Frostbitten: The Complete Series (48 page)

“All that is now, and all that is gone, and all that’s to come, and everything under the sun is in tune, but the sun is eclipsed by the moon…”

—ROGER WATERS, DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
FLOWERS DO BLOOM IN WINTER

As a child, I was disappointed when I learned that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I was disappointed when I learned that there was no such creature as The Easter Bunny, and that there was no omniscient fairy who came and took my teeth while I slept.

I was especially disappointed to learn that there was no such thing as magic.

As the idea of “magic” became fantasy, the magic of my childhood began to slip away. I believe they call it
growing up
. As an adult, I’ve come to realize that, as a child, I had misunderstood the concept of magic from the very beginning. Magic was never the act of making objects vanish, or the creation of adorable bunnies from the thinnest air. Magic was never plumes of colourful smoke, incredible spells or insidious incantations.

Magic is just a word
—a word to describe things that we don’t understand.

Before the advent of modern science, people would witness new technology and shout, “It’s magic! She’s a witch!”

The word
magic
was recklessly attached to vanishing bunnies and illusions, because those things fit the description—they were things we didn’t understand. And although we like to think we understand the world, sometimes we really have
no idea
. Gravity—seems simple enough? It is everywhere, after all. The truth is, we don’t understand how gravity works, scientists haven’t been able to crack the Gravity Code. Sure, we have theories, some good and some questionable, but gravity remains a big mystery. We don’t understand how a moon such as our own can actually exist in our orbit, so we make theories.
Another planet crashed into The Earth, hurling a chunk of our world into space
.
No! Planetary dust formed the moon! The Earth’s orbit captured the moon as it flew nearby! Surely, that must the how the moon came to be!

In reality, we have no clue why some things exists—why some things happen. By the very definition of the word, that means we’re surrounded by
magic
, does it not?

That there are no plants that flower in below freezing conditions. I heard that on a television program a few years ago. I didn’t believe the program. I started to search through the online world to debunk the program’s claim.  To my surprise, I could not find the contradiction I was looking for.

A few days later I walked past the local florist. I decided to go inside and ask. She told me that, as far as she knew, there were no flowers that bloomed in the ice of winter.

Once again, I wasn’t satisfied, and the notion was starting to frustrate me. I asked everyone. I called my old high school teachers and left messages on their answering machines. I even left a message on the answering machine of the head of agricultural, at the local university. I searched for hours at the library. I had become obsessed.

You may think that my obsession was insane. You may be thinking, “
Of course there are no flowers that bloom in winter!
” But I was determined to discover an exception to the rule. I was determined to find
anything
.

I never found the answer I wanted, but there was a silver lining; my efforts were not totally wasted. I learned a whole lot about flowers, blooming conditions and the process that they call photosynthesis.

Weeks after giving up, I received a phone call from the university professor. He told me that perhaps a flower
could
bloom in freezing conditions if kept warm either artificially, or by gas released from the Earth’s core—much like a naturally occurring hot spring. But that answer didn’t satisfy me, and I told the professor just that.

“Why do you ask?” the professor asked.

I was obsessed because I’d seen the flower with my own eyes. Not in a dream, not on the television, not in a science lab, not in a movie—I saw it in real life. I saw it just outside of Snowbrooke, during a particularly frigid winter. The flower had a long confident stem and smooth red pedals. I know there was no “Earth Core Heating” because it protruded directly out of the snow—not melted snow, but regular old fluffy snow. There was no mistaking it—it was a living, real-life flower. Even more astonishing and unbelievable, the flower bloomed at night, and closed during the day.

“Maybe somebody put it there, moments before you saw it,” the expert said. “Perhaps it died just shortly thereafter.”

Not the case.

There is an old abandoned cabin just outside of Snowbrooke. I do not know who built it, and I do not know if anyone knows about it except for me—I found it by accident during a summer hike years ago, as a child. There is no road that will bring you there. There are no trails that can lead you there. It is simply there.

I saw that strange winter flower day after day for weeks as I hiked to the cabin, where I would spend my times writing short stories. It was a cold hike—violently cold at times. Perhaps the flower was just a strange figment of my imagination—I was crazed enough to hike an hour in the winter mountains to get there, after all.

I prefer to believe the flower was real. To me, it was the most real thing in the whole town of Snowbrooke.

What does all this mean? Despite what they tell you—despite what the Internet claims, despite what the experts and professors say, and despite what the textbooks and literature says, there are things out there that we don’t know or understand. There are things out there that defy our logic. But there is another implication, which is the most important of all…

A flower
can
bloom in the worst, darkest and coldest conditions.

No matter what anyone tells you, flowers do bloom in the winter.

I told the head of agriculture, “I know it exists, because I saw it.”

He replied with a laugh, “Well… Maybe it was magic then.”

He was right.

