Free Frostbitten: The Complete Series by Ilia Bera

Brittany’s mouth as her sharp teeth punctured his carotid artery.
    His fingers grasped tightly into the skin on Brittany’s back. His legs began to tremble and shake, and he became faint. Within moments, he was cold—he was dead.
    Brittany lowered him down to the ground, not removing her teeth from Thomas’ neck. As more and more of Thomas’ mortal blood filled Brittany’s body, she became energized—powerful. In that moment, nothing in the world mattered. She’d gotten all of her tension and frustrations out on the horny British college student.
    Brittany stood up to her feet, feeling the warm blood enlivening her body. As she exhaled, reality returned to her. She’d just killed a man—a boy—somebody’s son.
    Brittany wiped Thomas’ dripping blood off of her chin.
    “Thomas?” a voice said from the corner of the room. It was Thomas’ roommate.
    Brittany began to panic. She stared into the dark corner as the lump of blankets rose from the couch.
    “Thomas—Is that you?”
    Brittany carefully reached down and picked up her sweater. She grabbed her jacket, and turned to the door.
    “Who is that? Who’s there?” the roommate called out.
    Brittany started to run.

 
    “If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”
    —GEORGE ORWELL, 1984
     

 
    CHAPTER ELEVEN
MICHAEL FENNER
    Once the sun rose the next day, the snow finally began to let up, but the brisk air was still as frigid as the darkest night.
    There was an eerie looming silence throughout the small town—everyone could feel a strange, indescribable depressing aura in their hearts. Deep inside, people knew that someone else had been killed, but the news hadn’t gotten out yet. Lots of the town’s people took the day off of work, and lots of students took the day off of school.
    But despite the harsh cold and the gloomy atmosphere, one man did not take a break. One man’s motivation overpowered the bleak mood that lingered in that stagnant cold air.
    Michael Fenner, the son of Wade Fenner, stood outside in his family’s backyard, shooting pucks into a red hockey net. He was tall and muscular—close to six and a half feet tall, and weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle.
    Michael was young—only twenty-one years old—but he had a full face of stubble and his hair was starting to thin out in the front. He was one of those guys who had never had his ID checked in his lifetime.
    He lined each puck up carefully. Gently, he pulled each one back, nestling it comfortably in the concave blade of his stick. Then, with all of his raw, two hundred and thirty pounds of unbridled power, he launched the puck towards the net. His technique was far from graceful, and his release was anything but elegant. Still, the puck reached a speed of nearly ninety miles an hour—accurately striking the back corner of the net.
    His shoulder was sore. He reached his arm up and stretched out his tight muscles. Every shoulder rotation was accompanied by a number of loud clicks and cracks.
    The sun was beginning to set over the distant colossal mountain range, and the cold air was quickly becoming unbearable. The moisture trickling out of Michael’s cold red nose had frozen in its place. But still, sweat was dripping down from under his thick toque as he put all of his energy into every single shot.
    Determined, Michael did not stop. He lined up the next puck, and gripped the stick tightly in his hockey gloves. Then, with all of his force, and a powerful battle cry, Michael released the puck into the red net.
    Cling!
    The puck rattled the net as it struck the inside crossbar.
    Michael was not what they called a “talented player”, a “goal-scorer” or a “play maker”. Michael was an enforcer—a fighter. He was the guy they put onto the ice when someone on the other team was playing dirty, or picking on one of the stars.
    Michael’s job was to drop the gloves—get revenge on behalf of his team. Michael had been in more