In Pursuit of Prey: Of Gods and Consorts, Book 1 (4 page)

In the alley where I first arrived, I lift my human hands to my face and inhale. The difference in his humanity lingers in his scent on my skin. I can taste it when I run my tongue over my lips. I knew the moment we touched that he’s something more than human. It explains his immense draw and our intense connection.

But what is it? Is he even aware?

And why did I feel such a dark thread sucking life from his soul?

The amount of magick I poured into him broke the binding, and a break like that would’ve killed a normal human. Mace kept on and kept up with me. The snipe at the bar might not have been his, but she’s been tainted with magick too. Some other female with dark powers has had her claws in both of them. The girl is too simple to control it on her own; she’s a puppet.
 

And Mace is my man.

This scenario has shades of an old nemesis in it.

No matter. Mace is my prey. I know it, he does too. Tomorrow I will bring him home to my Temple.

Lifting my arms, I release my grip on this plane, release my hold on my modern self. Moist light glows on my body, lighting the shadows I hide in. The clothes disappear, my flesh becomes translucent. Exhaling a breath, I heed my body’s beckon to immerse myself in night. I dissolve to a state of pure consciousness, a fluid entity slicking the pavement.

Focusing on the rhythm the sky goddess Nut brings when she swallows the sun, I disappear from the modern plane and rest in the in-between…

The following night, I rise from the in-between, and materialize into the shadows of the alley. Stink accosts my sinuses and makes my skin crawl: old dirt, fresh filth, spilled beer.
 

A quick glance to either side tells me I am alone. Pushing my magick out in all directions, I know I will not be seen this time. Then, I think back to my experiences last night, especially my time at the table with Mace and his bandmate, Jazz. I fashion new clothes more in line with theirs: low-rise jeans, a tight black tank top and a lacey overshirt. My hair remains loose and down, an invitation for Mace’s fingers to be buried there before the night’s over.
 

Activity buzzes on the street, vehicles rolling past, people here and there putting off a tangible excitement. The energy seeps in when I step from the alley mouth, jingles along my nerves. I channel it into my internal compass and follow it down the path I took before.
 

O’Malley’s Meads hurls the frenetic, high-pitched sound of the wailing string instruments into the night.

Sandals slapping the pavement and hips rolling, I stroll down to the same nightclub where I danced with Mace. He said the venue was small, true enough, but the line is not. The queue wends along the street and around a corner. Feet shuffle. Guys run hands through their hair and check their wallets. Girls with too much makeup and too few clothes check everything else. I check nothing—I’m a goddess, after all. I know there’s no need.

Attentive stares follow my steps. Narrowed glares too. They can look, I’ve seen enough, I’ve scented and tasted my prey. At the front of the line stands the same mountain of a man from the previous night.

Recognition lights his features, and a possible smile tugs at his lips. But guards are to be stern, and he doesn’t smile. His meaty hand falls to the brass hook at the end of the velvet rope, but we both know it’s a formality. The ticket in my hand is worn, but he takes it and lifts the barrier anyway. He saw Mace and me last night, and the kiss that could’ve burned down both our worlds.
 

Once inside, men and women separate and follow roped-off channels to two different bouncers. The one mauling women with his big meaty hands knows why I’m here too. Dual purposes radiate conflicted energy from him when he insists on searching me. I drop an incredulous gaze to my clothing.

“Where would I hide something in this?”

“Don’t care.” He points to another bouncer patting down men in another line. “Everyone has to get searched.”

But the guards do not need to enjoy it the way you do
, I think.

He refuses to let me beyond him. A rosy haze feeds into the edges of my vision. Heat laces my hands, my goddess claws threaten to rip free when he slides his heavy hands slowly over my body and cups my breasts. It’s too much—no one touches a goddess like that without consent. I loose a growl, low in my throat, and level a scathing glare on him. I hold back so much of the power I have. Still, his hands fall; his jaw does too. He’s lucky I leave him with his faculties and his innards intact.

