Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Meet Dahlia
Dahlia was lucky to be having dinner with her father. If it’d not been for his brittle knees and inability to stand for more than a few minutes, he’d have gone off to war with the rest of the able-bodied doctors in Elmwood.
With all the violence, there seemed to be no help for humanity. At sixteen, Dahlia knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life. “I want to work with animals instead of people,” she announced. They were nicer and complained much less anyway.
“Dressmaking will suit you, dear.” Her mother dug her fork into this evening’s overcooked meat pie. “We mustn’t let all those embroidery lessons go to waste.” She glanced at Papa, and with a mouth full of food, she said, “You’re rubbing off on her, Kitt.”
“She can do whatever she sets her mind to. We might not be here tomorrow.” Papa always had a knack for balancing optimism with pessimism.
Her mother shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”
Dahlia pushed peas around her plate, lapsing into silence.
Things around Elmwood had changed since the war began.
Everyone was stressed, including her parents.
Papa had little work and money was tight.
Industrial workers would rather douse their wounds with liquor than seek proper care, and the young perished too quickly for most treatments to take effect.
Dahlia’s father—a good doctor—had been left with little choice but to extend his services to animals.
He’d say the women in town cared better for their pets than themselves.
So Dahlia would spend most weekends helping him at the office, with everything from sign-in to surgery.
“Dear, when your precious hands get bitten, how will you stitch? It’s only a matter of time.” And her mother’s special talent was balancing compliments with insults. Dahlia had more to offer this world than needlepoint and embroidery.
She stabbed a pea with her fork and held it up for inspection. As she admired its little green shape, the front door burst open.
Her mother crossed her hands over her throat and coughed.
Papa wheeled his chair back.
Dahlia watched the monstrous black wolf charge through her living and dining room, before lunging for her father. Globs of saliva dripped from its sharp teeth. At least, what was left of them. One was missing its point.
The wolf came to an abrupt halt, a hair away from her father’s face, growling so loud the house shook.
“I can do half the price. Half,” Papa pleaded.
Did he know this werewolf? The massive beast had barreled in so quickly, she’d only just registered the extent of the damage. Their sofa had been upended, the rug had been pulled up, and the dinner table had been crushed.
There was no reply to her father’s strange words, only an eruption.
Papa’s head was ripped from his neck. Then blood filled the dining room. So, so much blood. Her mother, still choking on pie, turned blue. Both her parents toppled to the floor.
Dahlia silently screamed, her voice stolen by shock.
The floorboards by the front door creaked. A scrawny man with greasy auburn-colored hair had crept inside. “Perhaps you should’ve left the doctor alive, sir.”
In a heartbeat, the black wolf shifted to his human form. “I did, Sylas. Get the girl.” He rummaged through drawers and cabinets, dumping the contents on the floor. Nothing was spared.
Before Dahlia could process what was happening, she was swept up. The fork gripped in her hand, a single pea still skewered on the end, was all she had left to remember the last supper her parents were alive.