In Pursuit of Prey: Of Gods and Consorts, Book 1 Read online

  Dedication

  To Lynda, my constant pillar of support, and to Lexie and Judy for reading outside your comfort zone. See? This stuff is FUN!

  Chapter One

  The Goddess

  Desert heat bathes my naked skin as I walk from the scene of my latest sexual conquest.

  Gorgeous olive skin, dark hair and darker eyes lined in kohl, body once thrumming with stamina. He’s a real stunner—one of my best. He lies limp and spilled over my bed, an arm and both legs dangling off the edge, muscles lax that were once corded beneath me. My nipples still tingle from his teeth, body still throbs from grinding against him. I rode his bucking hips like he was a prize stallion between my legs.

  But he’s not real.

  Without my magick, my lover’s body softens, a shimmer slicks him head to toe, pulsing with my heartbeat. Solid. Tenuous. Solid. Tenuous. Then he disintegrates into a fall of glittering dust, swept away on the hot breeze blowing through my Temple.

  A smile flirts with my lips, then dies.

  Satisfaction and satiation of hunger veer farther apart for me with each of these trysts. Weak knees and sweat glistening on skin do little when my heart remains vacant. Empty encounters full of sex without passion have lately become quite taxing. Even goddesses get the blues, and after ages of created lovers to burn off my divine sexual heat, I’m lonely. My shoulders sag with a breathy sigh. There must be more out there, more I need. Prey calls to me, chiming on my soul.

  Reed rugs whisper beneath my steps to the full length of my polished silver mirror. Feminine yet feline. Feet and hands curled into paws, round breasts and full curves, and above my shoulders the mark that sets me apart from humans, a lion’s proud head and glowing amber eyes. Exotic, powerful, unchanged through the centuries, and every bit a predator.

  A second sigh escapes me, unsettling my whiskers in its passing. Having outlived my mortal servants and grown tired of the rest, I dress alone. Linen caresses my skin when I pull on a white gown. Jewels wink back light when I cinch a beaded sash at my waist.

  Fully clothed and entirely hollow, I look through sheers billowing in the desert breeze. Within the walls, my Temple holds all of its ancient glory—outside of my magick the desert is desolate, as empty as I feel. I scan the modern wasteland of the Egyptian desert and think with a rueful twist of my muzzle that the outward view reflects my inner heart.

  A predator needs to hunt, and I’ve grown weary of ready, deified flesh. Never a change, never a challenge. Nothing new for an eternity.

  My echoing footfalls goad me, the rumpled bed linens mock me.

  Empty. Hollow. Alone.

  Lonely.

  A soul calling to me…

  The time has come.

  To hunt is to leave behind my home. A moment’s regret tugs at my heart. I turn from the window to look one last time at the interior of my Temple. Lush and finely appointed, decorated in colors reflecting my fiery nature: gold, bloody burgundies, smoky plumes of sacrificed oils curling from the altar. Thoughts of leaving feed the regret, digging in claws, pulling at my heart.

  Of course, if I find suitable prey, I intend to drag him back home to be savored at my leisure.

  Time to leave these halls and hunt.

  But not here, not now. The towns nearby offer up only the throats of dust and familiarity. Nothing as fresh as I desire walks the paths of the land of Egypt.

  Resigned, I stalk to the entrance of my Temple, to the portal between this time and that. There I pause, running a paw down the smooth stone, feeling the texture, committing it to memory. Beyond lies a vast world, matured from ancient times, and teeming with life.

  Holding a breath, I steel my nerves and step through. Dry desert heat assuages my body, stings my muzzle and dries the breath in my throat. Bangles clink, sliding down my rising arm as I shield my eyes to scan the present wasteland for witnesses. Miles and miles of open range, broken only by hillocks. No one visible.

  Comfortable that I won’t be seen, I release my grip on the here and now, release my hold on myself. A damp sheen blooms on my skin, my eyes burn like the sun above. My flesh becomes transparent. My teeth glint in a smile. Looking down, I see my vacant Temple through my chest. Then, my body dissolves, a puddle of golden consciousness on the sands.

