Frostbitten (23 page)

After retrieving an
outfit identical to the one he was wearing, along with a pair of black leather
boots, the man handed them to Frost. “You’ll have to shake off the dust,” he
advised, “but it’s a hell of a lot better than your birthday suit.”

“Who are you?”
Anastasia asked as Frost silently snatched the clothing and put it on.

The man remained as
quiet as Frost, while picking up two old steel buckets that sat next to the
fireplace. He then stepped outside and returned a moment later, after having
filled them both with snow. He proceeded to start a fire with sticks from a
nearby woodpile, before placing one of the buckets over the growing flames.

“You can dress those wounds,
but then you must leave,” he said, although his own cuts had gone untreated.

Without warning, Frost
slammed the man against the wall, causing the bucket and its stand to sway
dangerously. For the second time that day, the man looked like he wanted to
retaliate, but he didn’t. Somehow, Frost had a power over him which had nothing
to do with strength.

“Is that what I’m worth
to you – some old clothing and hot rags?” Frost demanded quickly and harshly.
He then forced a laugh, even though he was still obviously seething. “I guess I
should consider myself lucky. At least you’re not sending me into the woods to
die –
again
.”

Instantaneously,
Anastasia’s mouth dropped wide open. Frost’s desperate and seemingly irrational
desire to chase after the rogue werewolf suddenly made sense. This man was the
one he’d hated his whole life; this was his father.

“Why so quiet?” Frost
taunted the man, who was refusing to make eye contact with him. “It’s been
seventeen years. I would’ve thought you’d have something to say.”

“Please, Frost,”
Anastasia started to reason with him, “this isn’t why we’re here.” She could
sense that Frost’s anger toward his father was more intense than he’d expected.
Yet, she also knew that this wasn’t the encounter he had planned for them. If
Frost couldn’t control his emotions right now, he might find himself completing
the very job that the werewolf hunters had set out to do.

“I didn’t want you to
spend your life hating me,” Frost’s father finally said, almost looking sad at
the thought.

“Don’t flatter
yourself,” Frost replied with a sneer. “I’ve managed just fine without you.”

“I’m glad, Russell, I
truly am.”

With growing anger,
Frost slammed his father harder against the wall. “Stop calling me that!” he
cried, his once beautiful eyes now full of hatred.

Anastasia couldn’t
stand to see Frost this way, and she knew that she had to intervene
immediately. Stepping forward, she tried to pry them apart with the little
strength that she had left. Unsuccessful, she cast Frost a desperate look.

Grunting, Frost
released his grasp on his father, but it was clear that he wasn’t finished with
him yet. “You owe me,” he said in a stone-cold tone. “My girlfriend’s sick, and
we need a place to stay. We
are
going to remain here until she
recovers.”

Frost’s father studied
Anastasia, likely noting the perspiration that she felt all over her face. “She
can rest there,” he instructed, while pointing at a small, very low-lying bed.
“And for goodness sake, get her out of that coat. She’ll sweat to death at this
rate.”

“Where are you going?”
Frost demanded as his father stepped into a pair of rubber boots which were
placed beside the cabins only exit.

“To gather birch bark,”
he replied. “It’s an old remedy for ailments, including fevers.”

“I won’t allow her to
take it,” Frost stated.

“So, she suffers
because of you?” he asked rhetorically, while bearing a disgusted expression.
“You really are my son.” With that said, he left the cabin, shutting the door
harshly behind him.

A heavy silence filled
the air, which Anastasia finally broke by asking Frost gently, “How did you
know it was him?”

“His eyes, his scent,”
Frost responded slowly, as if reliving the moment, “but mostly the shocked
expression upon his face when he realized who
I
was.”

“Are you okay?”
Anastasia inquired sympathetically.

“I should be the one
asking you that,” Frost replied, beginning to work quickly to prepare the bed.
“Damn,” he muttered a second later. “It looks like no one’s slept here for
years. I wonder if this is even his place. I wouldn’t put it past the bastard.
He probably killed the real owner.”

