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  MEOWY CHRISTMAS, YA FILTHY ANIMAL

  The Hissing Booth Chronicles | Book Four

  Gemma Thorne

  ABOUT MEOWY CHRISTMAS, YA FILTHY ANIMAL

  Columbus, Ohio. Modern day. Alternate reality.

  This ain’t your grandma’s Christmas Eve.

  Unless, of course, your grandma is a tobacco-spittin’, wand-wieldin’ witch with a gold tooth and a murderous grudge against St. Nick.

  Soothsayer Journi McCutcheon is on a first-name basis with weird. From the leprechaun who bags her groceries to the ogre who hires her to foresee upcoming fashion trends, her life is a study in strange. Nothing surprises her. Not even the gang of outlaw South Pole elves who cornered her in a seedy alley and demanded all her candy canes at gunpoint last night.

  Just your average Friday night in post-Rise Columbus.

  But when her eccentric and illegally insane grandma brazenly declares war on Santa Claus amidst a mall full of holiday shoppers, even Journi’s bells are jingled. Add in a trigger-happy security guard, a snowy rooftop showdown, and a harrowing peppermint-parachute escape, and this Christmas might be her last.

  And that’s just the tip of the mistletoe.

  When Journi’s visions reveal the life of a little boy depends on one very special kitten, it’s up to her to save him and Santa before the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve.

  Bah humbug indeed.

  Copyright © 2019 Gemma Thorne

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the reader. It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

  Cover design by Gemma Thorne

  eBook design by Gemma Thorne

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  About the Cover Cat

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Connect

  Continue the Journi

  “It is a very inconvenient habit of kittens (Alice had once made the remark) that, whatever you say to them, they always purr.” — Lewis Carroll

  Chapter One

  Everyone farts.

  “Somehow, I doubt Josephine wants a pair of fart-filtering underwear for Christmas,” Journi pointed out.

  Gramma Jude’s hopeful expression turned into a scowl, and she inspected the package of enhanced briefs as if searching for the flaw and finding none. “Why in the blazes not?”

  Journi eyed the display of Fruity Booty panties, the bogus britches promising Proprietary Toot Technology guaranteed to fruitify your flatulence! “One, because Josephine has never farted in her life. And, two, because they’re over your gift exchange budget.” At thirty dollars a pair, they were grossly overpriced. Not to mention downright gross.

  The grizzled old witch glared at Journi with sharp blue eyes that defied her seventy years. “I’ll have you know everyone farts. Even your mother.”

  Journi stared at her eccentric and quite-possibly-insane grandmother, the holiday tunes wafting out of the mall’s speakers providing a merry melody for their odorous conversation. “Tell me the last time you heard Josephine rip one.”

  Journi’s mother had put the P in prim and proper, then scolded it for slouching. With a perpetually straight spine and the ability to shame your fashion choices with a mere glance down her elegant nose, Josephine would rather leap off the nearest cliff than entertain the notion of bodily functions. She was also an empathic badass who would raze Hell itself to protect her family. And do it while wearing modest slacks and responsible shoes. But she absolutely did not fart.

  Still clutching the package as if prepared to defend the product’s functionality to the death, Gramma Jude opened her mouth to reply, then frowned, her wiry eyebrows drawing together. “You may be right,” she admitted with a genuine air of regret. “With that stick lodged in her rear and all.”

  Journi choked, covering her mouth with her fist, her frayed fingerless gloves muffling her laugh. “Exactly.” Clearing her throat, she took the package from her dejected grandmother and returned it to the rack. “Come on. I think I see some hideous beige purses over there. You know how she loves those.”

  With a sigh, Gramma Jude relented, then grinned at Journi, revealing a gold tooth that may or may not contain poison. With Gramma Jude, you never knew. “Maybe I should get them for Frieda. I know for a fact that old goat farts.”

