Charlaine Harris - Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

“And you didn’t tell me this because?”

“You know why. I didn’t want to take the chance that you might go missing, too.”

“I’m a war mage. This kind of thing is my job .”

“No. This was clan business. Sebastian should never have gone to the Corps.”

“I wouldn’t have reported anything! Not if you’d explained.”

Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’re a war mage. It would have been your job .” I glared at him and he did that thing where he hid a smile somewhere under the skin of his face. “I knew I couldn’t trust you to leave it to me, so I asked my informants to keep you out of the loop.”

“Including Nissa.”

“Ah, yes. Nissa. The sacrifices I make for—” I pushed him off the bed. His head popped back up, still grinning. “You seem awfully energetic for an invalid. Ready to go?”

“Go where?” I wasn’t looking forward to the screaming messages that were no doubt crowding my answering machine. The Corps had to have discovered by now that the Vegas department head had gone bad, and taken half a dozen other operatives with him. I was going to drown in paperwork for weeks .

“It’s still Christmas for . . .” He checked his watch. “Another forty-seven minutes.”

“So?”

“I got your present downstairs.” He threw some heavy denim and motorcycle leathers on the bed. “But you have to get dressed to see it.”

I pulled on the clothes so fast that I didn’t manage to flash him more than a couple of times. We snuck out the back way, dodged the few staff members who weren’t gathered around the nurses’ station, and there it was. Gleaming under the parking lot lights was a tripped-out Harley-Davidson Night Rod with black chrome and bloodred accents. It was love at first sight.

“Ever see Red Rock Canyon by moonlight?” Cyrus asked, as I ran my hand possessively over its undented sleekness.

“No.”

“You will tonight.” He threw a leg over the seat of a black and silver version parked alongside. “Race you.”

He was out of the lot before I even managed to scramble on board. But the powerful motor gladly leapt into the chase. The air was cold, the stars were out, and the Vegas skyline was lit up like a Christmas tree. It was like flying.

“It’s a full moon!” Cyrus yelled, as we turned on to Blue Diamond Road.

“So? I’m not a wolf!”

“Really?” His mouth wasn’t curved but he was smiling anyway. “Bet I can make you howl.”

He shot away, eating up the open road. I gunned it and followed. I bet he could, too.

Rob Thurman is the author of several books making up the Cal Leandros series: Nightlife , Moonshine , Madhouse , and Deathwish (to be released in the spring of 2009); and of a second series (as yet untitled) to debut in the fall of 2009. Rob lives in Indiana, land of many cows, demanding deer, and wild turkey as savage as any wolf, Were or otherwise. Protecting the author’s house and home is a hundred-pound rescue husky with ice blue eyes, teeth straight out of a Godzilla movie, and the ferocious habit of crawling under the kitchen table and peeing on himself when visitors arrive. Reach the author at www.robthurman.net.

Christmas sucked.

The display windows covered in velvet ribbons and tinsel. The tinkle of ringing bells around every corner. The snow, the presents, the frigging good cheer.

Yeah, it sucked all right. Sure, it was only once a year, but that was one time too many. Carolers, months of Christmas music, candy canes, and all but Cindy Lou Who skipping down the sidewalk.

It was too much. Too damn much.

I was seven when I knew there wasn’t a Santa anymore. I was thirteen when my sister started the whole “Is there really a Santa?” thing and “The kids at school say . . .” The usual stuff. And that she was seven, the same age I’d been, only made it worse.

So I lied. Sure there was a Santa. And when Mom told me to take her to see store Santa, I hadn’t bitched too much. She and Dad both had to work. They worked hard. We weren’t poor, but we sure weren’t rich either. Dad was a good hunter and that put food on the table, but it didn’t pay the electric or the mortgage.

Plus I remembered what it was like, how knowing had taken the magic out of Christmas. I didn’t want to admit it. I was tougher than that. I didn’t want to admit that even six years later I missed waiting to hear hoofbeats on the roof, the jingle of bells, the thump of boots hitting the bottom of our big, old fireplace.

Yeah, I didn’t want to fess up to it, but it was true. Now Christmas was just another day. I wasn’t into Jesus or church, mangers or angels. You got presents and, sure, that was cool, but the excited knot in your stomach, the blankets clenched in your fists, the listening for all you were worth that Christmas Eve night.

Gone.

It was stupid to miss it. I was way too old for that shit. You could ask anybody. If the kids at school found out, they’d laugh me out of class. If the teachers found out, they wouldn’t know what to think. Probably send me to the counselor for soft words, ink blots, and a note for my parents. But they didn’t know, and every teacher would tell you: I wasn’t a dreamer. No way. I was a smart-ass kid. My dad told me so, my teachers, the principal . . . who spent more time lecturing me than my teachers ever did. He told me at thirteen I was too young to get into trouble, too young to be cynical. And definitely too young to have such a foul mouth.

He didn’t get out of the office much.

Smart-assed and foul-mouthed, you’d think there was no way I’d get glum every Christmas, but I did. Every single one. And no matter what had happened that one particular Christmas when I was seven—throughout the Christmas I’d first lost the spirit, I’d never get it back. I’d never get a do-over. No matter how much I wanted to.

Jackass, I said to my reflection in the display glass of the store. Suck it up. Get over it. You’re not seven anymore. You’re not a little kid. There are no do-overs in life.

I pushed the door open to the department store, the only one we had in Connor’s Way, a town so small we had two stores, three restaurants, and one stoplight. It had been home since August now. It was one of those towns where everyone knew everyone and everything you did got around if you weren’t careful. I was thirteen . . . there were plenty of things I did I didn’t want getting around.

Tessa slid her hand into mine and I grimaced. Little sisters, what a pain in the ass. Big eyes the same brown as mine looked up at me and she smiled at me with that big-brother-worshipping smile. I sighed, squeezed her hand, and tugged her along. “Come on. Before the line gets too long.” She was a pain, but she was my pain and family’s what counts. Dad said that over and over again. People are people, but it’s family that counts.

Along with the brown eyes she looked like me. Slightly dark skin, curly black hair. We were related all right. You could see that a mile away. Dead-on our dad.

“What kind of cookies should I make Santa?” Tessa chattered. “Chocolate chip? Peanut butter? Oooh, Snickerdoodles. Everybody loves Snickerdoodles. Right? You like Snickerdoodles, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes and was thankful the line wasn’t that long. Santa was pretty much what I expected: fat enough to strain his big black belt and with a beard so fake and bushy that rats could’ve nested in it. He had glasses perched on the end of his red-veined nose and his lap was full of a sobbing, kicking-and-screaming two-year-old with a load in his training pants that had to weigh more than he did.