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  "Good." Xochitl set her smartphone on Lucy's leg. "Because this happened."

  Lucy eyed the device warily. It was paused on a video — the image a mix of bright blurred colors. She fumbled it between her fingers. "So?"

  "Just tap on the little arrow right there." Xochi spoke each word slowly and deliberately and pointed to play.

  Lucy glared at her partner but did as she was instructed.

  Immediately the halo of Christmas Angel's golden locks and his red T-shirt came into focus as he leapt at Santa Were, wrapping his arms and legs around the Beast and thrusting his canine-like fangs at its throat. With no more thought or effort than it takes to squash a fly, Santa Were pulverized Christmas Angel's skull between his massive claws. The Feral's body crumpled to the ground, his brains splattered all over Santa Were's Santa suit and the fake wood floor of Santa's workshop.

  Santa Were roared. A toy squeaked.

  Lucy cringed as she heard her voice repeatedly screaming "OFF!" off-camera.

  "Holy Shit!" a male voice screeched, the video turning into a shaky-cam action flick.

  "Everyone, back away slowly." Lucy barely heard the muffled command she'd given as people everywhere screamed and scrambled over one another to get out of the studio.

  Lucy tightened her grip on Xochi's cell, her own struggle with Santa Were the surreal background to the frenzied fray unfolding on-screen.

  A blur of black fur in a candy cane striped turtleneck howled and zoomed past the camera after the terrorized crew.

  The Hound — no another Feral — swiped at a woman in a black smock, catching her leg and sending her sliding into the fake brick wall of Santa's workshop.

  Oh, no! Karla Bee.

  Candy Cane Were clamped his vice-like jaws onto her inner thigh. She screamed. Blood squirted into the Feral's muzzle as if from a broken fountain spout. The Were howled again, delighted in catching its prey.

  "Bad Santa! Bad Santa!" Lucy's desperate cry bellowed through the phone.

  From out of nowhere, Peaches lunged at the Feral with a pair of sewing scissors, tackling the Were to the ground. The costumer plunged the shears into Candy Cane Were's side. Skewered, it yelped and scurried under the black table skirt of craft service. Thick crimson fluid seeped out into a pool on the concrete floor.

  "Run!" Lucy yelled.

  "Get out!" Peaches shouted at his co-workers, who cowed in a huddle over Karla Bee.

  As the crew dragged Karla Bee toward the studio exit, barking and howling blasted through the cell phone speakers.

  The camera aimed at the cement studio floor, Lucy couldn't see the source of the commotion. As if she could magically draw the action onto the display screen, Lucy tilted the camera from side to side like an Etch A Sketch.

  ¡Jódame! Xochi's cry pierced through the melee.

  Damn it! Where's the picture?

  "How is this still happening?" Granny screamed. "I thought people stopped turning a year ago!"

  "Guess not!" Xochitl replied. "Go!"

  A sharp whistle followed.

  Then the video switched to a wardrobe rack filled with elf tights, elf hats with elf ears poking out of the sides, crimson-colored jeans and shiny black boots. The video tunneled through the Yuletide apparel and panned around the Christmas holiday massacre.

  Clad head-to-toe in green lamé and looking like a furry fairy, a red-maned, Hound girl barreled over the Douglas Fir Christmas tree, half of Granny's pack nipping at the Were's heels.

  Red-maned Hound Girl, Granny's snow white poodle and the grey and black husky passed two other female Hounds, outfitted like Mrs. Santa Weres in matching red and white fur-trimmed dresses. The Mrs. Santa Weres batted around one of Santa Were's tiny helpers between them as if they were playing a twisted Were version of soccer. The Little Person looked like a ball of bloodied, green felt fabric.

  "Cool. I'm totally gonna call this 'A Nightmare on Elf Street'," the male voice droned through the phone with a drug-induced drawl.