  Though even Journi would enjoy seeing the look on Aunt Frieda’s face when she opened a pair of Fruity Booty underwear, someone had to keep Gramma Jude on budget. As a witch for hire, the spunky matriarch earned a humble living that she budgeted wisely.

  Except at Christmastime.

  If left to her own devices, she would set fire to her meager bank account before the night was over with a gilded grin on her face.

  “Aunt Frieda isn’t your gift exchange partner,” Journi reminded her sternly. “She’s mine.”

  Gramma Jude’s hope flared to life once more. “You get them!”

  “I would rather crochet a scarf from my intestines,” Journi said dryly. “Besides, I already know what I’m buying her.”

  When she’d drawn Frieda’s name, Journi had been overwhelmed with relief that she hadn’t gotten Cousin Cleo like last year—the woman collected taxidermied animals for crying out loud. Journi had also been blessed with a vision of the perfect gift.

  Literally.

  Being a soothsayer had its benefits, after all.

  She could see the atrocious gift in her mind’s eye as she and Gramma Jude navigated the holiday-shopper-clogged mall. A T-shirt depicting a cat wearing a Santa hat and brandishing candy-cane pistols in its paws. Pistols that were shooting rapid-fire snowballs at some unseen target, while the feline bared its teeth in a battle cry against a winter wonderland backdrop. Below, in iridescent lettering, were the words Meowy Christmas, ya filthy animal!

  It was the ugliest thing Journi had ever seen.

  Aunt Frieda would adore it.

  As Journi and Gramma Jude neared the storefront displaying a selection of practical, beige purses, however, the old witch let out a tonsil-rattling holler.

  “Great gravy!” Journi cursed, nearly leaping out of her platform combat boots, her heart doing its best to hole-punch her ribs. “What?!”

  Only Gramma Jude wasn’t paying attention to her. She’d stopped in the middle of the aisle, her legs braced and wand arm outstretched, the gnarled length of hawthorn wood pointed rigidly, the Christmas tree on her too-big sweater blinking cheerily in stark contrast to the rage burning behind her eyeglasses.

  “Kris!” she bellowed, the wand’s tip flaring fiery red—never a good sign. “I’ve got you now!”

  Startled, Journi followed her gaze to see a man in a Santa suit on the opposite side of the mall’s central fountain. He was frozen in place and staring at them with wide eyes. Between the distance separating him from Journi and Gramma Jude, crisscrossing shoppers didn’t so much as pause, continuing their harried Christmas Eve to-and-fro as if a white-haired witch wielding a powerful tool of magic in their midst was yesterday’s news.

  Which, in many ways, it was.

  This was post-Rise Columbus, after all, and the supernatural was a way
of life. All around them, folks with fangs, fur, and scales shopped for their loved ones. Bundled in cozy scarves and wearing gaudy Christmas jewelry, they walked alongside Middlings—those who’d remained unaffected by the Rise of Magic two decades ago. Pixies and sprites fluttered amid the branches of the twenty-foot tree erected in the plaza, adding their warm glow to the pine’s merry decor. Ghosts traversed the crowd, reliving memories of holidays past, phantom gift boxes stacked in their arms and eddies of bluish nethersmoke swirling in their wakes. A trio of ogres dressed in fifties-era red-velvet gowns sang carols beneath an arch of twinkling tinsel, their green-hued faces alight with seasonal cheer, live glowworms dangling from their ears and casting shimmering emerald light on their broad cheeks. In the fountain, twin crimson-haired mermaids swam, blowing kisses at passing shoppers with gold-glittered lips and playfully splashing water at any curious, bright-eyed kids who dared venture close. And enormous, sparkling Christmas ornaments floated in the air overhead, bobbing and spinning lazily in time with the music, held aloft by a spell.

  Compared to that, Gramma Jude’s sudden outburst was a drop in the bucket.

  In fact, the only one who’d noticed was St. Nick himself.

  He stared at Gramma Jude with the frightened look of a man seconds from running.

  “Don’t you dare!” Gramma Jude howled, murder in her eyes. “You owe me a death!”

