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I plunged in, ignoring how the gnomes all turned and watched me dash by.

Bursting from the tunnel’s end, I stopped and turned.

Rudolf stood at the opening and snorted, his work done.

“Alright, Santa.” I straightened. “You wanna murder me? We’ve got all night. Have at it.”

Mariah Carey’s warbling cut off.

“What are you waiting for? An invite?”

This was getting tiresome. Either Santa was a homicidal, child-eating maniac, or he was wasting my time.

Maybe he needed some persuasion? Zee had lured him out with a show, so maybe I could do the same?

I cleared my throat. I’d never been the best at singing, but nobody was here—just me, the creepy gnomes, and Santa crouched in his grotto. “Alright, fine . . . Uhm . . . Here goes nothing. Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree . . .”

My voice fell flat, as did my performance. How did Zee just flick a switch and turn into a Broadway star from one second to the next? If he were here, he’d tell me to rub some funk on it.

I gulped, wet my lips, and took a deep breath. Dancing, I could do. So, with the song’s beat in my head, I imagined Zee on stage working his pole, and put some spicy hip action into my steps. “Been an awful good boy . . .”

The accompanying music came over the Tannoy, and I got my Christmas funk on.

Dropping my bat, I grabbed a fluffy red hat with a bell on and popped it on my head, getting into the swing of it.

“Ho, ho, ho . . .” Santa emerged from his gingerbread grotto, wrapped in his jolly red outfit, and as I was committed, I kept on singing “Santa Baby.” I’d like to think Zee would have been proud of my performance, but it was more likely he’d have been horrified. Don’t judge, I was saving Christmas.

Santa’s glamor glitched as he ventured closer.

I kept up the performance, really getting into the flow of it now—adding some naughty steps, hip-cocks, cheeky grins—and maybe I was enjoying it a bit too much, knowing where it would end.

I’d have lured him almost within stabbing distance if the little fishing gnome hadn’t ventured under my feet. I danced around him, but there were more dotted about, suddenly everywhere. I stumbled into a Christmas tree, sending several baubles bouncing off. Their tinny ping-ponging ended my cheeky dance routine.

The music stopped.

Santa’s watery eyes narrowed.

I dropped my hand, and almost made it to my knife before Santa’s jovial grandpa face split in half and the timber-faced, snarling monster spilled out. A foot-long split tongue lashed, red eyes blazed, and Santa freed a high-pitched wail.

I shoved my hand into my pocket, grabbed the bouncy balls, and flung them at murder-Santa.

One of the rubber balls smacked him between the eyes.

His yowl cut off. The ball pranged away, striking a Christmas tree, sending it tumbling into its neighbors which fell one after another like a line of falling, twinkling, bristling dominoes. Balls pinged and twanged, ricocheting up and down, left and right. Gnomes scarpered. Three balls felt as though they’d multiplied into a hundred as they bounced and dinged, somehow picking up speed.

I ducked, and freed my knife.

The rubber projectiles smacked Santa from all angles, jerking him like a puppet on strings. Then one punched him in his meatballs. Nightmare-Santa bent double, spluttering.

I sprang and Santa whirled, trying to whack me aside. I was small and fragile looking. I should have been an easy takedown.

That was the mistake everyone made.

I caught his arm, using all my strength to hold him. His eyes swelled, and just like all the others who dared cross me, Santa had a last-minute epiphany: Adam Vex is not what he seems.

I grinned. My knife flashed. “Ho, ho, ho.”