“Why are you so angry?”
Anastasia demanded, trying to stop him from making the bed so he’d take a
moment to actually open up to her. “This is what we wanted.”

“This isn’t what I
wanted!” Frost cried in frustration. “We were supposed to get the hell out of
Cedar Falls and live a normal life together.” He let out a short laugh, almost
as if he was mocking himself. “It sounded romantic at the time, but now I see
the foolishness of it all.”

Anastasia hugged Frost,
refusing to let him go even as he tried to retreat in shame. “We were
desperate,” she said softly, “and nothing’s over yet.”

“You almost died,
Anastasia –
twice
,” Frost said solemnly as he guided her toward the bed.
“I swear I won’t allow that to happen again. Now please get some sleep.”

Thankful to have the
opportunity to rest, Anastasia readily crawled into the bed which felt like it
was made from bird feathers and downy. She was starting to feel dizzy again,
and it helped to close her eyes and breathe deeply. Although their journey was
far from over, she needed to take this time for herself – everything else would
have to wait until tomorrow or whenever she had recovered.

Slowly the minutes
ticked by, and despite being physically and emotionally exhausted, Anastasia
couldn’t sleep. Finally giving up trying, she opened her eyes and turned on her
side to watch Frost. He looked both angry and sad, while sitting in front of
the fire and carefully dressing his wounds.

“Let me help you,”
Anastasia offered as she sat up in bed.

With a surprised
expression, Frost faced her. “You’re meant to be asleep,” he scolded gently.

“I can’t – at least not
without you.”

Casting Anastasia a
slight smile, Frost wrung out the last rag and tied it around his upper arm
before joining her on the bed. He didn’t say a word as he wrapped his right,
uninjured arm around her and pulled her in close. With a long, overwhelmed
sigh, Frost held onto Anastasia tightly, as if she was his sole lifeline.

Their moment of silence
was interrupted as Frost’s father entered the cabin, bringing with him several
long strips of birch bark in one hand and a dead rabbit in the other. Before
tossing the items onto a small table, he practically glared at Anastasia and
Frost, apparently greatly offended by their affection.

“Fetch me a bucket of
water,” he instructed Frost, while retrieving a pocketknife that sat upon the
mantle. “The Great Rapids is less than five hundred meters away. I trust you’ll
be able to find it.” With that said, he turned his back on Frost and began
cutting the birch bark into thin strips.

After rising slowly
from the bed, Frost picked up one of the buckets which was still filled with
fresh snow. He then approached his father from behind and placed the bucket on
the table with a heavy thud. “There’s no need for me to leave this cabin,”
Frost said in a cold, steady tone, “and don’t think for a second that I’d allow
you to be alone with her.”

Clutching the open
pocketknife, Frost’s father turned to face him. At first, he appeared threatening,
as if he wanted to teach Frost a lesson for being disrespectful. However, his
expression soon softened as he responded calmly, “You better get that on the
fire then.”

Once Frost had added
more sticks to the fire and placed the bucket over the increasing flames, they
all sat silently, watching as the snow gradually began to melt. When it reached
a boiling point, Frost’s father carefully filled an old beer stein with the
water, using a large wooden spoon to do so. He proceeded to add the thin strips
of bark and allowed it to steep briefly before handing the stein to Anastasia.

With a smile, Anastasia
took the birch bark tea. “Thank you...” she said, prying for his name.

“Symon.”

“I’m Anastasia,” she
responded, before sipping the tea which was much more tolerable than she
would’ve thought and actually kind of sweet. As she drank the rest of the
liquid, a warm sensation spread throughout her body. She hoped that was a good
sign.

“That’s a beautiful
name,” Symon commented, his eyes lingering on her for a few moments too long.

