In Pursuit of Prey: Of Gods and Consorts, Book 1 (9 page)

“Damn well better,” Jazz huffs, and disconnects the call.

Probably not the smartest thing, but I’m pissed—I slide my phone shut, then chuck it at the wall. Phone pieces fly apart like shrapnel. The plaster cracks. A picture of the band crashes to the floor.
 

Kicking the sharp bits aside, I hustle down the hall and grab a clean shirt from the bedroom. Just three steps to the closet, in and out, and it’s still too long. The room, the lyrics on the wall, brings everything Sekhmet and I had crashing back in on me. By the time I snatch up my keys and lock the apartment, the last damn thing I want to do is go onstage and bare my soul.
 

The Nova rolls through the neighborhoods, and I know by the traffic clogging the streets it’s going to be a busy night at Seduction. Normally, nights like this amp me up. A great crowd is like a drug in the blood. I used to crave it, used to sing my throat raw to see the people react.
 

I park the car a block from the club, hoping a walk in the cool air would clear my head. A fucking pipe dream. I’m a twisted, torn-up mess inside, and the last place I want to be is here. After everything I’ve done, all the days I’ve sold and hours spent under a succubus’ spell, now I dread it. Singing to the goddess, watching her moving to and through my words…I don’t want to sing for anyone else.
 

People press wall to wall inside Seduction, even more than the normal nights we play. Shoving my way back toward the stage and dressing room, I hear whispers and have a good idea why they’re all here. My moment with Sekhmet made the front page of the Entertainment Page of the
Lakeshore Chronicle
.
 

Wonderful. I groan. Fucking wonderful. She’s the one person I don’t want to think about, and they’re all here hoping to see more of her.

Faceless people stand all over the floor. Redheads, brunettes, blondes. My heart kicks up a notch when a curvy blonde threads her way toward me, then I see her face. I should’ve known by the lack of fiery connection that it wasn’t my goddess.
 

Heart plummeting in my chest, and possibly about to fall out of my ass, I take the stage with Diablo’s Decadence. Strobes pulse light into the black, the mirror ball fractures the beams and hurls the shards into the crowd. The energy is here, the audience is buzzing, and I might as well be dead to it all.
 

Spotlights flood the stage, the band launches into our opening riff. On cue, I open my mouth and the lyrics fall out—empty of emotion, empty of any power I would’ve put into them. One stanza in and Jazz gives me a ‘what the fuck, dude?’ look. My mind keeps retracing my steps the past couple nights here. I see Sekhmet in the crowd, I can feel her body beside me, my cock aches to be in her. Then, the rhythm builds behind me. Jazz rips into the lick leading into the song I’d sung when the goddess and the girl danced for me.

The hurt and anger on Sekhmet’s face roar to life in my mind. She acted like her heart was broken in the Temple. I know mine is.
 

“I-I’m sorry,” I mumble into the mic. “I just can’t sing this one tonight.”

The click of the microphone settling into the clip cracks like thunder in the night, loud over the silence of the crowd. I stand still for a moment, their eyes on me, my heart and mind elsewhere. Then, I turn my back on everything I’d sacrificed for and walk offstage.
 

I can’t do this anymore. I’ve got nothing but blues left.

Jazz smacks a hard hand on my shoulder halfway to the door.
 

“What the fuck is going on?” His eyes are wild, jaw working like he wants to chew on me.

“Never mind, Jazz.” I try to shoulder past and meet his arm instead.
 

“Don’t tell me to never mind!” He shoves me back a step. “This is the band that your pissy mood is affecting.”

“Sorry,” seems so inadequate, but I say it anyway. “I need some time.”

We stand, fists balled, jaws locked and angry, glaring back and forth. For all his bluster, Jazz is a pussy. He backs down first, and I stomp past.

“You’ve got until next weekend. If you can’t perform, we’ll find another singer,” he snaps, his cutting words jerking my head around to stare at him. “Get your shit straightened out.”
 

Et tu, Brute? She stabbed her magick into me and flung me here, now my band wants to stab me in the back with a replacement singer. I flip him the middle finger salute and shove my way past patrons and out the door.

Outside the street smells like hot puke and tepid gutter water.

Rain patters down, soaking my clothes, stinging the welts on my chest and cheek.
 

“Fitting,” I snort.

I grab my leather jacket from the trunk of the Chevy and shove my arms in. I have to wonder if the entire world is out for me when the lock sticks and wind blows rain inside my jacket. Finally, I wrench the door open and collapse into the seat, numb and unmoving.
 

All I can see is the goddess.

“Get over her,” I snap at my reflection in the mirror. I crank the keys, and the Nova shudders and then roars to life.

How do you get over part of your soul?
 

I struggle through the remainder of the week. My only solace is the song I’d started for her. And prayer. That’s what people do with gods and goddess, right? Pray. The part of me that belongs with Sekhmet knows I won’t see her, even though I darken the door of Seduction every night looking for her.
 

Finally, at band practice on Thursday, I apologize to the band for ditching them and hopefully make amends by sharing my new song.
 

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Jazz claps me on the back. “Maybe a little heartbreak is what you needed. That is so going in the last set tomorrow”

It’s an original. It’s a ballad. Something we’ve never attempted before. After a couple of extra hours of practice, everyone has to admit it’s damn good too. I try for a happy smile but fall short and settle for wan and grateful.
 

It’s my one hope of bringing the goddess back—even if it’s just in the blues of the song.
 

Friday night rolls around. Anticipation roils in my gut, and my cheeseburger is threatening to reappear. Before leaving the apartment, I stop at the mirror and look into the eyes looking back. The eyes are the window to the soul, someone said. God, I hope so. She’s in mine, twined so tight I think getting over her would equal me getting dead.
 

