Meowy Christmas, Ya Filthy Animal Page 2

  As she hit the cold cement beyond in a roll, her trusty satchel spinning with her, a blast of vibrant green light filled the space she’d just vacated, followed by the guard’s furious curse.

  “Come on, slowpoke!” Gramma Jude called from ahead of her. “He’s getting away!”

  Wondering what grievous sins she’d committed in a past life to deserve this present-day punishment, Journi scrambled to her feet and ran.

  Chapter Three

  Gramma Jude might be crazier than a soup sandwich, but she wasn’t homicidal.

  Journi made it maybe thirty feet across what turned out to be the mall’s storage warehouse before the security guard bellowed, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Journi skidded around a plastic-wrapped pallet of merchandise, nearly landing on her butt but grabbing a fistful of the clear film just in time. Across the way, Gramma Jude ducked behind a steel beam, her wand going dark.

  What do we do? Journi mouthed at her from her half-crouched position behind the pallet.

  The guard’s footsteps grew closer, and the vac gun’s telltale power-up glow cast faint green light across the concrete floor as he neared their respective hiding places.

  Gramma Jude performed a series of unintelligible hand movements as though Journi was supposed to understand her.

  Journi held up her hands in exasperation and shook her head to convey her incomprehension.

  The glow of the vac gun swept to and fro as the approaching security guard scanned the warehouse for them.

  After several tense moments of miscommunication, Gramma Jude finally hollered, “Hit him with the Gene Autry!”

  Journi stared at her, unsure whether to leap out and tackle the guard or curl into the fetal position and hope for the best. “I literally have no idea what that means!”

  “Come out now!” the guard shouted. “Before this gets out of hand!”

  Going by the maniacal gleam in Gramma Jude’s eyes, Journi reckoned that ship had sailed.

  “The red one!” Gramma Jude clarified.

  It took Journi a moment to realize she was referring to her marbles. Withdrawing her slingshot from her back pocket, Journi thrust her hand into her satchel for the ammo in question but hesitated. Firing one of Gramma Jude’s unpredictable and potentially deadly bespelled marbles at an innocent man was a line Journi didn’t want to cross. Though the guard had backed them into a corner, he didn’t deserve to get maimed. Or worse. That being said, Gramma Jude might be crazier than a soup sandwich, but she wasn’t homicidal. Unless your name was Kris Kringle, apparently. At any rate, they’d run out of alternatives. Jaw clenched, Journi sifted through the marbles in her satchel, pulling out first a blue-and-silver-swirl and then a clear-orange before finally producing a glittering-red. Praying she wasn’t about to go down for manslaughter, she hurriedly loaded the sling, readied her aim, and stepped out from behind the pallet in a firing stance.

  The guard was on alert, but she was fast, and she’d had a lot of practice. She loosed the marble before he could blink, let alone pull the vac gun’s trigger. The glittery sphere hit him squarely in the chest, erupting in an explosion of . . . snow.

  Slowly lowering the slingshot, she waited, her brows drawn.

  When the last of the snow had fallen, the transformed guard stood within the sparkling circle. Gone was his black uniform, cap, and duty belt. The man who stood before her now was dressed in a red western getup adorned with white piping and holly berries embroidered on the collar. Atop his head was a white Stetson, and instead of the vac gun, he now brandished a guitar. His expression likewise had shifted from tense to merry, and he strummed the guitar once, smiling as if pleased by the sound. Then, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, he struck up the familiar tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and began singing along in a jovial voice.

  Journi looked at Gramma Jude. “That’s the Gene Autry?”

  Gramma Jude emerged from behind the beam, grinning at the bewitched guard. “That’s the Gene Autry.”

  Brows raised, Journi eyed him while cautiously returning her slingshot to her back pocket. “He gonna be okay?”

  Gramma Jude spat a stream of tobacco juice. “He’ll be fine in a few hours. Won’t remember a thing.”

  Journi nodded. Even if some enterprising employee reviewed the security camera footage from the last fifteen minutes, it wouldn’t show Journi or Gramma Jude doing anything illegal. The security guard was unharmed, and no mall property had been stolen or damaged. She exhaled. Perhaps she could avoid spending Christmas in the clink after all. “What now?”