The awkwardness reached
a peak as Symon’s stare covered every inch of her body that wasn’t concealed by
a sheet. Although Anastasia was used to this type of attention from men, it
felt a little disconcerting coming from her boyfriend’s father, especially
while she sat in bed. Yet, his gaze on her wasn’t completely lustful; he almost
looked nostalgic and sad.

“Well, my name’s Frost
– not Russell,” Frost said in an annoyed tone, joining the conversation a
little late. Defensively, he stepped in between Symon and Anastasia, as if
marking his territory.

“I prefer Russell,”
Symon remarked, looking down on Frost who was an inch or two shorter than him.

“I didn’t know I had a
choice,” Frost snapped.

“That’s not necessarily
a bad thing,” Symon pointed out with a furrowed brow. “It only takes one wrong
decision to ruin your life.”

“Cut the bullshit,
Symon, and tell me something that I actually want to hear – where is she?”

Avoiding Frost’s glare,
Symon replied, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Where–is–my–mother?”
Frost demanded, prolonging each word as if Symon was stupid.

Even though Frost
appeared to be mocking his father, Anastasia could see how vulnerable he was at
this moment. Notably, Frost had folded his arms over his chest like he was
desperately trying to protect his heart. She knew that he’d wanted to ask that
question for a very long time.

“She’s not here,” Symon
answered gruffly.

“Where can I find her?”
Frost continued to demand. When Symon failed to answer, he raised his voice. “I
have a right to know – tell me.”

Suddenly, Symon turned
his back on Anastasia and Frost and then slammed one fist against the wall,
causing them both to jump in surprise. He remained in that position, shifting
only to place his head against the wall as if he’d somehow been defeated. After
pausing for a long time, likely to calm himself down, Symon faced them once
again.

“She’s dead,” he said
in an eerily cold tone.

Symon’s shocking words
left Anastasia immobilized. She wanted to comfort Frost, but her overwhelming
sympathy for him made it impossible to even look at his face; she knew that
he’d be completely heartbroken.

“What...what did you
say?” Frost stuttered.

“She died a long time
ago. The details don’t matter now.”

“Yeah, I think they
do,” Frost interjected harshly. “What happened to her?”

“Hunters,” Symon
answered, spitting out the word as if it was poison. Sighing deeply, he
continued. “It was a night like so many others. The full moon was high in the
cloudless sky as we ran throughout the woods, wild and free. That’s when we
heard them – hunters, coming at us from every direction. We tried to escape,
but they were too fast on their snowmobiles. Looking back, I realize just how
outnumbered we were. Although I beat the odds, your mother, Erin, didn’t. I
wish I’d been the one who was shot by the silver bullet that night, because she
was the last werewolf who deserved to die like that.”

Anastasia stifled a
gasp as she drew a horrific connection between Symon’s story and the newspaper
article she’d recently read. It had been about a rogue wolf who was killed in
Cedar Falls Woods exactly seventeen years ago; only, she wasn’t just any wolf –
she was Frost’s mother. Anastasia tried to suppress the disturbing thought, but
the newspaper’s supplementary photograph of Frost’s dead werewolf mother kept
circulating in her mind.

“What kind of man
leaves his wife and son to die?” Frost seethed, coming face-to-face with his
father.

“You and Erin were my
everything!” Symon cried, losing all of the control he’d seemingly tried so
hard to keep. “There was nothing I could do to bring Erin back, so I became
consumed with avenging her death. I stalked the hunters who took her from me
and then I killed them – brutally. Their deaths caused another werewolf hunt,
though, and I knew that more loss was inevitable. You were in grave danger,
Frost, and I thought if I didn’t nurture your inner wolf, you’d have a normal
life. When I left you in the woods, I knew someone was coming. I was trying to
save you, not kill you.”

“You abandoned me,”
Frost replied quickly, as if unwilling to really listen to what his father was
saying. “Nothing will
ever
change that fact.”

“I’m sorry, son,” Symon
said quietly, while lowering his head in shame.