  The chiming rings through me, and I focus my thoughts on it.

  Like rare, rare rainfall, I seep through the gritty surface and disappear…

  Chapter Two

  The Prey

  Blacklight bounces from posters, dies in the bright strobing flashes, shouts in a white-blue echo from the low-cut shirt of the chick grinding on the bouncer. She could be a ghost—he pays her that much attention. After enough nights in clubs like this, not much impresses. Especially not barflies like that, flitting from club to club, guy to guy, bed to bed. As I approach, the chick careens past grind and into grope, and Tucker Moses, badass bouncer with morals, pushes the barfly off.

  “You strike a deal, Mace?” he shouts over the dancehouse music throbbing in the air.

  “Hell no.” I stop beside him and grab my guitar case at his feet. “I still need to respect myself in the morning. Louie wouldn’t pay enough.”

  A minute shake of his close-shaved head. “I hear ya, man.”

  “If you get a night off, you should stop by. We’re Seduction’s new house band.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I nod, clap him on his beefy shoulder and walk past. He won’t come, and I know it. Tucker talks a good story, but he’s a regular here. If he isn’t working, he’s holding up the far corner of the bar and drinking.

  That particular back-alley funk—stale beer, fresh puke, hot asphalt—wafts up when I open the rear exit of Louie’s sleazy dive, The Backdoor. Definitely not the type of place we normally play, and tightfisted Louie isn’t the kind of manager I normally deal with. I’m tempted to rub my nuts, thinking they should be sore with his constant attempts at lowballing me and the band.

  Neon green paper floats above the paving. I kick The Backdoor’s flyer proclaiming the best drinks at the best prices. Anyone who’s been to the local bars knows that’s bullshit. Louie’s soda-to-syrup ratio is always off, in favor of his miser reputation, and it waters down all the mixed drinks. Plus, he doesn’t stock top-shelf liquors or keep anything other than crappy beer on tap. Sure, The Backdoor’s drinks are cheap, but you get what you pay for in that joint.

  If our band Diablo’s Decadence didn’t want the big leagues, I wouldn’t have even bothered with an ass like Louie. It takes money to hire a manager, and it takes booking gigs and filling seats to make money. Being the house band for Seduction is one thing, radio airtime is another.

  It might be time to pay my personal benefactor a visit. It’s give and take, and she doesn’t take money.

  Future years, or current success? I asked myself that once. Now, I’m not sure I made the right choice. The sex is amazing, the payoff is great. The price? Bits of my life—a week here, a month there—paid to a woman who has a knack for making things happen.

  I pass a wino clutching his paperbag-wrapped bottle, huddling in his house of cardboard. Tattered and stained, his clothes look like recent rescues from the dumpster his shanty rests against. He could’ve been one of her past lovers. I could still end up like him. Being with Naami is like performing a gig on the edge of a razorblade. Exquisite torture, brilliant clarity—one wrong step and she can take all I have left.

  Too many nights I argue with myself about what I’ve done and wonder if it’s worth it. Reality might blow, but it’s better than the alternative.

  Hell, if I really look at things, Diablo’s Dec
adence could’ve easily earned the gigs and growing fan base on our own.

  And we should, I think. We should.

  One building away from the mouth of the alley and a tremor of something passes over me. Feels like lightning cracking very close—a build of energy, a flash of power and then nothing. Most people would dismiss it, if they would notice it at all.

  I notice.

  I know that feeling.

  Someone or something powerful just arrived in town. A similar power surge hits me whenever Naami appears. Before I can engage my brain and think better of it—if I were smart I would turn and run in the other direction—I follow the same inner compass that led me to the succubus draining my life away one screw at a time. An inner pull guides me around the alley mouth, up one block and then a short jog through another filthy back alley.

  Then I skid to a stop.

  Power slicks over my skin, even a block away.

  It vibrates in the air, invisible and still swirling away in the lines of my tattoos. Someone definitely is there. A blonde mane of wavy hair, and she’s curvy as hell, dressed in little more than a length of thin, white material. The energy shift I felt must’ve been her coming here.