  And, with that, Santa Claus ran for his life.

  Chapter Two

  Santa’s going to die today if it’s the last thing I do!

  “Gramma Jude!” Journi exclaimed, holding up her hands in dismay when the elder woman gave chase without a moment’s hesitation. Deciding it better to join her than remain abandoned in the bustling plaza, Journi cursed and followed.

  Despite her seventy years, Gramma Jude was fast, and by the time Journi caught up, her thighs were already burning. The old witch, however, seemed to have been possessed by a gazelle, weaving through the shoppers with the swiftness of a much younger woman. Both, Journi suspected, due to advancements in post-Rise magical medicine that had greatly improved longevity and overall health, and the fury sparking in the witch’s bespectacled eyes.

  “Why are we chasing this man?” Journi demanded, nearly running into a vampire jingling a bell for the Columbus Blood Repository when they rounded a corner.

  “That’s no mere man,” Gramma Jude hissed, making a beeline for the escalator. “That’s Kris Kringle.”

  Which explained exactly nothing. Dudes in Santa suits were on every street corner this time of year. “I ask again,” Journi growled, pushing her way through a family of startled goblins. “Why are we chasing him?”

  Hurrying down the moving stairs, Gramma Jude glanced over her shoulder at Journi as if the answer was obvious. “So I can kill him, naturally.”

  Ignoring the shouts of “Hey, watch out, lady!” and “Do you mind?” she received from the other escalator riders, Journi kept pace with her. “Oh, right,” she said, exasperated. “Because that clears things up.”

  Taking the final few steps in one leap, Gramma Jude landed on the polished tile beyond, her battered work boots skidding as she drew to a halt, looking back and forth. She spotted the fleeing Santa to the right, the white pompom of his hat bouncing as he ran toward a children’s boutique. “You got a lasso on you,” she demanded, thrusting out her hand expectantly, her eyes narrowing.

  “Of course,” Journi panted. “I keep it in my bag with my branding iron and cattle prod.”

  Gramma Jude spared her a disapproving glance, clucking her tongue. “Ain’t I taught you to always be prepared, child?”

  Taking advantage of the interlude to catch her breath, Journi gasped, “I think carrying around calf roping supplies falls outside the boundaries of being prepared.”

  Shaking her head as if Journi lacked the sense God gave a goose, Gramma Jude resumed the chase, her silver braid flying behind her.

  Groaning, Journi followed. “And where’s your lasso, John Wayne?”

  “In Toledo!” Gramma Jude called.

  Not at all surprised that the woman owned a lasso or that it was inexplicably in Toledo, Journi rolled her eyes and did her best to avoid bulldozing innocent shoppers in her haste.

  “Hold it right there!” Gramma Jude brayed, aiming her wand at the terrified Santa as he chanced a peek at them before darting into the boutique. Having lost her target, Gramma Jude lowered the wand with a snarl, shouting, “You can’t outrun me this time, you yellow-bellied twitterwaffle!”

  Had Journi not been running herself—something she reserved solely for being chased by herds of rabid wildebeests—she would have choked. Instead, she wheezed, “That’s not how the saying goes, Gramma Jude!”

  But the vexed witch was focused solely on her quarry, following him into the boutique like a hound on the hunt.

  Dodging a shopping-bag-laden gentleman in a wool coat and tweed cap, Journi ducked inside after her.

  And was immediately assaulted with all manner of cute. White lights twinkled amidst a sea of cream everything. Tiny knitted sweaters and satin dresses. Oversized stuffed bears and chenille blankets. Even the shelving and display tables were adorned with cream fur coverings. Holographic snow fell dreamily throughout the shop, and the scent of hot chocolate filled the air. Journi, in head-to-toe black and a bevy of piercings, was as out of place as a moose in a Rockettes lineup.

  She and Gramma Jude hesitated, scanning the busy shop for any sign of red velvet.

