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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.
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?"