It was magic.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
NEVER SETTLE

They have done studies, conducted surveys and created computer generated images of what they claim is the picture of the perfect woman. Scientists mapped the ideal features of what they call “the perfect face”, and the “perfect body”.

But somehow, the very real beauty of the young blonde Megan Gold makes all of the mock-ups and digital models look like lepers and cavemen. Megan was the absolute model of beauty—the epitome of physical perfection. Better yet, she was real.

It was not uncommon for men and women alike to stare in awe of her perfection. Every single strand of hair on her head was worthy of its own shampoo commercial. Every square inch of skin on her face was worthy of a skin care poster.

She radiated as she walked. She never stumbled or tripped. Never once did let so much as cough or sneeze slip through.

Even the most strong-willed, independent, intelligent men couldn’t help but get lost in her magnificence. Tarun Mumbar—possibly the most strong-willed, independent, intelligent man in all of Snowbrooke, was no exception, another victim of Megan’s indescribable exquisiteness. 

Tarun couldn’t help but stare at the girl, even when she was bundled in a thick coat and toque. Eyes glazed over, Tarun stood there like a slack-jawed owl as the blonde beauty walked past the window of his father’s apartment building.

As Megan passed, she turned and looked towards Tarun. She smiled. Tarun froze like a stone statue. His heart skipped a beat before it sped up to a million beats per minute, trying to break free from his chest to chase the beauty. After a couple of seconds, which could very well have been a couple of days, Tarun returned to his senses. He returned a delayed smile—an awkward, goofy delayed smile. Megan giggled as she continued on her way.

Tarun’s unblinked pupils were wide enough, you could fit a truck through them.

“Tarun!” Vish said.

“Huh?” Tarun turned swiftly around to see his father, standing in the empty apartment’s doorway.

“That drywall isn’t going to come off by itself!” Vish exclaimed.

Tarun looked around at the brittle old drywall he’d been assigned to remove. It was mouldy, damp, and beginning to droop off of the feeble wooden frame it had been poorly attached to.

“How sure of that are you?” Tarun said with a smile.

“Were you sleeping?”

“No, dad.”

“Is this too early for you?”

“No—I mean, yes. It’s six in the morning. Everyone else in the world is fast asleep,” Tarun said.

“What were you staring at?” Vish asked, walking up next to his son.

“Nothing.”

“That girl there?”

“No, dad.”

“She’s a very pretty girl,” Vish said.

“I wasn’t staring at the girl, dad.”

“Were you staring at a boy?”

“No! What? I wasn’t staring at anyone.”

“I didn’t raise a liar, Tarun.”

Tarun sighed and looked into his father’s stubborn beady eyes. He couldn’t help but laugh at his dad’s newfound optimism.

“Every time that girl walks past the building, you turn into Mama Mumbar’s Rice Pudding,” Vish said.

“Mama Mumbar’s Rice Pudding?”

“You are like a dog.” Vish’s accent was still as thick as the day he stepped off the plane.

“Sorry. I’ll get right back to the drywall,” Tarun said, turning back to the wall and picking up a crowbar.

“Why don’t you take her on a date?” Vish asked.

“What?”

“The girl. Why don’t you take her on a date?”

“Dad, c’mon.”

“If you don’t, someone else will.”

“It’s fine, dad. I don’t think I’m her type.”

“What?!” Vish shouted. “My son? My son is everyone’s type!”

“She’s just—She’s different. Different than me,” Tarun said.

“Ah! Difference is the key. There is no relationship without difference. There is no white without black—no day without the night.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I get it.”

“Get what?” Tarun asked.

“Too cool to listen to your father. Too hip for daddy.”

“Oh God, dad.
Never
say that again. Please.”

“Your dad can be cool too, you know. Your dad was
very
cool back in his day. You probably don’t know this, but I was a roadie for
Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak.
I had all of their cassette tapes.”

“Believe me—I know.”

“He was the coolest in my days. There was none cooler than
Qayamat
.”

Tarun laughed and turned back to his duties. He prepared to strike the wall with the crowbar.

“Just remember this: Mumbars do not settle for anything! I did not settle until I got your mother. I would not settle.”

Tarun looked over at his dad and smiled. “I know, dad.”

“Just like Jennifer Aniston! Misses Aniston waited until she found the right man! Not like those other Hollywood hotshots! George Clooney, Tarun—a real Silver Fox.”

Tarun laughed. His father walked back into the other room, humming his favourite
Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak
tune.

With each passing night, Brittany had gotten less and less sleep. It was her dream—it was every girl’s dream to wake up every morning next to a charming, strong, handsome man. It was something Brittany fantasized about her whole life. She wanted so badly to enjoy the moment, but her mind had no intentions of letting her relax. Every night was a gamble. Every night, Brittany closed her eyes and prayed that she wouldn’t wake up with a craving—she prayed that Kane wouldn’t clue in to her true identity.