  “There,” Journi said, pointing toward the back of the space, where the slippery St. Nick was disappearing through a curtain of opalescent tinsel.

  They hurried in that direction.

  An employee wearing a beaming smile and an honest-to-God adult-sized onesie made of cream fleece intercepted them. “Hello!” she greeted with an offensive amount of cheer. “Can I help you find something precious today?”

  Before Journi could banish her, Gramma Jude crowed, “Out of my way, cream puff!” Pushing past her, she vowed, “Santa’s going to die today if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Onesie’s eyes bugged, and she watched her go in horrified shock, while the half a dozen children throughout the store promptly burst into tears.

  Wincing, Journi muttered a rushed apology to the stricken salesclerk before hurrying after Gramma Jude.

  They raced into what appeared to be the shop’s changing rooms, with a row of gold-garland-draped doors lining either side of a narrow hall. Like the shop proper, the space was a study in fluff that gave the impression of entering a cloud. As the tinsel swished back into place behind them, muting the sound of wailing kids and relentless holiday music, Journi and Gramma Jude drew to a breathless stop.

  And at the end of the hall stood Santa.

  He too had halted, his chest heaving and his white-gloved hands held out in a gesture of peace. He regarded them with the panic of a cornered rabbit.

  Gramma Jude grinned fiercely, her gold tooth glinting. “I’ve waited a long time for this day.”

  Swallowing, Santa began, “Jude, I—”

  From outside came Onesie’s shrill voice. “In there! They went that way!”

  In response, a deep, male voice muttered, “This is Walters. Got a possible twelve-twenty-five in progress at Itsy Bitsy Boutique. I’m going in.”

  “Gramma Jude,” Journi hissed. “Security guard incoming.”

  The old witch scowled and rolled the wad of tobacco in her bottom lip as if debating their options.

  Santa seized their distraction and flung open the changing room door nearest him and ran inside.

  “Blast it!” Gramma Jude snarled and hurried down the hall, her glowing wand leading the way.

  Journi hesitated long enough to peek through the tinsel curtain at their backs and see a burly, grim-faced officer walking swiftly in their direction. Cursing, she whirled and chased after Gramma Jude, whispering, “There’s nowhere to go! I can’t believe you got me into this!”

  Traumatized children a
side, they’d technically done nothing wrong, but Journi had no desire to spend Christmas Eve in a holding room explaining that to an annoyed, underpaid security guard. But either they turn and face the man, or they huddle in the closet with the soon-to-be-dead Santa and hope the guard didn’t look inside. A flimsy plan if there ever was one.

  Gramma Jude flung open the door St. Nick had escaped through. After a moment’s pause, she ran inside with a howl of fury.

  “Why is this my life?” Journi demanded of the heavens as she raced after her. As Journi skidded to a stop in front of the still-swinging door, she was both stunned and relieved to see it wasn’t in fact a changing room but an employees-only exit. She started inside just as the security guard burst through the tinsel curtain with his non-lethal vac gun raised. “You!” he barked, arming the weapon with a flick of his thumb as their gazes locked. “Stop right there!”

  Journi had been shot with an energy vacuum exactly once, and she didn’t care to relive the experience. It had been the most helpless moment of her life. One minute, she’d been humming with adrenaline, her slingshot raised in a dead-to-rights aim, and the next she’d been a drooling bag of bones on the ground, utterly depleted. She could do nothing but watch in frustration as the grinning teenaged werefox and his vixen—the one Journi hadn’t seen sneaking up behind her—had fled into the night, their fluffy, bouncing tails protruding from their modified jeans. The sly duo had gone on to commit a series of gleeful robberies, while she’d enjoyed a not-so-refreshing seventy-two-hour nap. If she missed Christmas dinner because she’d been hit by a vac gun while playing cowboys and Santas with Gramma Jude, Josephine would have her hide.

  Before the guard could fire the cursed weapon, Journi saluted him and cried, “Feliz Navidad!” before diving through the exit.