The Crimson Lamia

By Bret Jordan

Sometimes the hunter becomes the hunted.

Cull is a man with no memory of his past. Something draws him forward, toward the supernatural, toward answers. The paranormal holds the key to his past, and possibly his future if he can survive the creatures he hunts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Purple Sword Publications
• Release date: Apr 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781612921617

Bret Jordan

Bret Jordan has lived in Southeast Texas all his life. He is married and has four children, girls with an array of personalities that often boggle his mind. By day he programs computers and by night he works as a freelance artist. When not working, drawing, or spending time with his family, he reads and writes stories of horror and dark fantasy. On summer weekends he can often be found running his motorcycle down the roads of East Texas.

Book preview

THE CRIMSON LAMIA

BRET JORDAN

Published By Purple Sword Publications, LLC at Smashwords

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

Copyright © 2016 BRET JORDAN

ISBN 978-1-61292-161-7

Edited by Traci Markou

Cover Art Designed by Traci Markou

Image Copyright Stryjek and Pavel Aleynikov, Dreamstime.com

For my late Uncle George who always encouraged me.

Chapter 1

Brian tipped the beer up, but his eyes never moved from the bare-breasted woman as she swung around the pole. Stringers of blonde hair clung to the moist sweat on her face and neck. Strands touched her lips as she smiled at the crowd. Most men would have ogled the bouncing of the stripper's breasts or the quiver of her hips, but Brian focused his attention on the boa constrictor draped over her shoulder. Its body looped around the woman's narrow waist and settled against her ample hips. Electrical engineering paid Brian's bills and set the pattern of his mind. He solved problems, and a big friggin' snake dangling from a beautiful woman's shoulders sure seemed like a problem.

What's with this place and snakes? Brian mumbled as he set his beer back down on the table.

The sign over the establishment read The Crimson Lamia. In layman's terms, that meant red snake-lady. An odd name for a topless bar, but better than some. Like all strip clubs, the place had no windows, sort of like a Jehovah’s Witness church, but with less preaching and more nudity. What Brian found odd and slightly unsettling, was all the snake decor. Snakes carved into the support poles: they curved around the elevated dance floor in the glow of fluorescent pink neon, which also matched the neon snakes trimming the bar. Snakes stood out in bas relief from plaques lining the walls; their carvings coiled around the tables and chairs. Hell, even his waitress had a cobra tattoo curling around her arm from shoulder to wrist. Maybe he should quit thinking Jehovah’s Witness, and go with more of a snake cult thing.

In case seeing snakes everywhere he turned wasn't enough, the music also had a slithering quality to it. Notes dragged out longer than they should, and the pounding rhythm undulated. The beat flexed and released. It bore into his ears with the sway of a viper as it slid across the desert floor. Not only that, but the place smelled of snake. Not that Brian held a degree in reptiles, but if he could imagine a viper's scent it would smell just like The Crimson Lamia.

It wasn't that Brian had a phobia about snakes, it was just a damned odd thing to base a strip club around.

Curiosity was the only reason he had gone to the club in the first place. He worked as an electrical engineer for Petrotech Engineering, and for the past three months Brian had traveled the breadth of southern Louisiana inspecting compressor stations for possible future upgrades.

Look at compressor stations. Return to the hotel. Wake up. Repeat. Day after day of driving into the middle of nowhere to look at another version of the same thing he looked at the day before. It was always a different nowhere, and a different station, but after months of staring at the same equipment it became repetitious and boring. The thrill of it had left him long ago if there had ever been any thrill to it in the first place.

Every morning on his way to work Brian saw the billboard featuring the sexy woman holding a python, and again on his way home. The Crimson Lamia, a gentlemen's club. The place was nestled in the woods off of a farm road just a couple of miles from his hotel. Finally, curiosity, or maybe boredom got the better of him, and he asked the desk clerk at the hotel what the deal was with the snake strip club. The clerk had grinned his crooked-toothed grin and leaned forward across the counter as he said, Yeah, the snake thing's a little weird, but you should give the place a chance...that is if you're into that sort of thing. The snakes are freaky, but the girls more than make up for it, if you know what I mean. Then the guy had winked, a lewd eye twitch that Brian easily found as unsettling as the snake decorations.

Well, Brian wasn't into that sort of thing. Not that he didn’t appreciate the female form. He most certainly did. Clubs like that, topless places with loose women, just seemed beneath him. And to think that people referred to the places as gentlemen’s clubs. Brian was a gentleman. He knew he had no place in such an establishment. Besides, he hadn't been to an establishment like that since college, nearly a decade earlier.

Over the next week, his tune began to change as he grew more inquisitive about the place until he finally convinced himself to check it out. Why shouldn't he go? He was a single man who admired the female form. Yes, after three months of only seeing electricians, operators, pipelines, swamps, moss, and engineering packages, he deserved a night off.

The blonde with the snake lay across the front of the stage with her breasts pointed at the ceiling like mountains of flesh as half a dozen young men stood in front of her, eyes wide, dollars waving. Sometimes Brian missed his youth, and the stupidity that went along with being young and less respectable. It would be nice to let go and not worry about what anyone thought, or what he thought about himself.

Brian turned to his right to get a look at the rest of the club. A dozen or so men sat at tables staring at the stage. Some talked amongst themselves while sipping beers and mixed drinks, but their eyes remained fixated on the buxom, snake-adorned blonde. They only glanced away when one of the other strippers passed by them on their way to another table, or to proposition a lap dance.

Movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the table. A beer plopped down in front of him, and a pale hand with dark red fingernails slid the drink forward. His gaze turned from the hand to the topless girl standing before him. Her beauty silenced the question about to leave his mouth. Straight, night black hair cascaded over her shoulders and partially covered her breasts. She had eyes like blue ice and the athletic figure of a tennis player or runner. Her full lips slightly parted showing just a hint of her white teeth as she smiled. She couldn't have been over twenty, but her expression conveyed wisdom far beyond her years. Her eyes let him know that she witnessed his surprise. Her smile acknowledged that it was okay to be awkward, cute even.

Her hand covered his, and the bottle he held. Her cool touch tickled, feather light as she pushed his nearly empty beer down to the table. The girl's skin smelled of roses, and her breath hinted of mint. She winked, then spoke loud enough to be heard over the viperous music, You looked like you could use another beer.

The girl had a husky voice, but not a smoker's rasp.