Last Stop - Chapter 02

"¡No! No lo creo." I shook my head in utter denial. "It's not possible."

'Not believing in something will not make it any less real, Daniela Maria Martinez Colón.' The cat raised her right front paw and daintily licked her pink toe beans.

It took me a second to realize it, but when I did, all the warmth I had regained left me again. My name. It had said my full name. But I had never mentioned who I was. My right hand rose of its own volition and made the sign of the cross, something I hadn't done since my abuela passed when I was seven.

"I'm dead already, aren't I?" What else would explain all this craziness? But if I were dead, this was like no Heaven or Hell I ever imagined. My legs turned suddenly into melting wax. If I'd still been wearing my heels, I would have toppled over and broken something. As it was, I had to brace my back against the corner to remain upright.

The cat sighed.

They could do that?

'You are not dead, Daniela.'

If they hadn't drugged me, maybe someone slipped me something at the party? But I didn't drink when I was working. Had somebody sneaked a designer drug skin patch on me? All this loco shit would suddenly make sense if they had.

'You are not drugged, either.'

I flinched. Was the freaking cat reading my mind? Its inhuman eyes seemed to grow bigger the longer I stared at them. The feline quit licking its toe beans and brought out its claws as if to check a manicure.

'I also did not read your mind.' It glanced my way, and I could have sworn it looked amused. 'I've done this a time or two, and the conversations usually run much the same as this one.'

The room felt stiflingly hot, and my throat hurt as I struggled to get enough air.

'My name is Beauty, by the way.'

I scrunched down and put my head between my legs, dizzy and breathless, trying to calm myself before I passed out and made everything worse. A surreptitious glance toward the door showed me that Ida had moved on with her mop, leaving the way clear. The lock on the door was a simple deadbolt, so I could easily let myself out. So what "Beauty" had mentioned earlier seemed to be true. I could leave if I wanted to, but… "What did you mean when you said I would be 'rushing straight into death's embrace'?"

'You're currently running for your life, are you not?' Beauty asked.

How did she know that?

"Miss, your food is ready."

I almost jumped out of my skin, I was so startled by the voice coming from above me. It was the cook. I hadn't heard him come back in.

Rising shakily to my feet, I turned toward the counter to look. I hadn't ordered anything. The smell hit me first, almost as if someone had used a fan to send it to me: garlic and olive oil with a faint hint of banana. My mouth watered, recognizing what the scents meant, while my brain refused to process what it saw on the plate.

"Mofongo? You made mofongo?" Eyes wide, I glanced at the cook.

He flashed a faint smile before he nodded.

A yellow mound of fried, mashed, unripe plantains, garlic, olive oil, and—were those bits of chicharron mixed in as well? There was even a small cup of broth on the side and an open bottle of malta next to it. Since it was non-alcoholic, the malted barley drink was typically considered a child's drink, but I never had mofongo without it. It always reminded me of my abuela.

I took a shaky step toward the counter, still not believing what was there. My stomach growled at me to hurry on over, as I'd had little to eat before this mess started and I'd been running for who knew how long.

Still, there was no way on this Earth these people could know what I liked—yet there it sat. If I were ever asked what I wanted for a last meal before I died, this would be it. I reached for the fork with a trembling hand and took a bite. Tears instantly sprang to my eyes as the starchy, salty flavor flooded my tongue. I half-parked myself on the stool and took a sip of malta, and I was back at the worn Formica table in Abuela's kitchen.

A tear escaped to roll warmly down my cheek, the loss of my grandmother fresher than it had been in years. Yet the familiar flavors were also a balm for my fear-shredded nerves. A second bite clinched it—this was her recipe. But that was impossible!

My hungry, gurgling stomach didn't care. All it wanted was more food. So, after making the sign of the cross again, just in case, I blocked out everything around me and ate, drank, and enjoyed it. For all I knew, this was my last meal.

By the time I finished, my tears had dried, but my eyes prickled again when I saw what the cook brought me next.

"Are those what I think they are?" I asked, my voice not exactly steady.

He inclined his head as he switched my empty plate for a smaller one holding two pastries. "Pastelitos de guayaba," he said. The pronunciation was perfect.

I drank half the glass of water he had also brought, and using that as a distraction, placed my other arm on the counter so I could palm the knife that had come with the utensils. I hid it in the sleeve of the short kimono: if they pulled anything, I planned to be ready. Once it was safely tucked away, I reached out for the dessert: a puff pastry filled with guava paste and cream cheese, the top covered with powdered sugar—another Puerto Rican specialty.

