Cursed Wolf
Witty Wolf Chapter 8

Dalia had always believed there was something beyond the ordinary world. It was what allowed her see the beauty that she captured in her artwork. The world was alive with magic and mystery. Without that magical quality, there would be nothing to paint.

Every card in the tarot reading made perfect sense. The second she’d seen the three swords piercing through the bleeding heart, she knew what that meant. The Tower card scared her. It said something had to be broken down so that she could get to her happily ever after.

She’d had her tarot cards read right before moving to Alaska. It had confirmed that moving was the right decision. Dalia was the happiest she’d ever been in those first few years in her aunt’s house.

She’d painted every day, even while snowed in during winter. Took photographs outdoors and brought them back to her studio.

She’d painted of forests covered in snow with icicles hanging from the trees. It took on a magical quality that she hadn’t been able to capture in LA. It had changed everything for her.

When she got home, she went straight to her studio and began looking through all her photographs on her computer. There were so many wonderful things to paint. She found a series of photographs from last winter, around the time she ended it with Hank.

The light and shadow in photographs had an eerie radiance. She could feel the emotions in the trees, snow, sky, and cliffs on the ocean.

She picked out a photo of a moody ocean with the gray cloud-filled sky hanging ominously over the freezing water. It was a perfect representation of that moment in her life.

She printed it out and pinned it next to her studio easel beside the massive canvas she’d stretched a month ago. She wanted to pour her emotions into this piece. Let it be the Tower card inside her. She wanted her past to break down and be torn apart.

She squeezed paint onto her glass palette—grays, blues, and greens with just the slightest hint of red and yellow.

She drew out the rough lines of the landscape in graphite and stood back to stare at the canvas. She stepped forward and placed her palms on the fabric and closed her eyes. Her palms felt the tight stretch of the canvas when she pressed slightly, trying to feel what the painting wanted to tell her.

She stepped back and placed a round brush into the water and then dabbed it into a mixture of blue and gray. She ran a wash across the sky and through the sea.

She painted intensely, vigorously, with complete focus until the areas of sky and sea and land were beginning to take on distinct dimension. She swished her brushes in the water and stood back, assessing what she had done.

Her palette was almost empty and so were her energy reserves. It was a massive canvas, but the painting was well underway. Marsha would be so happy.

She washed her hands and walked out into the hallway. There was a sudden knock at her door, and she thought maybe she had received the package of art.

She grabbed the door handle and swung it open, expecting to see a lovely package of paints and brushes. Instead, she saw him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Hank brushed past her into the house. “I left some of my things here. I want to get them.”

“Get the hell out of here, or I’m calling the cops.”

“I have a right to get my things.”

“I’m asking you to leave.”

He looked into the studio, his eyes landing on the painting. She shuddered. He walked into her cozy living room and started searching her houseplants and bookshelves.

He knocked over a pewter statue of an eagle, and it fell on the floor. She rushed forward, hoping it wasn’t chipped. She picked it up and found the wing had broken off. She clenched the broken pieces in both fists.

“Get the hell out of here,” she said, stomping her feet.

“I need my lighter. That thing cost me a hundred bucks.”

“If it belonged to you, I threw it out.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He stepped toward her.

She pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and began to dial 911.

“Get the hell out of here now.”

“You owe me for that lighter.”

“Get the hell out.”

He grumbled and made his way to the front door. She quickly closed and locked it behind him.

Dalia let out a deep breath and turned off her phone. She didn’t want to involve the police in this. He’d left. That was all that mattered now. Now that the restraining order was up, she had to deal with him being within one hundred yards of her house. She sank into her couch and Garfield hopped up beside her.

“What am I going to do, Garfield?” she asked, snuggling her cat to her ch3st.

He purred loudly and nuzzled against her. She patted him affectionately and sank her cheek into his thick orange fur. “I don’t want to be by myself right now.”

She thought about Tate. Maybe he could come over. Hank wouldn’t pull something like that with another man around.