  Determination glinted in Gramma Jude’s eyes. “Now, we go slay us a Santa.”

  Chapter Four

  He’s a two-timing tallywacker!

  They followed the sound of jingling bells through the mall’s back end until they reached a door labeled ROOF ACCESS—MAINTENANCE PERSONNEL ONLY. The door was still easing shut as if someone had gone through it just moments before.

  Three flights of stairs later, they emerged onto the mall’s roof.

  An expanse of gravel stretched before them, broken occasionally by the building’s many air conditioning units and skylights. Above, the night yawned, an impending snowstorm blotting out the stars and moon, leaving only the city’s impressive skyline to illuminate the streets below. An icy wind buffeted them, tossing their hair and slamming shut the door behind them.

  “There he is!” Gramma Jude cried, pointing across the rooftop. “We can’t let him reach that sleigh!”

  Journi looked and saw Santa running toward the sleigh in question, holding onto his hat to keep it from flying off.

  For a startled moment, Journi could only stare at the sleigh. With its gleaming cherry wood trimmed in ornate gold and its massive gilded runners, it stood out boldly against the otherwise gloomy scenery. But that wasn’t what left her momentarily oblivious to the cold, her mouth parting.

  It was the nine prancing, snorting reindeer harnessed to it.

  “What . . .” she began, the whistling wind immediately carrying off the word. In a world where mythical creatures abounded and magic was mundane, there wasn’t much that surprised her. She’d seen it all. But never in her twenty-seven years had she considered the fact that Santa Claus was real. She wasn’t sure whether to be delighted or annoyed by the revelation. What was next? The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy?

  Though the better question might be why did Gramma Jude want to murder the real Kris Kringle?

  Journi didn’t have long to ponder the notion.

  Gramma Jude aimed her wand and snarled, “Entzünden!”

  Ignite!

  Red light flared at the wand’s tip once again.

  This time, the angry witch unleashed her magic.

  A crackling, crimson bolt of energy streaked through the air toward Santa. He glanced over his shoulder, his heavy cape billowing behind him and his eyes widening in alarm. He ducked but wasn’t fast enough to avoid the energy bolt. It caught him in the shoulder and sent him flying in a tumble of red velvet and white fur.

  “Hot dog!” Gramma Jude cried, racing forward.

  Yanked from her musings, Journi was forced to run headlong into the blustering wind after her.

  Though St. Nick had taken a hit, he clambered to his feet, appearing overall intact. Stumbling backward, he windmilled his arms to regain his balance, black smoke curling off the charred hole blackening the shoulder of his cape. “Jude!” he gasped, holding up his hands. “Stop this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Furious, Gramma Jude skidded to a gravelly halt before him, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses, the wind whipping her bedraggled braid wildly about.

  Journi drew to a breathless stop as well, arching a skeptical eyebrow. Gramma Jude was the most powerful witch she knew. Either jolly St. Nick didn’t know who he was up against, or he had a few tricks of his own.

  “Hurt me?” Gramma Jude demanded, the colorful, twinkling lights embedded in her sweater casting her enraged face in dancing red
, green, and blue glows. “I reckon that fox is already in the henhouse, wouldn’t you agree?”

  As if sensing their master’s distress, the reindeer shifted uneasily, snorting out puffs of frosty breath, their tails swishing in agitation.

  “Maybe we could all just calm down,” Journi suggested. “Talk about this like civilized adults.”

  For the first time, Santa Claus looked at her. Though he was far less rotund than she’d envisioned him as a child, he had the kindly Father Christmas look down. Long, silky white beard. Twinkling blue eyes. Silvery caterpillars for brows. Even his cheeks were rosy, though she couldn’t be sure that wasn’t merely due to the frigid temperature. Briefly, he seemed to forget about the wild-eyed witch who was seconds away from smoking him, and he graced Journi with a smile that made her innards feel like warm milk and happiness. “Journi Renee McCutcheon,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Unsure how to proceed, Journi blinked. “You . . . too?”

