Shapeshifters Anonymous (5 page)

Weston wondered if it was too soon to propose marriage. He squelched the thought and turned to David.

“So, assuming I want to go back to normal, how do I do it?”

“Just go back to the gypsy that cursed you and pay her to take the curse off.”

Oops.

“That might be a problem, seeing as how I ate her.”

Andy slapped him on the shoulder. “Tough break, man. But you’ll get used to it. Until then, it’s probably a good idea to get yourself a nice, sturdy leash.”

“It’s time to begin the meeting. Let’s get started.” Irena leaned into Weston and softly said, “We can talk more later.”

Weston sincerely hoped so.

“Let’s begin by joining hands and saying the Shapeshifters Anonymous Credo.”

Everyone around the table joined hands, including the silent Ryan. Weston noted that Irena’s hand was soft and warm, and she played her index finger along the top of his as she talked. So did Phyllis.

Irena began.

“I, state your name, agree to abide by the rules of ethics as set forth by Shapeshifter’s Anonymous.”

Everyone, including Weston, repeated it.

“I promise to do my best to use my abilities for the good of man and therianthrope kind.”

They repeated it.

“I promise to do my best to help any therianthrope who comes to me in need.”

They repeated it. Weston thought it a lot like being in church. Which, technically, they were.

“I promise to do my best to not to devour any nice people.”

Weston repeated this verse with extra emphasis.

“I promise to avoid Kris Kringle, the dreaded Santa Claus, and his many evil helpers.”

“Hold on,” Weston interrupted. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Santa Claus is a therianthrope hunter,” David said. “He kills shapeshifters.”

“You’re kidding. Right?”

An uncomfortable silence ensured. Everyone stopped holding hands. Scott cleared his throat, then pushed away from the table and stood up.

“No one is sure how our kind got started. Some say black magic. Some say interspecies breeding, though I don’t buy into that malarkey. Some say therianthropes date back the very beginning, the Garden of Eden, where man and werebeast lived in harmony. But the Bible doesn’t tell the whole story. Certain religious leaders over the years have edited it as they see fit. Entire books were taken out. Like the Book of Bob.”

Weston looked around to see if anyone was smiling. All faces were serious.

“The Book of Bob?”

“The Book of Bob is a lost chapter of the Old Testament, dating back to the Hellenistic period. It tells the story of God’s prophet, Bob, son of Jakeh, who is the first werewolf mentioned in the Bible.”

“The first? There aren’t any.”

“They were edited out. Pay attention, son. You’ll learn something. See, Bob was a werewolf, blessed by the Lord with the gift of lycanthropy to do His work by eating evildoers. But after eating his one thousandth sinner, Bob became prideful of his accomplishments, and that angered God.”

“Why would that anger God?”

“This was the Old Testament. God got pissed off a lot. Didn’t you ever read Job?”

“I’m just saying…”

Irena shushed him. Scott continued.

“So to put Bob in his place, God granted one of Bob’s enemies---Christopher, son of Cringle---a red suit of impenetrable armor, and ordered him to smite all therianthropes. God also blessed domesticated beasts with the power to fly through the sky, to pull Christopher’s warship of destruction throughout the world.”

Weston again looked around the room. Andy was examining his fingernails. Ryan was staring off into space. But David looked like a child listening to his favorite bedtime story.

“Bob and Christopher fought, and Bob proved victorious. Upon triumphing, he begged God to forgive his pridefulness, and God agreed. But Christopher, God’s chosen avenger, felt betrayed. So he turned to the other side, begging for assistance.”

“The devil?”

“Lucifer himself, the Son of the Morning Star. Lucifer gave Christopher a fearsome weapon, shaped like the talons of an eagle, forged in the fires of hell. He called the weapon Satan’s Claws. And Christopher recruited an army of helpers to rid the world of Bob and his kind, claiming he was bringing about salvation.”

“Let me see if I got this right,” Weston said. “Kris Kringle and his magic red suit are using Satan’s Claws---which I’m guessing became
Santa Claus
over time---to kill therianthropes with the help of…
the Salvation Army
?”

Everyone nodded. Weston laughed in disbelief.

“So how did this whole toy thing get started?”

“Kringle has killed millions of therianthropes, leaving many children orphans. He began to feel some remorse, so after he slaughtered their parents he began to leave toys behind, to take away some of the sting.”

“And this is for real?”

Scott reached up and pulled down his collar, exposing a terrible scar along is neck.

“Kringle gave this to me when I was seven years old, right after murdering my parents.”

“I thought he gave orphans toys.”

“He also gave me a train set.”

