Dark Legion by Rob Cornell

those days. “Yes, I’m certain. Jean LaRue.”
    “Pity. You’re handsome. The girls would have enjoyed tasting you.” A sigh. “I’m afraid Monsieur LaRue is quite busy.”
    “Tell him this concerns his friends with the pointy teeth.”
    A moment of silence.
    “Very well.”
    A short pause, then the gate clicked and slowly swung open.
    Lockman pulled forward, wondering what the man on the call box had meant about girls tasting him. Vamps? His neck muscles tensed.
    “I know you’d rather have me quiet,” Vera said, “but I’m sensing a great deal of magical energy at the house. You should be careful.”
    “No shit.”
    He pulled into a circular drive and parked next to a BMW and a hearse. Up close, the mansion showed its age. Peeling paint. Half-dead kudzu crawling over the façade. Through the open window Lockman could smell rotten vegetation. Yet somehow the old house clung to its former dignity with help of details like the ornate railing lining the wrap-around porch and the arched stain glass window above the front door.
    “Can you tell what’s inside?” Lockman asked.
    “I would have to leave the car to look inside.”
    “You can do that?”
    “I’d prefer not to. My connection to this plane is tenuous without a physical anchor.”
    “You mean you can get sent back to wherever you came from.”
    “Yes.”
    Lockman touched a panel in the driver’s side door. The panel flipped open to reveal one of the many compartments Marty had shown him. He withdrew a .45 from the compartment and tucked the weapon in his waistband at the small of his back. “If I don’t come out of there alive, can you drive yourself back to Marty?”
    “I cannot return without you. My instructions are to guard you at all cost. If you find yourself in danger, I will intervene. If you die, I die with you.”
    “Just like a real guardian angel.”
    “Perhaps the analogy is more apt than I first thought.”
    “Don’t worry. If anybody dies today, it’s not going to be me.”
    He climbed out of the car. He had to remind himself, no matter what she said, that he couldn’t trust Vera. Mojo was for the bad guys. Always had been. Always would be.
    When Lockman rang the doorbell, an off-key version of “Taps” chimed on the other side of the door. Grim stuff. LeRue was pushing New Orleans cliché and about to slip into Adams Family territory.
    A man with skin as white and thin as paper answered the door. His thick black eyebrows stood out in such contrast to his pallor they looked pasted on. He raised those eyebrows and bowed. “Monsieur LaRue will be but a moment. Won’t you relax in the parlor while you wait?”
    This place had to be a joke. The butler might as well have answered the door with a guttural, “You rang?” Lockman peered past the butler into the house. Shadows hung in the foyer like drapes, and quivered as if made by candlelight.
    “Is this a theme park or something?”
    “Beg your pardon?”
    “I’m having a hard time taking you seriously with all the pomp and spookinstance.”
    The butler’s pale face split with a grin. He covered his lips with a hand and chortled. “That’s very clever, sir.” He waved the hand that had covered his mouth in a stately manner. “Most of our clientele expect a certain sort of atmosphere.”
    “What kind of clientele is that?”
    “I’ll leave specifics to Monsieur LaRue. Please, come in.”
    Lockman followed the butler through the foyer, lit by votives mounted to the wall. The smell of hot wax crowded the entrance. The parlor, as the butler called it, had more traditional lighting from floor and table lamps with red shades that dampened the light. The furniture looked old Victorian. The carpet as red as blood. But all of these details registered at the periphery. The women commanded the bulk of Lockman’s attention.
    Six women of varying age, all dressed like burlesque dancers, lounged in the parlor. Two of them reclined on a red leather chase, their