Mostly Innocent: The Powers That Be, #1

By J.M. Jinks

Meet Layla James, your typical smart and snarky chick—except for the whole succubus thing. After nearly a millennium on Earth, Layla's settled down in a boring life in Palm Springs, until a smoking-hot hunter comes to arrest her for murder. But Layla knows the rules—she'd never kill someone and incite the wrath of The Powers That Be.

 

Elijah Daines is a hunter, maintaining the balance of good and evil in the mortal realm, his power stronger than any hunter she's ever encountered. Plus, he's a seriously sexy distraction. Too bad he's accused her of a crime she didn't commit.

 

As the killer continues a murder spree that not only frames Layla but threatens to expose the existence of supernatural creatures to humans, Layla and Elijah team up to investigate. Hopefully, they can fight off their escalating attraction for each other long enough to exonerate her and stop the murder madness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Oct 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781947128637

Book preview

Champagne Book Group Presents

Mostly Innocent

A Powers to be Novel, Book 1

By

J.M. Jinks

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Champagne Book Group

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2018 by J.M. Jinks

ISBN 978-1-947128-63-7

October 2018

Produced in the United States of America

Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue

Albany OR 97321

USA

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not buy it, or it was not bought for your use, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dear Reader:

Thank you for checking out Layla’s story! This is a surreal moment in my life where the stories I imagine will actually be read (hopefully) by other people. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. I’d love to get to know you all—find me on social media. This is just the beginning.

XOXO,

J

One

None of my usual charms were working. I plastered on my fake smile. "How about this shade of yellow, Mr. Griffiths? It even has the word joy in the name. I waggled the joyful sun yellow" paint swatch, working hard to keep my grin wide.

Mr. Griffiths grimaced. His wrinkled face had never shown any joy in it, like ever. Of course, he wanted joy for his family room.

He furrowed his bushy gray eyebrows, deepening his wrinkles. "I said I want joy." He spat the word at me with an emphasis best described as the exact opposite.

I gripped my neck to massage away both the tension and beads of sweat I had accrued. The AC in such a large building didn’t provide much relief from the Southern California summer.

I ground my teeth together. Mr. Griffiths, joy isn’t a color. I gritted the words through my entirely faux grin. "If you could perhaps suggest a color, then I could help you find a shade of joy in them. I gestured at the many other swatches I pulled earlier, splayed like a rainbow on the counter. Are you sure you don’t want to look at this joyful blue again? Or perhaps this joyous green?"

The paint company called the swatches some other frilly names, but I didn’t care. Desperation seeped in, and I’d do anything to get him out of the paint department. He had been here an hour today and had come in every other day the past week in an attempt to find colors emitting a certain emotion. Yesterday he searched for the color excitement and the day before that it was ecstasy. I cringed. I didn’t want to know what he used that particular room of his house for. Pretty sure The Powers That Be sent him to be my own personal form of torture.

Mr. Griffiths slammed his fist onto the counter making the paint swatches leap into the air. None of those are joy, dammit! I said I want joy. Spit from his toothless snarl sprayed in my direction.

I flinched. Maybe he should want dentures instead of joy.

You’re supposed to be the color artist, Layla. He yakked the words while he flicked my Buck’s Hardware Store nametag deeming me the ‘Color Artist.’ Find me joy!

No color of paint will give you the type of joy you need, you crusty old man.

I clenched my fists. Goodbye patience. Time to turn on the real charm. Not the sweet charm of a good personality and a smile, but charm only an immortal succubus possessed—Aphrodisia. My magical mojo created a lust powerful enough I could manipulate people to do my bidding. I’ve had men start wars over me. Even the strongest emperors have fallen to their knees before me. Today though, I faced a far different beast. I needed Mr. Griffiths to choose a damn paint color. I bit my lip and tapped my fingers on the counter, giving my conscience time to second-guess what I’d planned.

Everything will be fine, just don’t, ya know, steal his soul. My conscience had a point. Stealing souls tended to happen, me being a succubus and all.