  He chuckled, and it was every bit as tingly as you’d expect it to be. “You’re a good girl. Always have been.” He pointed a white-gloved finger at her. “Though you could stand to take the sarcasm down a notch or two.”

  Feeling like a little girl who’d just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Journi’s face heated. “I’ll . . . do that.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Gramma Jude interrupted. “He’s a two-timing tallywacker!”

  Journi blinked, looking between the two of them, for once too distracted to deal with her grandmother’s colossal misuse of common slang. “Wait,” Journi muttered, the pieces coming together in her sugarplummed brain. “You dated?”

  St. Nick turned back to Gramma Jude, pleading, “Please, let me explain. It’s not what you think.”

  As if unwilling to listen to another word, she sent a second bolt of energy at him, crying, “Explain this!”

  The streak of crimson magic narrowly missed his forehead this time. It did, however, claim the life of his hat, incinerating the white pompom and reducing the red velvet to smoking, charred smithereens.

  He gasped, grabbing his head and shooting a frantic look at the sleigh.

  “Not happening!” Gramma Jude brayed, firing again, this time at his feet.

  He yelped and stumbled backward, the bells attached to his shiny black boots jingling. Then, as if realizing Gramma Jude indeed intended to kill him, he cast a regretful glance at his sleigh before turning and racing toward the edge of the roof—the closer of the two distances.

  Journi’s heart performed an Olympic-worthy backflip, and she ran after him. “No! Wait!”

  Though she would defend Gramma Jude to her dying day, Journi was beginning to suspect Santa wasn’t the vile womanizer her grandmother seemed to think he was. Journi didn’t know if that was because, well, he was friggin’ Santa or because he’d yet to retaliate against Gramma Jude. Either way, Journi wasn’t keen on watching the man fall to his death.

  Nor, it seemed, was Gramma Jude, though for far different reasons. “No, you don’t, old man!” the scorned witch cried, running and firing at him as she went, lighting up the rooftop with streaks of ruby magic. “I won’t let you deprive me of killing you myself!”

  As if a boxer lurked beneath his red velvet, Santa bobbed, weaved, and ducked his way to the ledge. Leaping atop it, he spared one last glance at Gramma Jude over his shoulder, his now-hole-riddled cape flaring out in the bitterly cold wind.

  Both Gramma Jude and Journi drew to a breathless stop.

  “Don’t jump!” Journi pleaded, her legs braced to lunge despite knowing she’d never make it in time.

  Gramma Jude held his gaze for a pregnant moment, but then her features hardened, and she aimed her wand, the tip flaring crimson.

  And Santa Claus jumped off the roof.

  Chapter Five

  Is this the afterlife?

  Gasping, Journi raced to the ledge, grabbing the icy barrier and leaning over, her heart thudding.

  Gramma Jude joined her with a curse. Her hair had come loose from its braid in the melee, and it whipped about her head like Medusa’s snakes as she yanked off her foggy glasses and peered down. “Damn that wily man!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Journi breathed as she watched a candy-cane-striped parachute float over the Christmas-tree-dotted courtyard below. St. Nick appeared to be a skilled base jumper and used the wind to his advantage, navigating a path toward the packed parking lot beyond. A faint “Ho, ho, ho!” drifted on the night sky, and the shoppers making their way across the festively lit quadrangle paused to stare and point.

  Gramma Jude turned her head and spat tobacco juice, her expression more excited than disappointed. “We gotta go after him.”

  Journi looked at her in dismay. “How? Unless you’ve suddenly developed the ability to fly or have a parachute in your pocket, I think it’s safe to say he got away.”

  The old witch grinned and put her glasses back on, staring at Journi through the foggy lenses. “Over my dead body!”

  Then, with an alarming wink, she turned and headed for the sleigh.

  Journi blinked as realization sank in. “No,” she said after a startled moment. “We are not getting in that thing.”

  “Oh, we are,” Gramma Jude assured her with complete confidence, stowing her wand in the back pocket of her jeans.

  Jogging to catch up, Journi forced her to stop. “What did he do?”

  Gramma Jude scowled impatiently but let out a sigh when she saw Journi wasn’t budging on the matter. Crossing her arms over her twinkling chest, she said, “He bought the cow but didn’t milk it, if you know what I mean.”

