"Phyllis killed Kris Kringle," Irena said.
"You go, girl."
Scott gave Phyllis a high five.
"You all fought bravely." Bob stood tall, addressing the group. "Except for the pig. For your courage, you'll now have full control over your therianthrope powers. You can change at will, and will retain control of your inner creatures."
"So how do we turn back?" Irena asked.
"Concentrate."
Scott went first, morphing back into his human form.
Weston and Irena changed while holding hands.
David's face scrunched up, but nothing happened.
"It's not working," he said. "I'm still coral."
"How about me?" Phyllis asked. "I'm the one that killed that jolly old bastard."
"I can turn you into a werewolf, if you so desire."
"These guys offered me that before. But I don't want to be no wolf, or no cheetah, or no turtle, or no dumb-ass coral. No offense, David."
"None taken. I'm concentrating, but nothing's happening."
Phyllis folded her arms. "My inner animal is a hippopotamus. That's what I want to be."
Bob's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, Phyllis. That's the extent of my power. But . . . maybe . . . just maybe . . ."
"Maybe what?"
"I don't know if this will work, because he's dead."
"Just spill the beans, Lon Chaney."
"Try sitting on Santa's lap."
Phyllis raised a drawn-on eyebrow. "You serious?"
"He might still have some magic left. Try it."
Phyllis walked over to the fallen Kringle and sat on one of his massive thighs.
"Now what?"
"Make a Christmas wish, Phyllis. Make your most heartfelt Christmas wish ever."
She closed her eyes, and her lips whispered something Weston couldn't hear.
And then Weston felt something. Kind of like a breeze. A breeze made of Christmas magic. It swirled around the room, touching each of them, and then coming to rest on Phyllis.
But nothing happened. She didn't morph into a hippo. She didn't morph into anything. A minute passed, and she was still the same old Phyllis.
"I'm sorry, Phyllis." Bob helped her up. "I wish there was something else I could do."
A sad silence blanketed the room.
Then bad-boy rapper LL Cool J strutted into the basement, sans shirt. He took Phyllis's hand, gave her a deeply passionate kiss, and cupped her butt.
"Gonna take you back to the crib and make love to you all night, girl. But first we gonna stop by the bank, get your hundred million dollars."
LL picked her up and carried her out.
"See you guys next week," Phyllis called after them.
"Someone push me over to Santa's lap," David said. "This coral wants a house in Hawaii."
"What about all of these corpses?" Scott made a sweeping gesture with his hands. "The police are gonna have a field day."
"I'll take care of it." Bob rubbed his stomach. "I didn't have any of the donuts."
"Little help here." David wiggled in place.
Weston felt a tug on his hand. He stared into Irena's eyes.
"Want to, maybe, grab some coffee?" he asked.
"No."
Weston died a little inside. Irena's nose twitched, showing him a brief glimpse of her inner cheetah.
"Instead of coffee, I want you to come to my place. I've got a leash and a king-size bed."
God bless us, everyone, Weston thought as they walked hand in hand out the door.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
The Salvation Army is a wonderful organization with over 3.5 million volunteers, and I'm pretty sure none of them are cough syrup- swilling psychotics.
The names used in this story are all names of characters from famous werewolf movies. Unless someone tries to sue me, in which case I made all of them up. LL Cool J also did a rocking version of "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf."
While the modern Bible is missing many of its original passages, the Book of Bob isn't one of them. You're probably getting it confused with the lost Book of Fred.
Other than that, everything in this story is 100 percent true.
Chapter Eleven
The Star of David
Patricia Briggs
Patricia Briggs is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Mercy Thompson series as well as assorted other books. She lives in Montana with her husband and a menagerie of animals and kids in a house that resembles a zoo crossed with a library. The horses have to stay outside. And people wonder where the ideas for her stories come from.
"I checked them out myself," Myra snapped. "Have you ever just considered that your boy isn't the angel you thought he was?"
Stella took off her glasses and set them on her desk. "I think that we both need some perspective. Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off." Before I slap your stupid face. People like Devonte don't change that fast, not without good reason.
Myra opened her mouth, but after she got a look at Stella's face, she shut it again. Mutely she stalked to her desk and retrieved her coat and purse. She slammed the door behind her.
As soon as she was gone, Stella opened the folder and looked at the pictures of the crime scene again. They were duplicates, and doubtless Clive, her brother the detective, had broken a few rules when he sent them to her - not that breaking rules had ever bothered him, not when he was five and not as a grown man nearing fifty and old enough to know better.
She touched the photos lightly, then closed the folder again. There was a yellow sticky with a phone number on it and nothing else: Clive didn't have to put a name on it. Her little brother knew she'd see what he had seen.
She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers fast, not giving herself a chance for second thoughts.
The barracks were empty, leaving David's office silent and bleak. The boys were on furlough with their various families for December.
His mercenaries specialized in live retrieval, which tended to be in-and-out stuff, a couple of weeks per job at the most. He didn't want to get involved in the gray area of unsanctioned combat or out-and-out war - where you killed people because someone told you to. In retrieval there were good guys and bad guys still - and if there weren't, he didn't take the job. Their reputation was such that they had no trouble finding jobs.
And unless all hell really broke loose, they always took December off to be with their families. David never let them know how hard that made it for him.
Werewolves need their packs.
If his pack was human, well, they knew about him and they filled that odd wolf-quirk that demanded he have people to protect, brothers in heart and mind. He couldn't stomach a real pack, he hated what he was too much.