Free In Pursuit of Prey: Of Gods and Consorts, Book 1 by Savannah Jordan Page B

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