night is not over yet."
"It better not be. I'm starved." As the cousins started to run, covering yards where humans could have covered only inches, Serge turned his pale, handsome, hungry face toward Pasha and yelled into the African night, "And don't you ever try to talk to me about the Easter Bunny!"
At the campfire, hearing something strange, men reached for guns that were not armed with silver bullets.
Chapter Thirteen
Milk and Cookies
Rob Thurman
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