I bent over the counter. I wore blue-jean overall shorts with a low-cut, V-neck, white tee. The overalls fell just below my breast line and boosted my already plump cleavage. Yeah, my move was a ruthless, full attack. The air thickened as I sent my best lust-filled charms toward him. The sweet smell of Aphrodisia perfumed the space between us, like orange blossoms in Spring. He caught the scent, his glassy eyes widened, and he took in my seductive pose. He licked his lips.

Barf.

Entranced, he leaned closer. Pipe tobacco and cognac lingered on his breath and assaulted my nostrils. He might just deserve me stealing his whole soul. Okay, maybe not, but what’s a succubus to do?

Mr. Griffiths, I purred. I think I have the perfect color. Fine, I probably should’ve felt guilty for this, but I’d enough of his spit sprayed in my face for an immortal lifetime. I grabbed the ugliest brown I could muster and displayed it for him. Now, if this poo brown doesn’t scream joy, then frankly Mr. Griffiths, I don’t know what will.

Too distracted by my fingers playing with a strand of hair that fell across my cleavage, too distracted by my pouting, full lips, he didn’t even check out the color. To give him credit, I did have great lips.

He dipped his head. Yes, Layla. Joy, that’s it, he cooed. I’ll have two gallons.

When I started his order, my smile shined brilliant and genuine this time.

By the time I finished Mr. Griffiths’s transaction, I was exhausted. My shift ended in twenty minutes. I liked working at Buck’s Hardware Store, truly, I did, but when I saw the job opening for Color Artist, I had something much more extravagant in mind, such as interior designer—create color palettes, help clients decorate their dream homes. Turned out, I did no more than put things in a computerized machine and press buttons. I could have quit. I didn’t need the money.

After about a thousand years on Earth, I’d accrued quite the savings account and too many priceless artifacts to count. But once I met my boss, Buck of Buck’s Hardware, and then my coworkers, I couldn’t do it. The people here, they were good people, and somehow, they’d become my people. Besides, in customer service I had an all-you-can-eat buffet for a good lay—aka a good chunk of soul for me to collect.

However, cranky Mr. Griffiths made me question my choice. As a succubus, I had a certain innate likability, even without my Aphrodisia, but not with Mr. Sourpuss. Ugh. I tried not to dwell on it, nor question my sex appeal. What would a succubus do if she didn’t have sex appeal?

I saw what you did there. A voice rang from behind me, chastisement obvious in the tone.

A spark of fear shot through my spine. Had I been seen using my magic?

You shameless hussy.

I relaxed and faced my coworker slash BFF Jolene.

You should be ashamed of yourself, leaning over the counter, pouting your lips. You could have given poor Mr. Griffiths a heart attack with that sight.

Lifting my chin, I pretended to be offended. Jol, I couldn’t stand him anymore—

Bless your skanky heart, Layla. I would’ve done the exact same thing, except days ago. The color, though? Awful! You called it poo brown, and he didn’t even look at it, too hypnotized by you shakin’ what yo’ mama gave ya. Her admonishment came with a fit of giggles.

Well, my mama didn’t exactly give me this.

We exchanged a look then erupted in laughter. She wiped an escaped tear from her cheek. See, this is exactly why we’re friends. Conning old men into buying whatever you see fit. I think I approve.

I couldn’t help but smile. Jolene had an infectious personality, and she embodied the definition of beautiful, both inside and out. She stretched just past six feet, her legs went on for days, and she had long golden hair and bright blue eyes to boot. With all her charms and beauty, I would have sworn she was a succubus, but no, I didn’t get a magical signature from her. Her looks were au naturel. I wanted to be jealous, but I’d instantly liked her too much to ever be.