I haven’t
, I think wistfully,
eviscerated anyone in ages…

Capitalizing on my feline grace, I move past the mauling thug and lace my way through the throng. Interim music plays, fuzzy and distorted sounds in competition with the dozens and dozens of patrons. Dim lights barely penetrate the pack of bodies. Bitter brew wafts in the air, lies in puddles on the floor. Bodies jostle, limbs bump and inebriated imbeciles spill beer on each other’s shoes.

I tip my nose up in disdain and mince past. Mace is intoxicating enough for me.

The table we occupied yesterday is close to the dance floor, and still empty. I stop there, watching the snipe of a waitress with the stink of something Other on her. I scent the air around her. She smells of dark and smoke and familiar acrid spices. Her gaze shifts slowly to mine. I drum my fingers, lift my chin, silently dare her to speak. Instead, her shoulders fall, and she scuttles off.
 

Of course, I think, a follower, no true magick of her own.

Chuffing a breath, I strip down to my sandals, jeans and tank top. Tonight is not about enticing attention or trying to impress. I want to be immersed in the moment, want only to feel Mace’s voice on my skin, feel his rhythm penetrate me.
 

His personal chime rings on my soul, scattering light, shedding warmth back into me. I scan the club interior. Mace’s here somewhere.
 

The stage covers a third of the dance floor, modern instruments sitting in a ready array. Drums to the back, guitars to the front, a keyboard to the left. And naked mics await fingers to wrap around them. Pacing the back edge of the press of bodies, I wait for the show to begin. Then every light in the club goes out. The audience draws in a collective breath. The rush of kinetic force surges in a tide toward the stage, tugging at me. Shadowy figures appear, moving among the instruments, spacing themselves out.

For a moment, silence reigns.

Spotlights flash from the back corners, striking a huge mirror ball and exploding into spangles of light. Energy, human and wild, courses through the crowd, flows toward the stage in a visual wave of eager flesh. Bodies churn and eddy against the barricade just to be near the band. I know how they feel, it spills along my veins, but I control myself. Mace is mine—he knows it.

Then spotlights on the edge of the stage bathe the band members. The crowd’s excitement becomes mine, dancing on my nerves, jittery in my muscles. Mace stands center stage, exuding power and magnetic presence from the hint of magick in him. His clothes are black and blue and leather, his feet shoulder-width apart, hips tipped and head down. The play of directional light loves him. When he lifts his head, messy spiked hair highlights the sultry, smoldering look he gives me.

One glance, that’s all. But it is enough.
 

I melt in that moment, yearn to be in his arms, unravel the puzzle he hides within.

The drummer holds a stick aloft, the bass guitarist strums a chord. Diablo’s Decadence launches into a song opening heavy with rolling drum thunder and power chords. Then, Mace’s voice—black velvet and smoky blues—rolls over me in a vocal caress. It’s tangible, stroking me, pulling on my core.
 

Incubus? I wonder. A male siren? Whatever he hides, its magick is music, and it’s working on me.

My head tips back, lips pursed on a sigh.

Trembles of anticipation pour from my scalp to my toes.

The crowd roils, a seething cauldron of bodies responding to the seductive tone of his voice. Then, I know. He has siren blood—has to. Only a siren descendant could affect people like this. Only Mace could affect me like this.

I let his voice take control. His hands come up the mic stand, slow fingers over cold metal. I echo his movements, sliding my fingers up my body, stroking the curves he can’t. His fingers curl around the mic. Mine caress my breasts.

His eyes sweep me, and I swear it touches everywhere, intimate in a way I want his body to be. A hot chill slides down my spine. He already knows how to thrill me. He smiles, tips his head in a visual beckon, and then on the first chorus scans the crowd. His gaze brushes a woman, willowy and young, sweeps back to me and then locks on the blonde a few rows from the stage.

When his smile turns devilish, I know what he wants.

