Dark Legion by Rob Cornell Page A

stocking-clad legs twined together. Neither of them looked much older than eighteen, and could have been younger.
    A third woman in her late thirties leaned against the wall to Lockman’s right and studied him as he entered. Her tongue poked between her glossy lips. She drew a hand down her neck and over a breast that bulged from her bustier.
    The remaining women—the eldest looked close to fifty, yet had skin as smooth as a teen—gave him similar hungry looks.
    “Please, have a seat,” the butler said, then left Lockman to fend for himself.
    His seating options were limited, as the women occupied most of the furniture. A girl in her early twenties wearing sheer silk that did nothing to cover the flesh beneath patted the empty spot next to her on a loveseat. “I don’t bite.”
    No. These girls didn’t bite. They sucked. Nymphs. They could lure a man—or a woman, for that matter—with their sexual energy, then drain the very life-force from your body. Almost worse than vamps. But definitely easier on the eyes.
    “I’ll stand, thanks.”
    The girl pouted. “Suit yourself.”
    Every set of eyes in the room focused on him. He tried to concentrate on a spot on the carpet, but even with his gaze cast down he could feel each woman’s pull.
    And they knew exactly what they were doing to him.
    A wet sound drew his gaze up despite his efforts not to look.
    The pair on the chaise kissed and explored each other’s body with their hands, until one of them slid her hand between the other’s legs and drew a gasp from her. They both looked at him from the corners of their eyes.
    He gritted his teeth and turned away. The swelling in his pants betrayed him. He tucked his hands in his armpits and pretended to study a renaissance era painting on the wall. The painting depicted a trio of naked woman by a pond. Lockman squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on breathing, in through his nose, out through his mouth.
    Finally a voice with a Cajun accent spoke from the entrance. “Ah. I see you have met my beautiful ladies.”
    Lockman opened his eyes and turned.
    Jean LaRue looked like a shorn Santa Claus—round and red-faced, with not a single bit of visible hair. Not even eyebrows or lashes. He wore a deep red tuxedo, full with bowtie and cummerbund. The ruffled shirt under the tux had yellow stains on an otherwise pristine white. The collar made his neck look like bloated sausage.
    LaRue smiled, revealing broken yellow teeth. “Would you like a moment with one or two? I can arrange a room for you…on the house, of course.”
    “I’m not interested in your nymph bordello.”
    LaRue’s gaze dipped to Lockman’s crotch. “Oh, I’d say you’re quite interested.”
    “Let’s take this somewhere else.”
    The fat Cajun signaled with a pair of fingers and the woman by the door sauntered over. “He’s yours if you want him.”
    She smiled and sniffed the air. “I want.”
    “Not interested,” Lockman said through clenched teeth.
    “You can drain him,” LaRue continued as if he hadn’t heard Lockman. “Share him with the other girls if he’s too much.” He looked Lockman in the eye. “I don’t like threats. Even subtle ones.”
    The woman LaRue had summoned came around and put a hand on Lockman’s chest.
    His legs and arms tingled as if they’d fallen asleep. A hint of vertigo swayed over him. He grabbed the nymph by the wrist, twisted her hand off of him, then torqued her arm just right.
    Her wrist bones snapped. She screamed and backed away, cradling her hand. Venom filled her eyes.
    “You don’t touch this merchandise, you nymph bitch.”
    She hissed at him.
    LaRue’s face reddened. “Sharia is one of my most popular girls. You’ve just cost me a great deal.” He turned to the roomful of woman. “Take him.”
    Lockman reached behind him and drew his gun, jammed the barrel in LaRue’s squishy neck. “Bad move, Pimp Daddy.”
    LaRue gasped at a womanly pitch. He waved a hand. “Never mind, my