Of course, as a succubus, I’m beautiful. Turning into one had heightened my existing beauty. My ash blonde hair became shinier, my green eyes a little brighter, and any skin imperfections vanished. The only note of otherworldliness I acquired was the constant iridescent hue under my tan skin. I couldn’t help but compare the glow to fishing tackle when the light hits it just right. Nonetheless, I guess it makes me pretty among the mortals. I stood at an average human woman’s height and carried some curves, landing me somewhere between a size six and eight by today’s designer standards.

However, I couldn’t help but admire my taller, thinner friend. Sometimes immortality sucked in a way—I would never change physically, never grow old and wrinkled, my beauty another marking of my immortal imprisonment. But hey, I could eat whatever the hell I wanted and never get fat.

A squeal erupted from behind me. Oh my god, Layla! Don’t look now, but the hottest guy I have ever seen is staring straight at you.

I froze.

Jolene lowered her voice. I think he’s checking out your butt. Quick. Drop something and pick it up.

I almost did as she commanded, but I felt him, his power, before I could move. The power crawled up my spine and chilled me to the core. It blanketed me like a foreign cloak, its force too strong.

Okay, he’s coming toward the counter.

My inner succubus reacted, pivoting me to face him. She didn’t like feeling like prey about to be pounced on—unless it was in the good, sexy way.

I lifted my gaze to his. His strong power signature swallowed mine whole. My heartbeat increased, and my spine stiffened. Shit. A hunter.

As Jolene mentioned, he was quite a looker. But I couldn’t enjoy the sultry blue-eyed glare or his five o’clock shadow surrounding his full lips and strong jaw. Adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream by the gallon as he edged closer.

Jolene nudged me forward. I got this. She glanced toward the phone.

I hadn’t registered the phone behind me ringing, every cell of my being focused on him.

"Now, you go get that, and then tell me every single detail." She answered the phone with a wink.

He stalked nearer the counter. I, or maybe my succubus, decided on a whim I would not be intimidated by his power. I wasn’t sure where my sudden courage came from. He had to have sensed my succubus signature. We weren’t a violent race when we controlled our urges. I’m Queen of Control over here. I’m sure he knows I won’t hurt him. Right?

But why is he here? Something must be wrong.

With every step he took toward me, I had a better look at him. His dark hair was in slight disarray, and his crystal blue eyes scoured my face. He towered over me in every sense of the word. My stomach dipped.

He and Jolene should go back-to-back so I can get an accurate measure of his height.

I shook away my thoughts of him. Given his disapproving glare, he came here on a mission. Greek god or not, he was still a hunter, and I—

I was a product of evil, aka something he hunts.

"Succubus," he growled.

One tiny word filled with eons of unabashed hatred. It vibrated through me. All hopes of him wanting a new bathroom paint color vanished. No, this visit wouldn’t be pleasant, not at all.

Perhaps I could seduce him. Hell, he could do me right on the floor of aisle nine next to the light fixtures, if it kept him from killing me. I bit my lip. Hunters weren’t typically susceptible to succubi charms. A failed attempt of Aphrodisia could earn me more problems.

I released a breath. Some buried-deep, natural instinct rolled through me again, and I decided to stand my ground. I stood straighter and barked back, "Hunter."

Two

Succubus, the hunter repeated.

In the background, Jolene stammered about the two-for-one paint sale this weekend. Unease shifted through me of her overhearing—or anyone overhearing for that matter.

I tapped my foot. Can you be any louder? I gritted out, sarcasm lacing my tone. Ixnay on the uccubusay thing.

I resulted to Pig Latin, albeit a little nineties, but he should get the picture. Yeah, Layla, use your witty charm that typically stops serial killers. Right?

His eyes remained hard. Okay, he’s good at the stoic stare thing men pretend to do.

Are you not Succubus Laelia Laconi of—

Dude, c’mon! I lifted the steel swing-top of the counter and paced toward him, stopping a foot away. Can’t you be a bit more discreet? I whispered through gritted teeth.

Eyes wide, I bobbed my head toward Jolene and willed him to understand. I had to give myself a pat on the back—I was really pulling off nonchalance given the circumstances. Fine, maybe not. Nonetheless, I held my chin high and placed my hand on my hip. All my lady bits quivered, and it had nothing to do with his good looks and much more to do with trying to keep from wetting myself.

