by Heather Beck
“Please stop!” Anastasia begged in desperation.
The werewolves paid no attention to her and instead began to fight more vigorously. Even their growls were deeper and filled with urgency, as if each werewolf was saying that he’d be the last one standing. From multiple bite wounds and scratches, blood flowed quickly, staining their fur horrific shades of red. It was clear that this was a battle to the death, and if the rogue werewolf won, Anastasia would be his next conquest – and meal.
Like watching a nightmare unfold right in front of her eyes, the werewolves rose on their hind legs and bit one another viciously. As the fighting intensified, the rogue werewolf struck Frost, causing him to be tossed like an overstuffed plush animal before landing on his back with a sickening thud. Wasting no time, he pounced on Frost, as if ready to deliver one final, fatal blow.
That’s when the oddest thing happened. Seemingly losing all interest in fighting, the rogue werewolf brought his face close to Frost’s and studied him carefully. Obviously taken aback, Frost made no attempt to attack. They stayed that way for several moments until the rogue werewolf let out a low, sorrowful moan and then hurried away.
Quickly, Frost leapt up from the ground. He appeared steady and alert, as if he’d already recovered from last night’s illness – possibly due to a resilient werewolf gene or something of that nature, Anastasia could only guess. However, as strong and determined as he looked, it was clear from the heavy blood flow that he was badly hurt.
Frost motioned for Anastasia to climb upon him. Weak, and also concerned that she’d unintentionally increase his pain, she slowly lifted herself up. Then he took off, running so fast that Anastasia barely had time to wrap her arms around his body. While struggling to stay on top of him, she realized that she had another thing to worry about; Frost was following the rogue werewolf’s tracks.
“What are you doing?” Anastasia yelled, afraid that Frost had gone insane. “He wants to kill us! Turn around now!”
Apparently unwilling to acknowledge Anastasia’s request to get the hell out of there, Frost continued to race forward. She was infuriated by how easy it was for him to put them both in danger just to win a fight. It was so selfish, not to mention foolish. It was also a part of Frost that she’d never seen before. The memory of him vowing to always protect her filled her mind. Had that only been a lie?
All too soon, Frost and Anastasia left the clearing and entered an area of the woods which kept getting darker because of the numerous trees. It felt like night had fallen early, and the haunting caw of an unseen raven made the atmosphere that much more sinister and unnerving. This was by far the creepiest part of Cedar Falls Woods that Anastasia had ever seen.
“I want to leave,” Anastasia said angrily as Frost moved skillfully in between the trees. “I mean it, Frost. You’re acting like a complete ass.” Her rant was nowhere near finished, yet she found herself at a loss for words as her eyes settled upon something very unusual.
There, less than fifty feet away, was a tiny log cabin made for one. Located after several bends in the woods and well-concealed with no visible windows, it was evident that the person who had built it wanted to be left alone. However, Frost was obviously not going to steer clear as he swiftly approached the moss-covered cabin.
Coming to an abrupt halt, Frost motioned for Anastasia to climb down from his back. After reluctantly doing so, the first thing she noticed was a thick, heavy-looking door which had three rusty locks. These locks were pointless, though, as the door was already slightly ajar and creaking gently despite the lack of wind. Even more disturbing than this cabin – which definitely looked like it was haunted – was the large werewolf prints that led inside.
As Frost cast Anastasia a serious glance, she understood that he wanted her to stay there. Well, that was one instruction that she wouldn’t be following. Against her wishes, he’d dragged them both into this second encounter with the rogue werewolf, and now he was telling her to wait outside? Frost needed to learn the hard way that they were in this together, and Anastasia wasn’t afraid to show him what she was made of.
With a powerful lunge, Frost burst into the cabin. Anastasia was right behind him, and as her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, she realized that the interior of the cabin was creepier than the exterior. It was so dreary and musty-smelling that it felt inhospitable at best. As Anastasia stepped beside Frost to get a better look, a startling vision was revealed. In the middle of the cabin, sitting deathly still in an old rocking chair, was a man. His back was to Anastasia and Frost as he stared at an unlit fireplace.
“You shouldn’t have followed me, Russell,” the man spoke in a deep, harsh voice.
The man’s words were few and simple, yet even Anastasia felt the significance of what he’d said. Who was he, and more importantly, why was he calling Frost by that name? As she glanced at a serious-looking Frost, who had returned to his human self, she realized that he knew more about this man than she did.
Standing up, the man revealed himself to be tall and evidently very thin due to the way his red and black plaid jacket and old jeans clung to his body. Like Frost, the darkness enhanced the hue and brightness of his eyes, but that’s where the similarities ended. His hair was as white as snow, and he had a long, deep scar running across his left cheek. Likely in his mid-fifties, the man had a sour expression upon his face and a tense, defensive body language. A mere glimpse in his direction made it clear that he’d suffered a very hard life.
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.
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.”
