with black leather upholstery, and a large bar that dominates one wall.

Two women work behind the bar, both exceptionally beautiful in that calculated way that screams “I’m here to catch a vampire.” Fresh bite marks dot their necks like twisted jewelry, and they whisper to each other while shooting nervous glances my way.

These are new ones—I give them maybe another week before they realize the harsh reality of being a vampire’s toy.

The turnover rate at Midnight Moon is stupidly high for exactly this reason.

These women come seeking danger and passion, but they leave broken-hearted and drained—literally and figuratively.

The double doors to the kitchen swing open, and Ackley strides through, hefting a case of beer that probably weighs more than most people can lift comfortably. He sets it on the counter with a grunt, then notices me sitting at the bar.

His face lights up in a way that makes me flutter unexpectedly. He’s one of the few people whose expression brightens when I walk into a room—aside from King Amir, who seems genuinely pleased by my presence.

“Hey, Spider girl,” he teases, approaching with that easy smile I’ve come to appreciate.

He’s what most would call average-looking, but there’s something appealing about his nerdy aesthetic.

Tall and fit but not intimidatingly so, with long twists pinned up loosely at the back of his head.

His thick-rimmed glasses sit slightly crooked on his face, and his beard is trimmed but still has that slightly messy, academic look.

His light brown eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and his skin tone is a few shades lighter than mine—a rich, warm brown.

He leans against the counter, pulling the hair tie from his wrist to secure his twists more thoroughly. “How are things, good friend?”

Something in his tone is different today. There’s a teasing quality I haven’t heard before, a hint of something that makes my pulse quicken.

“Still keeping me in the friend zone, huh, spider girl?” he says, then has the audacity to wink at me.