In Pursuit of Prey: Of Gods and Consorts, Book 1 (2 page)

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 of 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.

Ridiculous. I am not about to let a list or a simple guard disrupt my hunt. I raise a hand to wave the rope away, and silence the man if necessary. Before I can, he lumbers closer, his gaze poring over me, head to toe and every curve in-between. His eyebrows rise, a smile lights his features, then he lifts the rope for me.
 

“Go ahead, babe,” he grunts.

Uncouth, I think, but hold my tongue.

Once inside the cavernous building, my eyes adjust to the lack of steady light.
 

Just beyond the door stands another muscle-bound man; his black shirt screams in white letters BOUNCER. My gaze slides over him as I walk past.

My sinuses riot from the muddled scent of hops and perfumes. Tables spread in puddles around the edges, a bar stands against the one wall, a stage and floor littered with upright writhing bodies across from it. I let the throbbing sound wash over me, wash through me, guide my body with its driving beat. I mince across tough, ugly carpeting through the dimly lit interior.
 

The insistent weight of the bouncer’s stare bores into my back. He is beneath me. In my Temple, he would’ve been a guard or perhaps a sacrifice… Ignoring him, I follow my nose, and my body’s unerring senses toward where my prey stands.
 

A wicked smile warms his lips as he watches me approach.
 

His rolled-back shoulders and leisurely slouch against the table shout confidence.
 

He is not one I would have created, but Spirit and Soul promise me that he is mine. Besides, I like him. He stands behind a table, caught in conversation with a friend.
 

It is obvious from the distance between him and the dancers that he is not one for center floor. I’ll make him dance, though. He is what I want.

A goddess always gets what she wants.

Chapter Four

The Prey

Oh hell yeah
, I think when the sexy blonde from the street appears in the crowd.
 

I knew she would follow me—knew it like I know she’s here for me. It’s in the air, crackling like lightning, spicy like her perfume. She’s all sunlight-gold and curves to get lost in. Even her eyes are gold. Sexier close up too, with her cat-like eyes trained on me. And the way she moves…fluid, almost feline as she weaves through people.
 

Elemental power ripples around her, sucking in every man’s attention, pulling a smile from me. It reaches in, strums a chord in me no one’s touched, even if the energy is similar to Naami’s.

Just steps away, she tips her chin down. Hair all wavy and wild frames her face, shadows her eyes in a sexy come-hither look I have to fight to resist. Then she holds out a hand and my resistance crumbles.
 

“What’s your—”
Name
, I start to say. She stops me with warm fingertip on my lips.
 

Maybe names aren’t important. She doesn’t care, and the desire to touch her gags my question and beats it into submission. Her gold eyes shift from me to the dance floor and back, then she offers her hand again. I’m vaguely aware of Jazz making shocked sputtering noises at my table, other people in the club, but we might as well be alone. She destroys the world, and if she wants me, I’m there, even if it is in the middle of the damn dance floor.

She guides, lacing between couples sucking face and copping feels, to the middle of the floor. I can’t take my eyes off her, sliding over her curves, diving into her cleavage as she turns to face me. The DJ spins a new tune—exotic, kind of kinky sounding, like pharaohs and harems in a modern dancehouse. The melody builds, the lights fall. And I hardly notice, she’s calling me without saying anything, and damn it, my body’s responding.
 

I’m not a dancer
, I think ruefully. And, God this woman is. I’ve seen them all, pole dancers, hip-hop dancers, lap dancers. She’s none of those. She weaves into the rhythm, sightless and still leaving electric touches on my face, my arms, my chest while her hips sway in a slinky side-to-side roll, like a belly dancer, only way more private and enticing.

The lyrics don’t matter, she’s not the kind of dancer to let others’ words guide her. My hesitation doesn’t matter, either. Nothing matters but the pulse driving her, and the heat she’s bringing up in me. Every beat brings her closer and makes me hotter, till there’s nothing but shadows between us and I think I might catch fire.

The next touch she strokes over my shoulder melts something in me. Suddenly I’m moving, mirroring her movements, working up to the body she’s rippling in front of me like water before a man dying of thirst.
 

Then, on a downbeat, she gives me a coy look, spins and drops her ass. Her fingers follow her path, stroking the length of my body, right past my cock. Eyes casting a feral light she turns and, on the bridge to the chorus, grinds that full curve up on me, pressing her heat against my fly. Blood surges, temperatures rise, and I know she’s pulling something more primal than a sense of rhythm and a hard-on out of me.

I cup her hips, my thumbs over her backside, fingers straining for the pockets of her jeans. She times her seduction with the bass beat driving through us. Every rock of her ass, every brush of her on me, and my need grows, strains against my skin and the back of my zipper.

She hooks her fingers around my wrist, dragging my hand farther around her and tucks my thumb in the well of her pocket. The denim of her jeans slides against my fingers with every rock of her hips, a beckon to explore her southerly regions. It’s too easy to slide my fingers down her short zipper and lower, so I let them travel.
 

Blonde hair whispers over my shoulder when she tips her head back and rests it against me. I send my other hand north of her studded belt, gliding it across the filmy fabric of her top, grazing her breast.
 

Her sigh is an invitation for more.

Who am I to pass up an invitation like that?

Succumbing, I bury my face in her hair, curving around and pressing into her body as she pushes my bounds of public display. We could be alone, dancing in my apartment, and not on a crowded dance floor, damn near screwing and still totally clothed.
 

The heat between us keeps rising, boiling in my blood, smelting off my connection to Naami. I feel it snap like a guitar string cranked too tight. A new bond with this woman rushes in, flooding me with a liquid warmth from, and a hunger for, her. The kind of kismet Naami and her soul-sucking can never create, the kind of perfection only a woman as powerful as the one in my arms could create.

With every breath her ribs flex under my fingers, her heartbeat echoes in mine. I hold her tighter, cinching in with each breath, molding her to me. Her skin is hot, slick with a perfume-sweetened sweat, and I think I’m burning. I pump against her, to hell with the music, the club, our contract here.