Scott had two helpers backed up against the wall, using his enormous shell to squeeze the life out of them.
Even David had managed to get into the act, snaring a helper with his tiny, translucent tentacles. Judging from the screams, those tentacles had stingers on them.
Weston searched for Irena, and saw her hanging on to a helper’s back, biting at his neck.
Two more Santa’s helpers rushed in, and Weston lunged at them, surprised by his speed. He kept his arms spread out and caught each one under the chin. His canine muscles flexed, tightened, and their heads came off like Barbie dolls.
And then, there he was.
Kris Kringle was even bigger up close than he was on the TV monitors. So huge he had to duck down to fit through the doorway. When he entered the room and reared up, he must have been eight feet tall. And wide, with a chest like a whiskey barrel, arms like tree trunks. His long white beard was flecked with blood, and his tiny dark eyes twinkled with malevolent glee.
But the worst thing were his hands. They ended in horrible metal claws, each blade the length of a samurai sword. One of his helpers, the one Irena had bitten, staggered over to Kringle, clutching his bleeding neck. Kringle lashed out, severing the man into three large pieces, even with the Kevlar suit on.
It was so horrible, so outrageously demonic, that Weston had to laugh when he saw it. In spite of himself.
Scott waddled over to Kringle and pointed his stubby fingers at him.
“Your reign of evil ends today, Kringle.”
Kringle laughed, a deep, resonating croak that sounded like thunder. Then his huge black boot shot out, kicking Scott in the chest, knocking him across the room and into the back wall. Scott crashed through it like a turtle-shaped meteor.
Andy said, “Holy shit,” then tore ass through the hole in the wall after Scott.
Kringle took a step forward, and Weston had an urge to pee; an urge so strong he actually lifted a leg. There was no way they could defeat Santa Claus. He was a monster. He’d tear through them like tissue paper.
Kringle appraised Weston, eyeing him head to toe, and said, “Robert Weston Smith. Werewolf. You’re on my list.”
Then he looked at Irena, who’d come to Weston’s side, clutching his paw.
“Irena Reed. Werecheetah. You’re on my list, too. Want to sit on Santa’s lap, little girl?”
Irena hissed at him. Kringle’s eyes fell upon David next.
“And what the hell are you? A were-onion?”
David released the dead helper. “I’m David Kessler. Werecoral.”
“David Kessler. Yes. You’re also on my list. Now who is this crazy bitch?”
Phyllis put her hands on her hips and stuck out her jaw. “Phyllis Lawanda Marisha Taleena Allenby. Am I on your stupid-ass list, too?”
“No.”
“No? You sure ’bout that, fat man?”
Kringle smiled.
“I checked it twice.”
Phyllis’s eyes went mean.
“You saying I’m not one of them? I’m one of them. I’m one of them in my heart, you giant sack of—”
“Enough!”
Ryan stood up and walked over to Kringle.
“And who are you, little human?”
“I’m tired of running, Christopher. I’ve been running for too long.”
Kringle’s brow furrowed.
“That voice. I know that voice.”
“I had some work done. Changed my human face. But I’m sure you’ll recognize this one.”
Ryan’s body shook, and then he transformed into a werewolf. A giant werewolf, several feet taller than Weston.
Kringle took a step back, his face awash with fear.
“Bob.”
Weston watched, awestruck, as this millennia-old battle played out before him.
Kringle snarled, raising up his awful Satan Claws.
Bob bared his teeth and howled, a gut-churning cry that reverberated to the core of Weston’s very soul.
But before either of them attacked, before either of them even moved, Kris Kringle’s head rolled off his shoulders and onto the floor by Bob’s feet.
Phyllis Lawanda Marisha Taleena Allenby, scythe in hand, brought the blade down and speared the tip into Kringle’s decapitated head, holding it up so it faced her.
“Am I on your list now, muthafucker?”
Bob peered down at Phyllis, his lupine jaw hanging open.
“You just killed Kris Kringle.”
“Damn easy, too. Why the hell didn’t you do that five thousand years ago?”
Scott, a round green hand pressed to his wrinkled old head, stumbled back into the room.
“What happened?”
“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.”