  Journi did her best to ignore the frigid wind. “I absolutely do not.”

  “He mailed the envelope without the stamp.”

  Journi stared at her.

  Gramma Jude’s impatience turned to exasperation. “He put the cart before the horse.”

  “Are we speaking the same language?”

  Gramma Jude gave her a long look and winked meaningfully. “He baked the cake but forgot to ice it.”

  Journi threw up her hands in desperation. “Would you spit it out already?”

  The old woman planted her hands on her hips as if just as annoyed. “He put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it!”

  They stared at each other on the blustery rooftop with Santa’s sleigh waiting a few feet away, its nine not-so-tiny reindeer stomping their hooves. The situation was so outlandish that it took Journi’s frozen brain a few moments to comprehend what her grandmother was attempting to say.

  Horror flooded her. “Are you saying he didn’t give you an orgasm?”

  Gramma Jude shrugged. “A woman has needs, Journi Renee. You get into a bed with a man and there are certain expectations.”

  Journi held up a hand to stop her, taking a deep breath. It was that or follow St. Nick off the side of the building. “Am I to understand,” she cleared her throat, “that you had a tawdry one-night stand with Santa Claus?”

  The elder woman grinned unabashedly. “That’s about the long and short of it.”

  Journi shook her head. “Nope. I can’t.”

  Gramma Jude’s expression turned thoughtful, and she scratched her chin, rolling her tobacco. “Come to think of it, he could be your granddaddy.”

  Journi’s eyebrows entered orbit. “What?”

  As if she hadn’t just dropped a North-Pole-sized bomb, Gramma Jude hurried past her and began introducing herself to the anxious reindeer. Or, rather, reintroducing herself. The plucky witch moved down the row, patting rumps and scratching ears, saying things like, “Been a long time, Comet!” and “Donner, you old sonofadonkey, how ya been?” To the lead reindeer, the smallest of the bunch and whose nose—heaven help them—glowed red, Gramma Jude greeted, “R-Man!” She slapped his shaggy neck. “Looking good!”

  To Journi’s bewilderment, the deer warmed to Gramma Jude’s affection like a litter of puppies, wagging their nubby tails and pr
ancing about, causing their reins to jingle merrily. They nudged her with their noses and shook their hides. By the time Gramma Jude had attended to them all and nimbly hopped into the sleigh, grabbing the reins like she’d done so a million times before, the deer were snorting enthusiastically and lowering their antlers in preparation for what Journi could only assume was flight.

  “Get in, hot stuff!” Gramma Jude hollered, looking like a mentally unstable, thrift-store Mrs. Claus in her light-up sweater, gold-toothed grin, and wild, blowing hair.

  In lieu of a saner option, Journi clenched her jaw and climbed into the sleigh, sitting on the tufted, red-leather seat beside Gramma Jude.

  “What do you mean he might be my granddaddy?” Journi demanded shrilly, grabbing the handrail in a white-knuckled grip. She’d never met her grandfather, and whenever she’d asked about him, all Gramma Jude would say was that he’d been one helluva looker who’d stolen her heart and hadn’t even bought her dinner. Journi had assumed he’d been nomadic and mysterious like Uncle John. Or dead. Not that he was Santa Claus.

  Gramma Jude scooted forward on the broad seat so her boots touched the floor. She shrugged. “He might be.”

  Journi gaped at her. “You say that like you don’t know for sure!”

  Gramma Jude shrugged and tested the reins’ tension. “It was the sixties.”

  “Am I dead?” Journi asked nobody in particular, looking around as if the eddies of snow whirling about the rooftop might answer her. “Is this the afterlife?”

  Laughing as if delighted by the entire situation, Gramma Jude winked at her and said, “Hold on tight, kid. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

  With that, she gave the reins a mighty snap and howled, “Light ’em up, boys!”

  Chapter Six

  Probably because there’s a cat in it.

  If Journi had to use one word to describe taking flight in Santa’s sleigh with a cackling Gramma Jude at the helm, it would be terrifying.

  And considering Journi could count on one hand the times she’d been truly terrified, that was saying something.