Later that night, after Granny Night had departed and the cabin grew quiet, Mrs. Claus awoke with a start. Her body ached as though it were being torn apart from the inside. She stumbled to her feet, clutching the edge of the table for support. Smoke growled softly, his eyes fixed on his mistress with concern.

Pain lanced through her limbs, her nails elongating into claws and her teeth sharpening into fangs. Her vision blurred, and a savage growl tore from her throat. She collapsed to the floor, her body contorting as fur sprouted along her arms and legs.

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When the transformation was complete, she stood on four legs, her silver fur gleaming in the moonlight that streamed through the window. Her glowing eyes scanned the room, but there was no recognition in them—only the raw, primal rage of a predator.

Smoke barked sharply, but the sound was drowned out by Mrs. Claus’ savage snarl. The cabin walls felt too small, too confining. She crashed through the door, disappearing into the snow-covered night.