He eyeballed me, his broad shoulders blocking the overhead fluorescent light and casting him in spooky shadows. The brass ovaries I tried to sport moments ago dissipated into Jell-O with his expression. It is of the utmost importance that I talk to you, succubus.

Jolene hung up the phone and strutted toward us, no doubt in hopes of eavesdropping on what she assumed would be relentless flirting.

Thinking on my toes and not wanting to be alone with him, I cried, Spray paints? My voice came out high-pitched and uneven. Oh, yes, I’ll grab the keys and lead the way.

I stretched over the counter from the customer side, sure I gave him an eyeful of my ass beneath my overall shorts. I didn’t care. I swooped up the keys, and Jolene arched an eyebrow. I gave her a tight smile. Bet I looked as jittery as I felt.

I hurried to the spray paints with him right on my tail. Their location would give us a degree of privacy yet I wouldn’t be completely alone with him. Thank god for the special cameras in the section, installed due to those paint-huffing kids in the eighties. The hunter may kill me, but it would be on camera. Even almost-immortal humans were limited by the confines of the law. God bless America.

I waved my arms as if I were Vanna White in Wheel of Fortune, making a show of displaying the selection of spray paints for the cameras. Just so you know, I whispered, you’re on camera, and when they find my dead body, they’ll know it was you. I gave my best attempt at a menacing glare, which allowed me to take in more of him.

Ugh, Jolene is right. The hunter was beautiful in his button-up white shirt, a disheveled black tie, and a pair of blue jeans hugging him in all the right ways. I’d seen hunters before, and he upheld their masculine, muscled-god-like stereotype.

He continued his icy stare and clenched his fists. Succubus Laelia Laconi di Sardinia, also known as Layla James, aka Lille de Lyon, aka Elle Jones, aka Lia, aka Leia…

I snorted. "Ha. I forgot about that one. It was the late eighties. Star Wars had just come out, I was like, what the hey?"

His scowl erased any trace of a smile from my face. A muscle tensed in his jaw. Do you think this is a joke, succubus?

No, hunter. I made sure to emphasize the word. You clearly know my name—all of them. Care to use one for yourself? When he didn’t reply, I continued, Isn’t part of your job to keep mortals from finding out what goes bump in the night? I tilted my head.

He didn’t dignify my question with an answer. Instead, he dragged on. Laelia Laconi, you are hereby arrested by the High Courts of the Realms for the murder of Eugene Banks. He grabbed the handcuffs latched to his waistband.

Wait, handcuffs? You’d think I would have noticed those earlier. Without intending to, I thought of twenty different ways I could use them on him. Hold on, did he say murder? Damn my ADD to hell.

Did you say murder? I’m a succubus. I don’t murder people. And who is Eugene Banks? I’ve never met the guy. My inner succubus instinct urged me to be defensive, even in cases where I’m guilty. Even though I was so not guilty here, McHunky Hunter’s accusation simply pissed me off.

Eugene Banks was the man whose soul you sucked at the Korner Bar last night. Then you left him for dead. He spat every word with disgust as he glowered at me.

First, I don’t know a Eugene. Second, I’ve spent almost a millennium on Earth. A sliver of soul from one person lasts me weeks at my age. I jabbed my finger into his chest and put on my best angry face. A frightening sight, no doubt. I have no need for a whole soul, and I don’t revel in taking life from people. Plus, the paperwork is a bitch.

I snickered at my own joke. I don’t do much damage with what I take. It’s not like I’m leaving around empty shells of corrupted humans damned to a future in hell. Perhaps the person cuts someone off or doesn’t pick up his or her dog shit—victimless crimes. Their souls are none the more damned after an encounter with me.

He peered down at my finger on his chest and smirked. You have never met this man, succubus?

I recoiled as he grabbed a small notepad from his back pocket and unfolded a photo.

