Okay, so forget valor. Shit, shit, shit. This was a mistake. A big mistake.
But the cat, the damn talking cat, nudged Poppy again and shouted over the screech of Run DMC still blaring from inside her best friend’s house, “Tell that crabby-AF, pale-faced beast of the female persuasion it’s her friggin’ reluctant-as-hell familiar calling!”
She looked down at the tiny cat with the round head and eyes the color and shape of green marbles and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.
In and out, Poppy. Breathe in and out. Don’t panic.
“Yo?” Nina prodded, still growling and quite clearly annoyed.
Finally composed, she waded into the conversation pool carefully, because the person on the other end of the phone sounded like everything would be much less explosive if you spoke delicately.
“Your talking cat said I should call you at this number. Did I mention your cat talks? Like, it actually talks. Can I ask you something before we shift into high gear and get to the root of my phone call to you?”
There was a long sigh and then the cantankerous woman said, “You get one question. After that, I get annoyed as all hell, and if you don’t like me now—which, based on my past history with first impressions, I’m guessin’ you’re not a fucking fan yet—then you sure as shit won’t like me when I’m aggravated.”
Poppy swallowed, smoothing the leggings she wore as part of her Paul Stanley costume over her knees. “Just one question? That’s all I get? That seems wholly unfair. This is a crisis hotline, isn’t it?”
“Is that how you want to spend your one question—in negotiations?”
She blinked and came to her senses almost instantly. “No! Sorry. Okay. My one question. Why does your cat talk, lady? Why am I sitting here, outside what was supposed to be a fun, easy DJ-ing gig for some extra vacation money at my best friend’s Halloween Party turned waking nightmare, with a talking cat?”
“Put the GD talking cat on the phone, Cupcake,” Nina’s husky voice demanded.
Poppy paused with a frown and considered how exactly to do that. “Like, hold the phone to its ear? Are you serious?”
“Is the cat talking to you, Princess?” Nina snarled.
Poppy squirmed on the uncomfortable garden wall of bricks she’d perched herself on after this series of unfortunate events had all gone down. “Well, yeah…”
“Then is it a stretch it would talk to me, too, Kumquat? Now put the cat on the GD phone!”
Poppy pulled her cell from her ear and held it up to the cat, putting the phone on speaker. “She wants to talk to you. As in you, the cat. The talking cat.”
There was just no way around this. This was really happening. Or it felt like it was really happening. Maybe someone had dropped acid in her drink? A roofie? No. She’d be passed out if she’d been roofied. Right?
Besides, she was always careful about where she set her water. Even at a party hosted by a friend, she took precautions, because that’s just how Poppy McGuillicuddy rolled. Cautiously.
The cat blinked its overly large, utterly mesmerizing eyes and cocked its head, leaning closer to the phone. “That you, Pale One?”
“That you, Catastrophe?”
“It’s Calamity, you ridiculously, unfairly gorgeous waste of a great ass. We got some shit. Some deep, dark, murky shit going on here.”
“Like?”
Poppy heard the tension in this woman Nina’s voice. She sounded really mad. It almost sounded as if she were the parent and the talking cat was her toddler.
“Calamity? Answer the flippin’ question!” the woman roared in such a forceful way, even the leaves on the trees shook.
The cat, possibly named Calamity—Poppy couldn’t be sure because the woman on the other end of the phone had used two adjectives when addressing said cat—rasped a sigh of full-on exasperation.
“Don’t get your fangs twisted, Blood Lover Lite. Just get here and bring the ditzy blonde with all that lip gloss and hair bleach. Oh, and the nice one who sneaks me the real tuna, not that crap in the can packed in water.”
“Wanda. That’s Wanda, and if she’s sneaking you tuna, I’m going to kick her perfectly mannered ass. What have I told you about tuna, Calamity? What?”
Calamity The Talking Cat lifted her chin. “Oh, blah, blah, blah. Tuna is too rich for my touchy tummy. Blah, blah, blah. Makes me puke all over the carpet in the castle. Blah, blah, blah. You hate cleaning up the chunky effin’ puke. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Exactly. Now, tell me what’s going on, C, or I’m gonna make you wear those stupid sweaters with the glitter on them from the Martha Stewart Collection at PetSmart every day for a GD week.”
Calamity rocked back on her hind paws and gasped in outraged horror. “You wouldn’t! Fuck, those are ugly, you monster.”