Music blared through the speakers in the dining hall. Christmas songs should never be played at that decibel, but by this point in the evening most of the party-goers were so hammered on eggnog they either didn‘t notice or didn‘t care. Shana Delray leaned against the wall and watched the drunken revelers stumbling around in an excess of Christmas cheer. She twirled one red curl around her finger, bored and not even mildly interested in joining the bacchanal in progress. Most of the partiers had already discarded their clothing—which wasn‘t unusual among the shape-shifters in the pride, where nudity was as natural as fur, but it did contribute to the general air of debauchery. A Santa wearing a red tasseled hat and nothing else paused at her side with a hopeful leer. “Hey there, princess. Wanna ssssit on Sssssanta‘s lap n‘ tell me what a bad girl you‘ve been this year?” he slurred wetly in her ear. Shana leveled a steady, unblinking stare in his direction and slowly raised one eyebrow.