I stuffed my face like a little pig, feeling calmer than I had since the moment before I'd spotted Pierson at the lucrative party. "Dios mío. You're a damn good cook."

The tiniest hint of a smile came and went again. "Glad you liked it." He refilled my water, then took charge of the first set of dirty dishes. His brow ticked up for half a second, but if he noticed that the knife was missing, he kept it to himself. No way to tell if that was good or bad. He headed back toward the kitchen.

'If you're feeling better, I'd like to have a little chat.'

Gooseflesh covered my arms and neck as the voice rang inside my head again.

¡Coño! The food had distracted me from the fact that this place had a telepathic cat.

Ida had also disappeared when I wasn't looking. But the front door still stood utterly unguarded. If I grabbed one of the umbrellas outside, I doubted they would ever realize it was gone. Yet I hesitated to leave all the same. I was good at reading people—it came with the job—and all that talk about running straight into death's embrace felt spot on. So what was the feline's angle? Everyone had one, even when they didn't realize it. I was positive they hadn't let me stay here and fed me out of the goodness of their hearts.

"Sure," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. I turned the stool so I could face the cat, though I would have preferred not to. "What did you want to talk about?"

'Did you perchance notice the "help wanted" sign outside?' Beauty asked. 'I would like to offer you the opportunity to work here.'

"¿Qué?" My mouth fell open.

'I want you to work for me.'

My eye twitched. A telepathic cat was offering me a job? That lightning bolt earlier had to have hit me, and I was now burned and bleeding on the street, having a nightmare. Otherwise, how could any of this be real? "Um, what would that look like?"

And did that mean a cat was the boss here? How loco would that be?

Beauty ignored my question.

'Room and board would be included, of course,' Beauty said. 'And there are other perks. Staying alive would be but one of them.'

Could a cat be smug? Because, at the moment, she sure looked like it—that jutting feline chin, the thrust-out fur-covered chest.

"So, I would need to stay in this place? Never go outside again?" I shook my head. "That would make this a prison. And eventually, some customer or other would rat me out, and then what? I would still wind up dead. And so would all of you."

I was arguing with a cat! Could this get any more insane?

'I never said you couldn't go out,' Beauty stated, blinking in slow motion. 'You'll be able to do so when the job calls for it and on your days off—if you've behaved yourself.'

"But you said I would die if I went out," I countered. This chica wasn't born yesterday.

'If you don't agree to work for me, that is correct.' Beauty used a paw to sweep the fur over one ear.

How could taking the job make a difference? But then, how was this cat mentally talking to me in the first place? I shook my head. None of this was real. It couldn't be. I pinched myself, trying to see if it would wake me up or whatever—wasn't that how they always did it on TV?—but nothing changed.

"Let's say I believe you—which, to be honest, I'm not sure I can—what exactly would I be doing?" I asked. "You already have a fabulous cook and someone to clean the place. What do you need me for?"

Beauty got up on all fours and walked over on quiet feet, sashaying like some kind of feline supermodel. She rubbed up against me even as I tried to lean away, the urge to sneeze growing by the second. I loved cats, but my body didn't. As big as she was, I couldn't escape unless I were willing to fall over backward, stool and all.

But she sure was beautiful. Her white fur felt like the softest silk. This close, her green feline eyes glimmered like emeralds. She rubbed her head beneath my chin, and it was like being caressed by a lover.

My eyes started itching, and the sneeze was about to get the better of me when she pulled away. With a final swipe of her fluffy tail across my face, she moved down the counter and sat, coiling her tail around her in a circle.

I turned my face in the opposite direction, not able to hold back anymore. "Achoo!"

With her having put some distance between us, thankfully, the urge to sneeze didn't return. It would be a crime if I got snot on that gorgeous fur.

'You have a unique set of talents, Daniela,' Beauty said. 'Talents that I can use for a much loftier purpose.' She gave me another of those slow, satisfied blinks.

Just how much did this cat know about me? And how? The food I'd eaten turned to rocks in my stomach. "And how exactly would you be using them?"

The smug look came back. 'To help troubled souls, of course,' Beauty said. 'How else would they achieve peace and move on otherwise?'

Then a loud knock came from the other side of the entry door.