Weston shook his head. “Look, I can accept this whole shapeshifting thing. And touching the wolfsbane, that was creepy. But you want me to believe that every volunteer on the street corners with a bell and a Santa suit is out to murder us? I just saw one of those guys this morning, and while he was kind of odd---”

Scott reached across the table, grabbing Weston by the shirt. His face was pure panic.

“You saw one! Where?”

“Back in Naperville.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Something about naughty boys and being beheaded and burned on sacred ground. He was obviously out of his mind.”

Irena clutched Weston’s hand. “The only way we can die is old age or beheading.”

“Think carefully, Weston.” Scott actually looked frightened. So did everyone else. “Were you followed here?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, maybe I saw him talking on a cell phone. And maybe there was someone in a Santa suit a few cars behind me on the expressway…”

A shrill whistle cut Weston off. It sounded like a teapot.

But it wasn’t a teapot. It was an alarm.

“They’ve found us.” David’s voice was quavering. “They’re here.”

“Battle stations!” Irena cried, causing everyone to scurry off in different directions.

Scott hurried to the coffee table, pushed the machine aside, and pressed a red button on the wall. An iron gate slammed closed across the entry door, and three TV monitors rose up on pedestals from hidden panels in the floor.

“Jesus.” Phyllis squinted at one of the screens. “There have to be forty of them.”

Weston looked, watching as the cameras switch from one view to another around the church. Santa’s helpers, dozens of Santa’s helpers. Wielding bats and axes and swords. They had the place surrounded.

“We need to call the police.” David’s voice had gone up an octave.

Irena already had the phone in her hand. “Line’s been cut.”

“Cell phones?”

“We’re in a basement. No signals.”

Scott knelt before the trunk, removing the top section and revealing a cache of handguns underneath. He tossed one to Weston, along with an extra clip.

“Are guns safe to throw?”

“Safety is on. Ever used a 9mm before?”

“No.”

“Thumb off the safety on the side. Then pull back the top part. That’s the slide, loads the bullet into the chamber. Now all you have to do is pull the trigger. Those red suits they’re wearing are Kevlar, so aim for the face.”

Weston had more questions, but Scott was too busy distributing the guns.

“Place your shots carefully, people. We don’t have a lot of ammo. Ryan! Can you fire a weapon?”

Ryan remained sitting, staring into space.

“Dammit, man! We need you!”

Ryan didn’t move.

“Can’t we escape?” Weston asked Irena.

Irena worked her slide, jacking in a round.

“That’s the only door.”

“But those are steel bars. They can’t get through it.”

“They’ll get through.” Phyllis pointed. “See?”

Weston checked out the monitor, saw a group of Santa’s storming down the stairs with a battering ram. The first
CLANG!
made everyone in the room jump.

“The table! Move!”

Weston helped Andy and Scott push the cafeteria table in front of the door. Then the group, except for Ryan, huddled together in the back of the room, guns pointed forward.

“I hope we live through this,” Weston told Irena, “because I’d really like to ask you out.”

“I’d like that too.”

“Living through this, or going out with me?”

“Both.”

Another
CLANG!
accompanied by a
CREAK!
which shook the table.

“Wait until you see the whites of their beards, people.”

CLANG!

CLANG!

The table lurched forward.

CLANG!

They were in.

The room erupted in gunfire. It was louder than anything Weston had heard in his life, and he’d seen Iron Maiden in concert when he was seventeen. The kick of the gun surprised him, throwing off his aim, but Weston kept his head, kept sighting the targets, kept pulling the trigger.

The first Santa only made it a step inside.

The next three only made it two steps.

Then it got bad. A dozen of Santa’s helpers burst into the room, swinging their weapons, their
HO HO HO!
warcries cutting through the cacophony of gunfire.

Weston fired until his pistol was empty. He tried to tug the empty clip out of the bottom of the gun, but it didn’t budge. He wasted valuable seconds looking for the button or switch to release it, and then a helper tackled him.

His eyes were crazed, and his breath smelled like cough syrup, and Weston knew that this was the Santa who threatened him on the street corner in Naperville.

“Naughty boy! Naughty boy!” he screamed, both hands clasped on a curved dagger poised above Weston’s eye.

Weston blocked with his elbows, trying to keep the knife away, but the crazy old elf possessed some sort of supernatural strength, and the knife inched closer and closer no matter how hard he resisted. Weston saw his terrified expression reflected in the polished steel blade as the tip tickled his eyelashes.

“Hey! Santa! Got some cookies for you!”

Weston watched, amazed, as someone jammed a gun into the Santa’s snarling mouth and pulled the trigger. Psycho Santa’s hat lifted up off his head, did a pirouette in the air, and fell down onto his limp body.

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, shit head.”

“It’s not over.”

Everyone turned to look at Ryan.

“Did you saw 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.”