Charlaine Harris: Wolfsbane and Mistletoe

Mom and Dad sat waiting on the couch for me. It was almost eleven—close to Christmas. Close enough. Tess would’ve long gone to bed. “That’s where you’ve been.” Mom shook her head affectionately. Boys will be boys.

“Anyone see you?” Dad demanded bluntly. “Any trouble?”

“Come on, Dad, you taught me better than that.” I dumped Jed at the bottom of the fireplace before going to my room. I opened my closet door and rummaged through softball mitts, balls, games I’d outgrown but never thrown away until I found it buried in a corner: the polished skull. It had been pretty stinky for quite a while, but it wasn’t the kind of stink my kind minded. I pulled the dusty red cap with the pom-pom off of it and shook it out, trying not to sneeze. These were the only things left. The reindeer venison was long gone. Around the base of the skull were handfuls of white hair, once curly and soft, now wiry and sparse. It didn’t matter. It’d work. I also picked up a tattered white trimmed red jacket. At the last I grabbed the glue from my desk and went back to the living room.

“You’re a good brother.” Mom smiled, pleased.

“Yeah, yeah.” I ducked my head in embarrassment as I jammed the Santa hat on Jed’s head, draped the red jacket over the top of him, and glued the hair to his chin and jaws. He wasn’t too helpful there, whipping his head back and forth. But I got the job done. I even pinned Mary Francesca’s Santa pin to the jacket. It was the perfect touch.

Hungry, hungry, hungry, but he wasn’t for me.

I picked up three cookies, ripped the tape off his mouth, and jammed them in there before he could get a word or a scream out. He turned slightly blue as he choked and coughed. I thought it’d keep his mouth shut long enough.

“Tess,” I yelled. “Come on. Hurry up. He’s here!”

After a second there was the sound of feet in footie pajamas hitting the floor and she came flying out, eyes as wide as they possibly could be when she spotted Jed. “Santa! Santa! I asked you to come and you’re here! You’re here !”

Six years ago I saw Santa. Seven years ago I’d made my first kill. It soured me on Christmas when I realized there wouldn’t be any more Santas. No more surprises from the chimney. I’d finished that job. Kids, you don’t realize how permanent things are. I was sorry afterward. Sorry I hadn’t waited for my little sister to be old enough to join in on the fun. Sorry she could never have the thrill I’d had.

I watched as my little sister grinned big as her pajamas tore away and her skin twitched until fur rippled over her twisting, changing body from muzzle to tail. Her pumpkin orange eyes bright with Christmas spirit as her teeth were suddenly bright with something else as she tore into her present.

Mary Francesca’s pin went flying. Wolves were Orthodox. We did only date our own kind. It was too bad. She was cute.

On the couch a buff-colored wolf tucked her head under the jaw of a larger black one. Their eyes were brilliant with pride and affection and the spirit of the holiday. Their baby’s first kill. It was always special. I rested my muzzle on my paws and watched as Christmas came back to me.

Mom said Christmas wasn’t in presents and trees, glitter and bows. She said it was in your heart and so was Santa if you want him to be. If I really wanted him, I could find him again.

Mom was right. Christmas was in your heart. And Santa was everywhere. If you only knew where to look.

Toni L. P. Kelner is the author of nine mystery novels and numerous short stories, including the Agatha Award-winning “Sleeping with the Plush.” Though she’s written about carnivals, fan conventions, high school pranksters, circuses, family reunions, vampires, and lingerie shops, this is her first werewolf story. Her personal pack includes her husband, fellow author Stephen P. Kelner; two daughters; and two guinea pigs. Unfortunately, none of them recognizes her status as top dog.

Maybe half the members of the pack were in wolf form, with the others still human, and Jake wasn’t sure which he would rather look at—the bared teeth or the stern frowns. So instead he aimed his answers at the Christmas tree with its twinkling lights. There was something unreal about having his whole life decided in front of a Christmas tree, but that’s what happened when you broke virtually all of a werewolf pack’s rules on Christmas Eve.

“Look, I didn’t mean to go solo without permission,” Jake said.

“Was I unclear in denying you permission?” Though Brian was one of those who’d stayed human, the growl in the pack leader’s voice could just as easily have come from a lupine throat.

“No, but—”

“Had you proven yourself ready by successfully taking a form deemed appropriate for your surroundings?”

“No, but—”

“Then what exactly did you mean to do?”

He swallowed. “Okay, I guess I did mean to. Look, can I tell it from the beginning?”

There was a murmur, and he risked a glance at the pack. Nobody looked particularly friendly or willing to listen, but Brian said, “Proceed. But Jake, don’t lie again.”

The message was clear. If he didn’t tell the truth, he could kiss his place in the pack goodbye. He swallowed hard. He hadn’t been in the pack long enough to know what it meant to be ejected, or even if he’d survive the experience.

The thing was, Jake wasn’t sure that telling the truth would help. Even when Felicia, Brian’s wife, had caught him sneaking into the house, he hadn’t realized just how much trouble he was in until Brian started calling in the other pack members to judge him, right then and there, even though it was getting close to midnight. What with the holidays, not everybody could get to Brian’s house, but enough were there to make whatever they decided official. And final.

“Okay,” Jake said, “this is what happened.”

“Are you excited about tonight?” Ruby asked.

“Duh! Who wouldn’t be?”

“Me, too,” the little girl said. “I just love Christmas.”

“Oh yeah, Christmas.” Jake rolled his eyes. It wasn’t sugarplums running through his head, not with the full moon only hours away.

“What did you ask Santa for, Jake?”

“Huh?” He looked away from his game of WarCraft for a second, which was enough to blow his chance for a high score. “Shit!”

“Language!” said a voice from the kitchen.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“I’m sure Santa won’t mind you saying one bad word,” Ruby said, trying to make him feel better.

“Yeah, maybe not,” Jake said, wondering if she was jerking his chain. Did the kid really still believe in the guy in the red suit? She was nearly nine, for freak’s sake. Of course, Ruby had been raised in a real house with a real family—so real it was scary—while he’d been shuffled from foster home to foster home. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that he didn’t need to bother sending change-of-address cards to the North Pole.

“So what did you ask him for?” Ruby persisted.

He hadn’t asked for anything. It hadn’t occurred to him. “Um . . . It’s kind of a secret.”

“Like when you don’t tell anybody your birthday wish?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Mom said it’s okay to tell Christmas wishes, because sometimes Santa Claus can’t get me everything on my list, so Mom and Dad have to help. Didn’t your mother tell you that?”

“Ruby!” the voice from the kitchen chided.

Ruby put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Jake. I forgot!”

“It’s okay,” he said, and it was. “I don’t really remember her anyway.” The only memory he thought he had was a vague one of her scent. “I’m used to it.”