Weston followed the hand that held the gun, saw Irena staring down at him. She helped him to his feet.
“Thanks.”
She nodded, taking his pistol and showing him the button to release the empty clip.
“Where did you learn how to shoot?” he asked.
“I teach high school.”
Weston slammed the spare clip home and pulled the slide, firing six times at a Santa’s helper swinging, of all things, a Grim Reaper scythe. The neck shot did him in.
“Hold your fire! They’re retreating!”
As quickly as it began, the attack stopped. The gun smoke cleared. Weston winced when he saw the piles of dead Santa’s helpers strewn around the room. At least two dozen of them. A Norman Rockwell painting it was not.
“Everyone okay?” Scott asked.
Everyone said yes except for Ryan, who remained sitting in the same chair, and David, who had a nasty gash on his shoulder that Phyllis was bandaging with duct tape and paper towels.
“Well, we sure kicked some Santa ass.” Andy walked next to one of the fallen helpers and nudged him with his foot. “Try climbing down a chimney now, shithead.”
“It’s not over.”
Everyone turned to look at Ryan.
“Did you see something, Ryan?” Irena asked.
Ryan pointed to the monitor.
They all stared at a wide-angle shot of the parking lot and watched eight reindeer racing down from the sky and using the blacktop like a landing strip. Behind them, a massive sleigh. It skidded to a stop, and a hulking figure, dressed in red, climbed out and stared up at the camera.
“It’s Santa Claus,” Ryan whispered. “He’s come to town.”
Weston watched, horrified, as Santa headed for the church entrance, his remaining helpers scurrying around him.
“My God,” Phyllis gasped. “He’s huge.”
Weston couldn’t really judge perspective, but it seemed like Santa stood at least a foot taller than any of the Salvation Army volunteers.
“Who has ammo left?” Scott yelled.
“I’m out.”
“Me, too.”
“So am I.”
Weston checked his clip. “I’ve got two bullets.”
It got very quiet. Scott rubbed his neck.
“Okay. We’ll have to make do. Everyone grab a weapon. Kris Kringle is a lot more powerful than his helpers. Maybe, if we all strike at once, we’ll have a chance.”
From the sound of Scott’s voice, he didn’t believe his own words.
Andy didn’t buy it either. “David is wounded. Ryan is sitting there like a pud. You think three men and two women can fend off Kringle and his Satan’s Claws? He’s going to cut us into pieces!”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“But I don’t want to get sliced up!” Andy said. “I’m too pretty to die like that!”
“Calm down, son. You’re not helping the situation.”
Andy knelt next to one of the helpers and began undressing him.
“You guys fight. I’m going to put on a red suit and pretend to be dead.”
Weston locked eyes with Irena, saw fear, wondered if she saw the same in him.
“There’s a way.”
It was Ryan again, still staring off into space.
“You actually going to get up off your ass and help?” Phyllis asked.
Ryan slowly reached into his pants pocket, pulling out five tiny vials of liquid.
“I’ve been saving these.”
Andy grabbed one, unscrewed the top. “Is it cyanide? Tell me it’s cyanide, because I’m so drinking it.”
“It’s a metamorphosis potion. It will allow you to change into your therianthrope forms, while still retaining your human intellect.”
Scott took a vial, squinting at it.
“Where did you get these?”
“I’ve had them for a long time.”
“How do you know they work?”
“I know.”
“Guess it can’t hurt to try.” Irena grabbed the remaining vials. She handed one to Weston, and one to David. She also held one out for Phyllis.
“But I’m not a therianthrope,” Phyllis said. “I’m just a furry.”
“You’re one of us,” Irena told her.
Phyllis nodded, and took the vial.
“Are you taking one?” Scott asked Ryan.
Ryan shook his head.
Scott shrugged. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”
He downed the liquid. Everyone watched.
At first, nothing happened. Then Scott twitched. The twitching became faster, and faster, until he looked like a blurry photograph. Scott made a small sound, like a sigh, dropped his gun, and fell to all fours.
He’d changed into a turtle. A giant turtle, with vaguely human features. His face, now green and scaled, looked similar to his human face. And his body retained a roughly humanoid shape; so much so that he was able to push off the ground and stand on two stubby legs.
“I’ll be damned.” Scott reached up and tapped the top of his shell. “And I can still think. Hell, I can even talk.”
Irena had already drunk her vial, and her clothes ripped, exposing the spots underneath. While in final werecheetah form she retained her long blond hair, and—Weston could appreciate this—her breasts. He could suddenly understand the appeal furries saw in anthropomorphic costumes.
“You look great,” Weston told her.
Her whiskers twitched, and she licked her arm and rubbed it over her face.
An oink, from behind, and Andy the wereboar was standing next to the overturned table, chewing on the cardboard donut box.
“What?” he said. “There’s still some frosting inside.”
“This sucks.”
Weston turned to David, who had become a greenish, roundish ball of coral. Weston could make out his face underneath a row of tiny, undulating tentacles.
“I think you’re adorable,” Irena told him. “Like Humpty Dumpty.”
“I don’t have arms or legs! How am I supposed to fight Santa?”
“Try rolling on him,” Andy said, his snout stuck in the garbage can.
“I guess it’s my turn.” Phyllis drank the potion.
Everyone waited.
Nothing happened.
“Well, shit,” Phyllis said. “And I don’t even have my hippo suit here. At least give me the damn gun.”
Weston handed it to her, then looked at his vial.
“You’ll be fine,” Irena said.
She walked a circle around him, then nuzzled against his chest. Weston stroked her chin, and she purred.
“Better hurry.” Scott was eyeing the monitor. “Here comes Santa Claus.”
Weston closed his eyes and lifted the vial to his lips.
It was kind of like being born. Darkness. Warmth. Then turmoil, sensory overload, a thousand things happening at once. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t tickle either. Weston coughed, but it came out harsh. A bark. He looked down at his arms and noted they were covered with long, gray fur. His pants stayed on, but his clawed feet burst through the tops of his shoes.
“Hello, sexy.”
Weston stared at Irena and had an overpowering, irrational urge to bark at her. He managed to keep it in check.
“Remember,” Scott said. “He’s wearing armor. It’s claw-proof. Go for his head and neck, or use blunt force.”
They formed a semicircle around the door, except for the immobile David and the still-seated Ryan. Then they waited. Weston heard a licking sound, traced it to Andy, who had his nose buried between his own legs.
“Andy,” he growled. “Quit it.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t think I’m ever going to stop.”
Then the crazed Santa’s helpers burst into the room, screaming and swinging weapons. Weston recoiled at first, remembered what he was, and then lashed out with a claw. It caught the helper in the side of the head, snapping his neck like a candy cane.
Andy quit grooming—if you could call it that—long enough to gore a helper between his red shirt and pants, right in the belly. What came out looked a lot like a bowlful of jelly.
Phyllis fired twice, then picked up the scythe and started swinging it like a madwoman and swearing like a truck driver with a toothache.