A Sylver & Steele Story
WHITE WOLF CHRISTMAS
Mimi Riser
www.mimiriser.com
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Mimi Riser
(All rights reserved.)
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[Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.]
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More Sylver & Steele Stories:
Your Cheatin’ Heart
Thunderball
The Werewolf In Red
Time Rip
My Big Fat SX-File Wedding
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White Wolf Christmas
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’Tis the night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Strains of magical music
Clash with laughter from my spouse.
That would be Hunter Steele, multibillionaire, corporate king, and general pain in the ass. The love of my life and bane of my existence, bless his heart.
He’s also the founder and chief of a covert organization called Earth Guardians, Inc., and I’m one of his secret agents. But we won’t discuss that, because it’s the holidays, damn it, and we’re supposed to be on vacation. I’ve declared a moratorium on all business talk until after New Year’s. So there.
Most of all, Hunter is a cat-shifter.
And I’m a werewolf.
So we’re often at odds, being opposite breeds. Still, I can’t imagine what he finds so amusing right now. Certainly not my Sugar Plum Fairy costume. What else should I be wearing while listening to Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker ballet? I mean, you have to expect this sort of thing when you marry a drag queen. Which I am.
In any case, Hunter has seen me in this glitter-frosted tutu before. I wear it every December 24th. It’s one of my Yuletide rituals. Just like hanging our stockings by the chimney with care, and setting out a snack for Santa Claus. When I was little, growing up poor in rural West Texas, sometimes all I could leave him was a graham cracker, but I’ve made up for that scanty fare since then. This year I’ve set out a big plate of lasagna with a nice Chianti on the side.
I hope Santa likes Italian.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed when it’s still there in the morning…” Hunter almost chokes on his guffaws.
Unfortunately, he recovers.
“…because I don’t intend to eat all that,” he finishes.
Notice, if you will, how he just shamelessly read my mind (yet rarely allows me access to his, I might add). All shapeshifters are natural telepaths, but Hunter abuses the talent, if you ask me—not that he ever does.
I roll my eyes at him. “You’re not supposed to eat it. It’s for Santa Claus.”
Now I need a treat for the reindeer. Mustn’t forget them!
Wafted along by The Nutcracker’s “Waltz of the Flowers,” on the points of my toe shoes, I dance toward the door to the kitchen to see what I can find. Carrots, perhaps? Shredded wheat? Apple strudel?