Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“We thought at one time that he might be the Phantom Mage," suggested an older, heavier woman than Serena, but one no less dramatic. "Perhaps he is missing because he is dead.”

The first woman stirs on her chair like a cobra easing into a striking posture. "I doubt it, Czarina. He left me a note.”

“A note? What did it say? Let us see it."

“I am sorry, Czarina." Serena preens on her sofa like a purebred with a velvet catnip mouse. "It was rather personal."

“Personal?" The man called Cosimo sounds sharp. "We are all Synth members here, and that dominates such minor matters as concupiscence.""Concupiscence," Serena derides. "Leave that Latin beatingaround-the-bush word to the bishops. Lust is not alien to our gathering. Max wrote that he finds it useful to drop out of sight–a rather cheeky turn of phrase after recent developments–for a while. But that ... the rest is personal.”

It is a gathering of magicians. The white note in her fingers wafts into the man's hand next to her.

“ Hmm." Cosimo reads the message with rolling diction. "In his self-imposed exile he will fondly recall your satin skin, the ... the tattoo of a bat on your–'?"

“Enough, Cosimo." Serena had risen and struck, snatching the paper from his hands. "You see that he is alive and definitely kicking."

“I did not know you had found the time to test our new recruit with your charms."

“It was a hasty but memorable encounter. I can assure you that he was interested. Of course, I didn't allow him any real liberties. Not until we were certain of him."

“And now you think we should be."

“Certainly." She settles back into her chair, circling the palms of her scarlet-nailed hands on the arms. "Unless he is really dead, which would be a shame now that I am authorized to screw him."

“He will return, Serena," Czarina assures her. "He is not a fool and I doubt that Death has claimed him. And any normal heterosexual man would return to do obeisance at your thighs, Goddess of the Nile since days of old.”

Serena purrs like a Persian of my acquaintance in heat. Too bad I have never been around this Persian of my acquaintance when she was in heat.

While I am being enthralled by all this sexy talk, I have let down my guard.

My neck ruff is collared by four shivs.

“This conversation has degenerated," Miss Midnight Louise hisses in my ear. "We are outta here.”

And, yes, before I can stutter a fond farewell to the magicians of the Synth who are so busy congratulating themselves, I am whisked out into the corridor by Louise, who has taken a dislike to sexy talk on many other occasions.

This is a side effect of the process known as "fixing." I do not know why it is called that.

But I think that Miss Serena could use a bout of that herself.

Chapter 28

Debate to the Death

Five thousand Red Hat Sisterhood members pouring into the Crystal Phoenix and the Goliath hosting hotels made the Black Hat Brotherhood vastly outmanned for the day's debate. Luck- ily, only a few hundred Red Hat women showed up for it.

Even so vastly outnumbered, the fifteen men entered the hotel like a posse surrounding a wrestling favorite. In fact, overnight the golden oldie boys had come up with Americanflag-blue rhinestone hatbands and red-dyed pheasant feathers to stick in those glitzy new bands.

Matt stood beside Temple at the back of the debate room, watching the RedState dudes in Blue and the BlueState dolls in Red file into the hotel's small-event auditorium. The Red Hat Sisterhood outnumbered the Black Hat Brothers a zillion to one, but on the raised dais, at the neutral white-linen clothed tables featuring a small tabletop podium for Matt, it was four black-and-blues against four red-and-purples.

“I can see why the TV stations sent so many videographers," Matt murmured to Temple, blinking at the colorful and sparkling gathering. "Makes me happy radio is my medium. Saves me a lot of eye strain and headaches."

“TV loves people willing to make spectacles of themselves.”

“Which is why you counseled me to wear an ivory shirt and blazer, no tie. Not even a blue and red one."

“You do get the association?"

“It's a neutral color scheme for a moderator," he said, eyeing his bland facade.

Temple raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

“Oh, I get it! Red, white, and blue, reading left to right. That is 'spin' with a capital S."

“ Plus," she said, adjusting the collar of his open-necked shirt, "you look so dreamy in off-white."

“The PR maven is making decisions based on how 'dreamy' the moderator looks?"

“Absolutely. Perk of the job."

“I just hope I can keep these extreme debaters from each other's throats. Maybe you really needed Jerry Springer."

“I do have some Fontana brothers muscle lurking in the wings." Temple nodded to her own version of bodyguards standing at the extremes of the debating platform.

“Good Lord, I'm dressed like a Fontana brother clone," Matt realized.

“Northern Italian, where the blonds come from, not southern. Those natives are brunet."

“You're also going for a revival meeting look here too, aren't you?"

“My dear man, I'm trying to touch on numerous subtle cultural nuances."

“I never knew PR was so manipulative."

“Or that I was?"

“If I weren't so nervous about doing this moderator gig, I'd probably have a long answer for that one.""You'll be great. You improvise six nights a week live on your radio show. How could this be any worse?”

Matt forbore to say anything more.

“Oh," Temple added. "There is one thing."

“Yeah?"

“You look somewhat suspicious."

“It's that 'one thing' element you mentioned.”

Temple grimaced. "We have a prima donna on board." Matt waited.

“Savannah Ashleigh, fading D-movie actress, is a celebrity emcee for the Red Hat Sisterhood. She's really hard to hold back. I had to allow her to introduce you."

“I don't know her and she doesn't know me. How can she introduce me?"

“She's show biz. I gave her a bio. How much damage can she do? It was that, or have a bloodbath offstage, like in Macbeth." Matt sighed. "I thought one always called it 'the Scottish play' or it would be cursed by some new death."

“This isn't a play performance," Temple said. "And it will actually boost your career. You deserve more than radio exposure."

“I don't need it."

“But your panting public does." Temple went on tiptoe to demonstrate what his panting public needed with a quick but thorough kiss.

Then she backed off.

She felt like a nervous matchmaker, as she always did at a full-press media event. Now she had to sit back and watch all the ingredients blend into some powerhouse super-salad of hype no one could predict, least of all her.

Especially unpredictable was Electra's red-hatted presence in the audience. Temple was uneasy about that, but maybe seeing Elmore make a public ass out of himself would be cathartic, which was a fancy word for feeling self-justified. Templeunderstood that this was so traumatic for Electra, having her past zooming back at her like a motorcycle out of control.

Temple had been there recently. . . .

Matt would be the sane, neutral bridge between two volatile substances: manly men and womanly women. Both had enough years on them to add up to media TNT.

Temple prepared to bite her nails as Savannah Ashleigh did a Marilyn Monroe wiggle to the podium to start the show. Even her voice was MM breathy.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I am so proud and happy to introduce your host for this event, the yummy-on-the-tummy and even ears and other areas too—Mr. Midnight! Matt Devine from 'The Midnight Hour' on station WCOO, that's pronounced W- `cooo,' and we will when we hear him over the microphone. I must say that he looks as yummy as he sounds, so voice isn't everything.”