And I can give it.
 

Nodding, I slide into the crowd, using the rhythm and shifting empty spaces until I’m a few feet away from his target.
 

A dew of sweat slicks the young blonde’s skin. A blush pinks her cheeks, and hunger widens her eyes. I know the excitement Mace gives, and I know how she feels. Flushed, heady—hedonistic. I felt that way the night before. Mace sings on, daring the girl to look away as I come up close behind her. Her muscles tense, then relax, and her temperature rises, warming her floral perfume. She feels my presence and likes it.

She radiates her desire, and I weave my magick into her, allowing her the full range of sensations Mace gives me. She sucks in a breath as she
feels
his words. Her body twists and writhes, hips rolling over the sensation while my hands ghost over her fresh, tender curves.
 

The young woman’s head tips back, her pale hair whispering over my bare shoulder. I lean forward, curling around her body, pressing into her back, mimicking Mace’s position from last night. She smells of lilies and lust. I inhale her deeply, taste the bliss rising in her. She turns her face toward my neck, doing the same, taking in my spice. We sway and twist, my hand hovering over her chest as she breathes. Tingles spread in me, brushed there by her round ass. She pulls in a deep breath, pressing her breasts into my hands. Her eagerness coats my throat, thick and sweet.

A breathy moan escapes her, and Mace smiles. And I know intimately that she likes that. Her wants echo in me. She wants Mace, wants what we’re making her feel—but he’s mine.

His lips so close to the mic, pouring his voice over us like sacred oil. Our scents mingle, the sweet of her lilies, the spice of my lust. Mace’s voice thrums in the air, in both of us. We’re bringing her higher, bringing her closer, I can taste her excitement in her breath.
 

On the song’s last stanza she’s a dip and slide of our hips from sweet release. Taking the doubled heat and threatening orgasm we’d built in her, I sever the connection with my magick and leave her floral and wanting. Mace’s growl in the microphone is a summons I can’t ignore.

After years of created sex and total control, I like that.

His voice draws me to front row, center stage. Mace offers a hand, and I reach up. Energy courses through our contact. My nipples tighten, my body burns for his touch. With a boost from the bouncer, the venue rushes by and I’m up on stage, up on Mace.
 

He wraps me in his rhythm, the motion of his leg between mine driving my body toward the ecstasy we denied the girl on the dance floor.
 

One hand on the mic, the other around my back, Mace rocks his rhythm into me on the repeated chorus. He’s all power, his siren voice dragging me under, drowning me in passion. The way he’s holding me, the way we fit together, puts his thigh where I want his cock to be, but the pressure and motion is enough to drive waves of silent pleasure through me.
 

The song keeps my moan from all but Mace.
 

His lyrics finished, the band carries the melody to the end.

He refuses to release me, tips my head back and inhales the girl’s lilies mixed with my spice from my throat. Stage sweat wets my skin, and I can’t get enough. I lick his exposed collarbone. Even when this siren isn’t singing, I can’t walk away. I want to wrap myself around him, sink my teeth into the back of his neck and drag him back to my Temple.
 

“Damn, man!” his drummer exclaims, tucking his sticks in his back pocket. “So this is the one? She is fucking hot!”

“That knuckle-dragger.” Mace points out, letting me stand by his side. “Is Tomas Addison. You’ve met Jazz. The other two are Pepper on keyboards and her brother Scott.”

I incline my head, acknowledging their waves and muttered greetings. “Good evening.”

“And she’s got manners,” Tomas says, surprise hitching his voice a notch higher.

“Lots of people do,” Mace says. “Sorry you missed out.”

“Oh, ha ha.” A drumstick whacks Mace’s chest. The lead singer flings it back.

After a night of music onstage and dancing to the magick in his voice, the house lights come up, and somewhere someone shouts, “Last call!”

Activity picks up in all directions. The audience realizes the show is over and drifts away from the stage, and the band members start packing their instruments.