Calamity made a clicking noise in the back of her throat. “You won’t be able to use that excuse when you wake up tomorrow, and you’re in the same boat. Because you’ll still be a familiar, and I’ll still be talking.”
Pulling off the Paul Stanley Afro wig, Poppy ran her hands through her hair and sighed again. “Okay, so if I’m not drugged, and this isn’t some version of Punk’d complete with sound effects and live animation, what is this shit?”
“This shit is bullshit. That’s what this shit is,” a familiar voice from the shadows groused.
As if out of nowhere, three women appeared, their hair billowing about their shoulders in the frigid winds of Staten Island, their strides confident, their eyes focused and glimmering in the night. Like some new millennium Charlie’s Angels, they strode toward her with confidence, all long legs, beautiful clothing, expensive perfume and glittery jewelry.
Well, except for the dark one. She had long legs and the billowy hair for sure, but she wasn’t dressed like she was going to the same party the other two women were. She wore work boots, a thick black hoodie, low-slung black jeans and a big ol’ scowl on her utterly perfect, scarily pale face.
“You Poppy?” she demand-asked, coming to stand in front of her, arms crossed over her hoodie-covered chest.
She gulped, looking up into this woman’s flashing coal-black eyes. “Will a brutal beating follow if I say yes?”
The blonde woman with loads of swirly hair and clacking jewelry nudged the dark-haired woman in the ribs with a frown. “I’m sorry for how abrupt Nina is. You’ll adjust as we move forward. Forget her and focus on me. I’m Marty Flaherty, this ogre is Nina Statleon, and this,” she pointed just over her shoulder to the tall chestnut-haired lady with mahogany highlights, “is Wanda Jefferson. We’re OOPS, and we’re here to help.” Then she smiled, dazzlingly white and perfect.
As though the wind had re-inflated her sails, Poppy jumped up, putting a defensive hand in front of her. “Help with what? This is all crazy. Look, I don’t know what the cat told you or why it even insisted I call you. Forget about the fact that it can speak and has the ability to use a phone. We’ll get to that later. Now, I looked at your website online, and it says you help people in paranormal crisis. I don’t know if that means you host drug interventions for ghosts—do ghosts become addicts or were they addicts before they died and need ongoing afterlife care? For that matter, what does ‘paranormal crisis’ even mean and why am I supposedly having one?”
The woman named Nina reached for Poppy’s wrist so fast, so freakishly fast, Poppy gasped. “I’m gonna ask you to chill the fuck out, okay? Stop gettin’ all jenky with your hands because you don’t want to get defensive with the likes o’ me. Now breathe, Petunia.”
It was almost a relief to have someone give her some direction. Bending at the waist, she let her hands rest on her knees, and her head hang low. “Maybe we should start over and reintroduce ourselves?”
Nina put a hand on the back of her head, keeping her face pointed downward at the driveway. “I said breathe, Rock Star—great costume, by the way. Paul Stanley’s no fucking Barry Manilow, but you killed the makeup. Now, get your shit together. While you do that, I’m gonna kick the living crap out of my damn familiar for ignoring my house rules, and then we’ll make nice, and I’ll explain what we do at OOPS and all that bullshit.”
Poppy blinked as the blood rushed to her head in a swoosh of pounding waves. “The cat’s yours?”
Nina snorted. “It sure as fuck wasn’t my idea, but yeah. She’s mine.”
“It talks.” She realized she kept saying that, but c’mon! Wasn’t anyone else as in awe of that fact?
Nina clucked her tongue in admonishment. “Been down this road, Poppy. You’re getting repetitive. A sure sign you’re playing possum.”
She tried to lift her head, but Nina’s hand was like a vise grip, forcing her to keep her eyes level with her feet. “Possum?”
“Yeah, it’s when everyone says they’re fine while they beat their panic down, bottle it the fuck up or whatever so they can give good face, which always leads to total meltdown. It’s pathetic and ugly, and usually involves tears and loads of the sympathy I’m working really hard to get better at giving because my therapist says I suck ass at it.”
“This is your version of sympathy?”
“This is me working on being sympathetic. Don’t fuck up my flow.”
“So you’ve done this before? This crisis thing?” If that was true, that almost made her feel better. Almost. Though, she still couldn’t quite connect the dots between what had happened back at the house to needing a crisis counselor. Still, she didn’t sense these women were dangerous.