  If I ever see that pothead PA again…

  From somewhere off set, Xochitl yelled, "That's not a squeaky chew toy! Leave it!" She ran up behind one of the Mrs. Santa Weres and clubbed her over the head with the boom mic, knocking the Hound girl out cold.

  Sensing her playmate was in danger, the other Mrs. Santa Were kicked the elf into the toppled Christmas tree and reared on Xochitl.

  Her fangs and razor sharp claws bared, the second Mrs. Santa Were vaulted at Xochitl. All at once, Xochi dropped on her back, lifted her legs in the air, grabbed the Were by its furry collar and, using the Were's momentum, flung it over her and into the North Pole backdrop.

  Were any of these Weres Hounds?

  "Look at me!" Lucy's voice roared at Santa Were, drawing Lucy back to the video just in time to see herself crash into the faux fireplace. Video Lucy yelped in pain, Santa Were barreling toward her.

  "Granny!" Xochi's voice screamed. "Get Clint!"

  Following Xochitl as she hurtled over Santa's downed chair and across the wooden worktable, the video panned across the room in a blinding fury to where Granny stood guard over the two remaining Hounds leashed to the dolly crane. Surrounded by her pack and the giant collie at her side, Granny — with Annie Oakley-like speed — unholstered the Smith & Wesson and tossed it to Xochitl.

  "No!" Lucy's voice wailed.

  Without missing a beat, Xochi cocked the .44 Magnum with both hands and fired. Then fired again. And again.

  Blood splattered onto Xochitl's face and across her ripped white suit. Her hands shook, but she kept Clint pointed at the back of Santa Were's now headless body for a few more seconds before lowering the gun.

  Lucy rolled to her side and stood, blood and Were brains running down her face.

  Xochitl walked to Santa Were and kicked at his side as if double-checking that the Beast wouldn't rise to become Zombie Santa Were.

  The two women locked eyes for a moment.

  Drenched in Santa Were's bits and pieces, Lucy and Xochitl looked straight out of a Stephen King novel.

  Shame King turned Werebeast. I really liked his books.

  Xochitl picked a slimy, congealed piece of Santa brain out of Lucy's hair and flicked it on the floor. A slow, low, rumbling chuckle took ahold of both women.

  "Ho! Ho! Ho!" they said in unison, their slightly hysterical looks shifting into twisted smirks.

  The video ended — freeze-framed on a grinning, blood-soaked Lucy and Xochitl.

  "Great." Lucy slumped back in her seat.

  "Yep." Xochitl hit the gas and cranked the wheel. El Gallo spun one hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction.

  "So what now?" Lucy asked.

  "Now, we go to Marin. We got a job to do."

  "Granny?"

  "Maybe she'll let you play with her gun."

  Lucy gazed out the window.

  The Golden Gate Bridge blazed balefully on the horizon.

  "It all ends not with a whimper but a howl!"

  Discover the origin story of Lucy and Xochitl in

  The Werewolf Whisperer (Book 1)

  The adventure continues in

  The Alpha & Omega (Book 2)

  And coming soon:

  Blood & Bones (Book 3)

  Acknowledgements

  It takes a horde of happy elves to get all that Santa jelly into his sleigh and on his way. It takes a mob of bloodthirsty, torch-bearing villagers to hunt down a reanimated corpse, trap it in a windmill and burn it to the ground. It takes a zealous Type A Dutch doctor to drive a wooden stake through the heart of an upwardly mobile, real estate-seeking, bat-eared Transylvanian.

  But we digress.

  What we really mean to say is it takes a team of dedicated friends and family to lend us their continued support and let us wordsmith away in quiet desperation. Special thank you to P.J. Ochlan, Brent Simons, C. E. Leever, Christin O'Cuddehy, and Rico Rodriguez.

  For more fun facts and Were nibblets
check out: www.werewolfwhisperer.com

  Remember to give positive reinforcement. Reward your authors with gold stars at Amazon, and Goodreads.

  More treats to come.