  Who is she? And why is she here? The buzzing in my gut says she’s someone powerful, maybe more powerful than Naami. The residual tremor razing my nerves says she’s more of a predator.

  And she’s already flipping every trigger I have.

  Chapter Three

  The Goddess

  High rooftops clutter the sky, blocking my view of the full moon. Metal grates belch steam at my feet. Colored lights flash and beam through the thick air. The streets are hard, flat and loud, choked with vehicles and heavily clothed people—such peculiar-looking people.

  I tip my nose up in sudden contempt.

  Where, I think, can I possibly find suitable prey in such a place?

  Disdain plummets into disappointment. Stepping back into the shadows, I bury myself from view. Citizens scurry back and forth, shoes slapping or heels stabbing the pavement. Blonde, brunette, black hair, spiky, long or short, and all of them drowning in clothes. And still, there is a reason I landed in this time. A man, a mate, is out there. I can feel him. A calling tickles on my nerves, strokes my cravings, riles the predator in me.

  I cannot hunt here without gaining undue attraction with my leonine traits. Camouflage is necessary. I’ll have to modify my appearance—but I’m still a goddess after all.

  Arms outstretched, I turn my magick upon myself. Heat floods my skin, noonday-in-the-desert hot, and then sinks into my body. The pelt dissolves from my paws and head, my bones shift, shrink and change as I fashion my body into an entirely human form. I pore a gaze down my body; long sleek limbs, high round breasts and full heart-shaped ass. Then I refine my facial features to something with a hint of feline: amber-brown eyes and long, dark blonde hair.

  Next, clothing, and I refuse to drown in it. I keep my sandals, add clingy jeans and a filmy, sleeveless, low-cut top. I replace my beaded sash with a studded belt, riding low past my navel and sparking back the firelight.

  Stepping from the secluded shadows, I toss my mane of hair and adjust my belt, then check my reflection in a dark shop window. Goddess, but modern.

  Almost immediately, the weight of stares prickle my skin. A smile crooks my lips. Let them stare. I certainly plan to... I scan the street for potential sources of the prey call. My hopes rise the closer I look at the traits that make these modern men attractive. Square jaws and proud noses. Wide shoulders and narrower hips. What makes the affluent, polished ones less attractive to me? An air of pretense? Regardless, the lean-muscled, tattooed men carry more appeal, perhaps a sense of challenge. Anticipation wells up, quite a pleasant surprise after the pale hope I maintained earlier.

  On a closer, second look, life crowds the streets. Men and women walk past, some with potential, some without.

  Head held high, hair cascading down my back, I lean into a strut best suited to these hips. Men watch. Women too. I meet gazes, stroll confidently, no more aim than to follow my predatory senses of prey and direction. The chiming still rings on my soul, a tickle leading me forward.

  Brick building fronts rise to either side of the street, an aqueduct channeling humanity in a constant flow. The noises mix and battle, a cacophony after ages of worship and whispers, panting and pillow talk. And the scents… Foul. High rooftops and quiet confines are punctuated occasionally by shorter structures exhaling beery fumes, smoke and loud raucous music. The doorways expel drunkards, obvious in their staggers, flushed cheeks, glassy eyes.

  Not far from one of these questionable establishments, an intense stare needles me, and the tingling sense of the prey that brought me here heightens. Dual sensations, chaffing each other and me.

  “Hey, baby,” a man calls.

  Brisk air whisks under my shirt when I turn. Ragged clothes, too many tattoos, one hand on the neck of a bottle, one hand splayed over his crotch and cupping what I would never touch. He exudes a vulgar, polluted energy. He is nothing I would waste my time on. With a derisive snort, I move on, following the gentle magnetic pull.

  Drawn farther down the street, I drift into a district more befitting a goddess’s presence. No refuse cluttering the pavement, clean paint on the buildings. Polished metal fittings.

  A hint of the silent chime rings in me, and I tip my head, following the sounds into a tavern named O’Malley’s Meads. Green and gold decorations gleam everywhere. In a far corner, a quartet of musicians crowd a tiny stage, their frenetic music dances from stringed instruments and accosts my ears. A heavy, thick beer pours from metal spigots above a long bar of polished wood stretching the length of the tavern’s right side.