“Hear me,” I whisper. “See me…” Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back, and swallow hard at the ever-present lump in my throat. “Please, Goddess…”

Jonesy, having finally called a truce to the nasty glares and puking in my shoes, watches me shut the door from the couch. I step outside. The rain, falling off and on since Sekhmet left, finally stopped. A new moon hangs empty in the sky, and a warm breeze blows through the streets. I sniff, hopeful for a hint of sweet spice.

Damn my heart for pinching when I don’t smell it.

Something has changed in the past days. On some odd, cosmic level, I know the goddess will hear me. I know she’ll come. She has to—I would sacrifice everything to have her back. If I have any real magick at all, I’m pouring it into her song.
 

“Please,” I pray one more time, then crank the ignition key.

One more crowded venue. One more tight-packed floor. But this time, the energy is different. Even the boozed-up audience can tell something special is coming.

The anticipation swells, surging in the building like liquid, flooding through me. The lights fall. A wave of energy crashes into me when the crowd surges forward. Drums kick out a heady baseline behind me. I draw it all in, feel the music thrumming inside. Then our guitar line joins in, wailing in the dark.
 

Head down, I stand center stage with the spotlight pouring white heat down me. I drag my hands up the mic stand, feeling the light hit them before they disappear back into shadow. I throw every bit of the music I feel into the first set. The energy sinks into the crowd, stirs them, lifts them and comes back to me.

At the end of the last song, I hold the stage, and every eye in the building. The band behind me smiles. I lean into the mic, lips brushing it when I say, “Make sure to come back for our next set. We’ll be doing an original tune, a ballad dedicated to the goddess who stole my heart.”

Chapter Eleven

The Goddess

The calling filters through my soul. A pure ringing tone striking the chord only my consort can. Mace wakes me from a sleep I may never have wakened from elsewise.
 

I forfeited my Temple, gave up my sacred animal form. He is my life now. When the demon fever struck, it took so much of me, I could’ve given up the rest. But Mace calls—I must answer. The in-between spreads black and empty on all sides, engulfing and burying me in it. Mace’s call is so pure, it’s a line to follow out of the dark.
 

Letting go of my vengeful moments, I focus on my consort, my chosen prey. Images of Mace flood me, buoy my spirit, show him as clearly as if he were standing before me. He’s onstage, dark jeans riding low, black shirt with the sleeves pushed up and displaying his tattoos. He’s speaking of the song he wrote for the goddess that stole his heart.

He’s speaking of me.
 

Mace is mine and always will be. I feel it. He feels it. It comes through every syllable, every breath. I plunge my heart and soul into the moment, back into the dark, controlled chaotic atmosphere of Seduction. I feel the press of the crowd, the frenetic energy, the hunger for his voice, his words. I need to be there when he sings the song. I need to be with him.
 

In a deluge of lust and love, I melt through the black…

Senses almost overloaded, I materialize in the crowd, feet from the empty stage. Once more silence reigns. Once more the house lights are off. A single spotlight burns. Mace steps into the white beam and myriad flames flicker to life, held aloft above the throng.
 

The crowd, as a collective, trembles in anticipation.

So do I.

His hands come up the mic stand, a slow glide as they once did on my skin. My eyes roll closed, imagining those hands on me again. I purr in remembered pleasure, but no one listens. Everyone’s ears strain to hear Mace, to hear the magick in his voice. I want that too, but Mace’s voice is not enough.
 

I’m here for the man, for the soul and the source of the blues he sings.
 

Drums beat a soft, sultry rhythm—heartbeat and heartache given voice. The gathered hold their breath. Guitars cry quiet pain. The moment engulfs us all.
 

My lashes part as Mace’s head comes up. His lip quivers, a sigh escapes him. Sunglasses hide his tears from the crowd, but I feel them tracing in ghostly echoes down my cheek. Mace looks into the crowd, silent, exuding want, exuding need, chiming his chord in me. “I wrote this song for the goddess who stole my heart,” he says, voice hardly above a whisper. “It’s called ‘Burning Me.’”
 

Never expected to find you

Never even knew I was lonely

Never expected to be found at all

And now, I’m aching to see you

Aching to call your name

I’m aching to touch you

Goddess in flame…

The siren magick in his voice tugs on my body, but a goddess can resist. My heart cannot. As he pours his pain into the music, I heed the inner compass that led me to this man the first time. Moving through the empty spaces, I use the give and take of the undulating crowd to propel me forward. By the final refrain, I’m front row, center stage, his sweat and sweet pain falling on me.
 

Beauty in the burning

This broken heart to tame

Burning me

Loving me

Killing me

Goddess in flame…

Then, Mace looks down. Our eyes meet, the connection exploding into full, vibrant life inside. A shocked smile curls his lips. He catches his breath and motions to the band to cut the music. The crowd falls silent as the bouncer lifts me onto the stage.
 

“Burning me,” Mace whispers one last time into the mic.
 

The sunglasses no longer disguise the tears coursing down the curves of his cheeks. He reaches out and then pulls me tightly against him. His heart pounds, and mine beats with his. I pull the sunglasses from his face and dry his eyes.

“I’m here now.” His embrace tightens, he buries his face in my mane of hair. “Yours. Always.”

No words are necessary. His smile says it all.
 

Mace takes my hand, turns me to face forward and addresses the crowd. “This is my goddess! This is the one who stole my heart.”

The crowd roars in applause, a hollow and distant noise. I can’t hear anything over the beating of our heats, the rasp of our breaths. His hand is warm when he cups my chin in his palm and draws me closer. Tingles follow his thumb as he strokes my cheek. Mace’s breath is warm, wet on my lips. The world could fall into isfet, back into chaos, and I wouldn’t care when he kisses me. He snakes an arm around my waist, cinches me closer and it’s still not close enough.