Werehunter (anthology)

“I gather that is what we are to save him from, cherie,” Andre pointed out wryly, as the elevator arrived.

“Oh well,” she sighed, stepping into the mirror-walled cubicle. “It’s only five hours, and it can’t be that bad. How much trouble can a bunch of romance writers get into, anyway?”

 

There was enough lace, chiffon, and satin to outfit an entire Busby Berkeley musical. Di counted fifteen Harem Girls, nine Vampire Victims, three Southern Belles (the South was Out this year), a round dozen Ravished Maidens of various time periods (none of them peasants), and assorted Frills and Furbelows, and one “witch” in a black chiffon outfit clearly purchased from the Frederick’s catalog. Aside from the “witch,” she and Andre were the only ones dressed in black—and they were the only ones covered from neck to toes— though in Di’s case, that was problematical; the tight black leather jumpsuit really didn’t leave anything to the imagination.

The Avengers outfits had been Andre’s idea, when she realized she really had agreed to go to this party. She had suggested Dracula for him and a witch for her—but he had pointed out, logically, that there was no point in coming as what they really were.

Besides, I’ve always wanted a black leather jumpsuit, and this made a good excuse to get it. And since I’m doing this as a favor to Morrie, I might be able to deduct it. . . .

And even if I can’t, the looks I’m getting are worth twice the price.

Most of the women here—and as she’d warned Andre, the suite at the Henley Palace that RWW had rented for this bash contained about eighty percent women—were in their forties at best. Most of them demonstrated amply the problems with having a sedentary job. And most of them were wearing outfits that might have been worn by their favorite heroines, though few of them went to the extent that Valentine Vervain did, and copied the exact dress from the front of the latest book. The problem was, their heroines were all no older than twenty-two, and as described, weighed maybe ninety-five pounds. Since a great many of the ladies in question weighed at least half again that, the results were not what the wearers intended.

The sour looks Di was getting were just as flattering as the wolf-whistle the bellboy had sent her way.

A quick sail through the five rooms of the suite with Andre at her side ascertained that Valentine and her escort had not yet arrived. A quick glance at Andre’s face proved that he was having a very difficult time restraining his mirth. She decided then that discretion was definitely the better part of valor, and retired to the balcony with Andre in tow and a couple of glasses of Perrier.

It was a beautiful night; one of those rare, late-October nights that made Di regret—briefly—moving to Connecticut. Clear, cool and crisp, with just enough wind to sweep the effluvium of city life from the streets. Below them, hundreds of lights created a jewelbox effect. If you looked hard, you could even see a few stars beyond the light-haze.

The sliding glass door to the balcony had been opened to vent some of the heat and overwhelming perfume (Di’s nose said, nothing under a hundred dollars a bottle), and Di left it that way. She parked her elbows on the balcony railing and looked down, Andre at her side, and sighed.

He chuckled. “You warned me, and I did not believe. I apologize, cherie. It is— most remarkable.”

“Hmm. Exercise that vampiric hearing of yours, and you’ll get an ear-full,” she said, watching the car-lights crawl by, twenty stories below. “When they aren’t slaughtering each other and playing little power-trip games, they’re picking apart their agents and their editors. If you’ve ever wondered why I’ve never bothered going after the big money, it’s because to get it I’d have to play by those rules.”

“Then I devoutly urge you to remain with modest ambitions, cherie,” he said, fervently. “I—”

“Excuse me?” said a masculine voice from the balcony door. It had a distinct note of desperation in it. “Are you Diana Tregarde?”

Di turned. Behind her, peering around the edge of the doorway, was a harried-looking fellow in a baggy, tweedy sweater and slacks—not a costume—with a shock of prematurely graying, sandy-brown hair, glasses and a moustache. And a look of absolute misery.

“Robert Harrison, I presume?” she said, archly. “Come, join us in the sanctuary. It’s too cold out here for chiffon.”

“Thank God.” Harrison ducked onto the balcony with the agility of a man evading Iraqi border-guards, and threw himself down in an aluminum patio chair out of sight of the windows. “I think the password is, ‘Morrie sent me.’ ”

“Recognized; pass, friend. Give the man credit; he gave you an ally and an escape-route,” Di chuckled. “Don’t tell me; she showed up as the Sacred Priestess Askenazy.”