  Weaving between tottering inebriates, I sidle up to the bar. A whisper tickles my senses—my prey is near. The barkeep is a redhead—a race mistrusted in my homeland, my home time. Here they mix freely, especially in this tavern.

  Center bar I stand, waiting for service, waiting for someone, waiting for my prey.

  I don’t wait long.

  Someone approaches from behind while I order a beer from the barkeep. His body heat penetrates my clothes, his breath heavy and wet on the back of my neck. He dares to touch me without permission, one meaty hand cupping the curve of my hip. Then, he worms closer, pressing out the air between us, pressing his pelvis against my rear. A rosy haze flirts with the edges of my vision, my claws itch to come out. In ancient times, he would be killed for this.

  “Buy you a drink?” he asks.

  I don’t answer…verbally.

  Instead, I tuck my hand into his on my hip. Feline lithe and quick, I step back and to the side, twisting around my arm to drag his high and hard behind his back. He yelps in surprise and drops his beer. Feelers of red weave into my sight. Flashing what I know is a predatory smile, I wrench his hand up toward his skull just to hear him gasp in pain. His twisted shoulder joint lets out a loud crack—music to my ears.

  “Never,” I snarl in his ear, “touch a goddess without her permission.”

  He only grunts in response.

  Someone’s laugh penetrates and diffuses my haze of heated vengeance. Without turning toward the source, I know the laughter came from the one who watched me earlier. Without the red hazing my senses, I feel him close. He has followed me. His soul called me here to hunt.

  The tingle slides along the edges of my soul, gliding past, baiting me onward.

  I drop the man’s hand, leave his spilled beer and my full one behind when I turn toward the door. This tavern will have nothing to offer when the one who called me here has left. Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I straighten my blouse and step past shocked faces and once more onto the street.

  The street population has decreased. Prospects for running down prey grow thin. Only one man has piqued my predatory interests. The sickly sweet taste of regret slicks my throat. Still, the whisper on my soul, the sense of prey lingers.

  Walking, I try to make sense o
f what my feelings say. He is so near it feels like I could leap and sink my teeth into his neck. But, no. He isn’t in front of me on the sidewalk. A gaggle of people cluster at the corner, perhaps distorting my ability to feel him. Then, my prey overtakes me on the edge of the crowded intersection. The calling tugs on my core, then slips past.

  Head high, knowing my quarry is close, I meet the eye of any who glance my way. Some I grace with a smile. Some shy from me, and some openly stare. None are what I want. None ring that silent chord in me. Still I walk, following my compass, allowing it to guide my steps to a building vibrating with a heavy bass beat. The rhythm speaks to my body, sinks in and dances in my veins.

  There, in the street, my prey finally returns my smile, radiating a heated hunger.

  Brown hair, smoldering brown eyes and a rakish smile. Low-slung jeans, tight shirt showing his muscles and magickal markings tattooed into the skin of his arms. And, most appealing, confidence exudes from him.

  He is the one. The sweet fire flooding me, proclaims it. By the look in his eyes, and energy coming off his body, he knows it too.

  He turns, flicks a backward glance of invitation over his shoulder, and plunges into the open doorway of the pulsing building. Rhythm pounds from the square building, a massive heart beating and forcing my pulse to match it. A neon sign glows in garish pink above the door. Seduction.

  Enticing. A game of cat and mouse.

  A grin curls my lips. The modern occupants within have no idea what my brand of seduction is. They will know soon. And he will know.

  If anyone is close enough, they will hear me purr.

  It’s time, I think, to teach these people the ways of a goddess.

  I slip through the crowd, moving on instinct, stalking with my feline grace between the pressed flesh that mills before the nightclub’s door. The door yawns open, a huge mouth with lights flashing in the dark within. Here the crowd tapers to a line, fidgety women, eager guys eyeing them, and a velvet rope barring entrance to all.

  Beyond the rope looms a mountain of a man, a guard by his demeanor. He holds a board with a list of names tacked to it. Singles and small knots of people meet with the guard, then they either gain entrance after he scans the list, or he sends them away.