There was a cloud of painful uncertainty in Kane’s apartment. What if Kane did suddenly find out? Would he live up to his title of
vampire hunter
? Or would he be able to look past it? He said “I love you,” but did he mean it?

Every night, Kane had been getting less and less sleep as well. With every new victim and every new headline, his guilt became more and more overwhelming. With each passing day, he became increasingly anxious that the police were going to find him. Kane’s spiralling anxiety was quickly pulling his attention away from Brittany. Just like his new lover, Kane wanted to enjoy their time together—but he couldn’t do it, no matter how hard he tried, and the harder he tried, the harder it became—a vicious, perpetuating cycle.

Brittany woke up early that morning as a cold draft seeped through the thin apartment wall—it didn’t help that, yet again, the Mumbars were up bright and early, renovating the empty apartments below.

The dark-skinned beauty rolled over slowly to see Kane sitting up in the bed, with his knees against his thick, scarred chest.

“What’s wrong?” Brittany said.

Kane looked down at Brittany and forced a smile. “You’re up,” he said.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah—I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Because of the noise?” Brittany asked.

Kane thought for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you ask them to start later tomorrow? So you can get some more sleep.”

“Yeah…” Kane said, his mind drifting back to his propagating anxiety. “Maybe I will.”

It was obvious to Brittany that Kane wasn’t being kept awake because of the renovations. “You should try to go back to sleep—it’s still so early.”

“I might try to get a head start on the day,” Kane said.

Brittany cuddled her body in close to Kane and looked up into his eyes. “Why don’t you stay and lay with me for a while?” she asked, running the tip of her finger down Kane’s stacked chest.

Kane continued to stare blankly into space, as if his brain had filtered out Brittany’s voice. Brittany shuffled herself in even closer, pressing herself up against Kane’s warmth. “Babe?”

“Um,” Kane thought. “Sure—Just for a bit.” So preoccupied in his own mind, he was missing Brittany’s blunt signals. He looked down at his young lover and forced a smile.

“Are you going to lay down?” Brittany asked, running her soft hand along the thick muscles in Kane’s arms.

Kane’s eyes remained glazed.

Brittany wanted her man to relax—she felt that it was her duty to get his mind off of the world, even if it was only for just a few minutes. Gently with her fingers, she began to sink down low, over Kane’s hard chest and his rippling abs.

One little victory—As her sensual fingers cleared Kane’s solid abs, she grabbed on firmly, finally getting a rouse from the muscular hunter. Kane took a sharp breath inwards as Brittany playfully massaged her lover under the warm blanket.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Kane returned to the present. He looked down at the smiling Brittany, and returned the smile. He placed his hand on the side of her soft face, and stroked her cheek with his thumb. She was beautiful—in all of his anxiety and stress, he nearly forgot just how beautiful she was.

Kane sunk his body down slowly to Brittany’s level and he wrapped his hand gently around Brittany’s head, sinking his fingers into her soft hair. His other arm slipped tightly around his girl and he pulled her in close. They kissed.

Playful lip nibbling and the sensual joining of tongues sent both of the lovers far from the issues that weighed so heavily on their shoulders. Their hands moved up and down their bodies as the world around them became quieter and quieter. Somehow, in all of their light-hearted touching, wrestling, grasping and rubbing, Brittany’s panties had found themselves abandoned at the foot of the bed.

Their physical intimacy was practically an automatic series of events—so natural, so subtle, and so gentle. It was as if their bodies slowly joined together into a single entity, seemingly without thought, without effort. The partners had found themselves in the perfect position, ready for the fireworks.

Kane pushed in sharply, eliciting a shrill moan from his gentle black beauty. Brittany’s fingers clenched tight into the hunter’s muscular back. Revelling in the moment, Kane let his face fall down over Brittany’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and turned his head towards the pretty young girl. Lost in a surge of passion, he began to suck on Brittany’s neck.

Just moments ago, Brittany was still fast asleep, dreaming of things long forgotten. The romantic foreplay lasted only a short while before their sexual desire overpowered the moment. Once the act begun, the romance began to fade away—fast.

Kane’s movements were hard and sharp—quickening and strengthening with each thrust. The once adoring moment was suddenly something else. It had become an outlet—an outlet for Kane, an outlet to release all of his stress, his anxiety, his anger and his guilt. Every hard penetration was backed with meaning—with selfish purpose.

Kane’s muscles tightened and his veins protruded out, throbbing harder and harder—faster and faster.
Da-Dum! Da-Dum! Da-Dum!

“Kane…” Brittany muttered as she held on tightly to the boy.

Kane ignored his partner. Their moment had been hijacked—commandeered and repurposed. Kane was not interested in some mutual experience—he wasn’t interested in being a “lover”. This was
therapeutic
, and he had chosen Brittany as the victim of his aggressive therapy.