I gazed down at a man I kissed the night before. I didn’t even need to have sex with him. What I said was true. I am an old and powerful succubus—a little bit of their lust-filled souls went far. Newer, younger succubi needed more souls to sustain their weaker, easily depleted life force.

"Jack? Sure, I know him. What’s he got to do with this? And stop calling me succubus, my name is Layla," I growled.

He told you his name was Jack? This is Eugene Banks.

I mean, we didn’t get around to sharing names, per se. I sort of called him that, and he didn’t say otherwise so… I shrugged. "You know, on account of him trying to do the whole hipster Captain Jack Sparrow look, it fit him well. Eugene? Really?" I contorted my face in disgust. No, to me he would always be Jack. From beneath my eyelashes, I peeked at the hunter. His bored expression said he was not amused.

"Well, succubus… Eugene—your Jack—he’s dead. And he was last seen with you walking out the back entrance to the dumpsters. You came back; he didn’t."

He inched closer, using his height as a wordless threat, looming over me. His power caressed every cell in my body, making them vibrate in the very blood they rushed through. I tried not to back away.

You’re telling me you’re not responsible for sucking his soul and completely taking his life?

I swallowed. No, I didn’t. I swear. We shared one measly kiss, just enough to give me a small boost. Like I said, I’m very old.

His brows furrowed in anger, in distaste.

Buck, my boss and proprietor of the store, headed in our direction. He clenched his jaw as if in response to the domineering stance of the hunter over me. Buck took good care of his employees.

"You deny it, succubus?" the hunter murmured, voice low and deadly.

I crossed my arms. Now he was starting to make my blood boil. Prick. Please stop calling me that. Yes, I deny it. And I have proof.

Buck reached us. Everything all right over here, Layla-Bayla? He wore a warm smile as he scanned my face. Layla-Bayla, one of his many pet names for me.

I couldn’t bring Buck into this. My boss could call the police, but hunters hunt—he would find me again.

The hunter responded before I could. I’m sorry sir. He eyed Buck. I don’t mean to occupy your employee, but I’m a detective with the Palm Springs Police Department. He gestured to the badge on his belt.

Damn, another thing I missed. I usually loved a man in charge and could identify a cop a mile away, but my radar was seriously jacked. "And your Layla-Bayla here… he smirked at me as he echoed the nickname, could be essential to solving a case."

Oh, I’m sorry, Detective, uh, Buck trailed off, awaiting a response.

Detective Daines. Elijah Daines. The hunter grasped Buck’s hand and awarded him with a warm smile.

I frowned. Damn the hunter and his brilliant smile. The things I could do to that mouth…

Oh, Layla isn’t in any kind of trouble, is she? Buck reached for my hand.

A warm and kind gesture, albeit a little awkward. I knew how he felt about me.

Not at all. In fact, Layla was telling me she has evidence to potentially solve a recent murder. We’re about to go retrieve the evidence. Well of course, if it’s fine with you, sir, if she leaves her shift early.

Oh, he’s good.

I silently willed Buck to say no. Of course not. Her shift is about to end anyway.

Dammit, Buck.

But Layla-Bayla, he squeezed my hand, if you’re caught up with some bad people, you need to let me know, honey. I can help you. If you’ve witnessed a murder, they may come after you next. You can stay at my house. I’ll keep you safe.

The hunter, or Elijah Daines as I now learned, narrowed his eyes. Don’t worry, sir. Layla won’t be in any danger. Not from the suspect at least.

What? How weird. Did he mean because I was the suspect? Or because he would be the one to cause me harm? He scrutinized the hand Buck held.

Or, he thinks I’m soul-sucking Buck. Ew.

Buck searched my face. Are you sure everything is all right Layla-Bee? Yet another embarrassing nickname he had bequeathed me.

I turned on my award-winning succubus smile. Of course, Buck, everything is fine. I took my hand away from his and removed my nametag, placing it in his still-hovering palm. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning. I whirled away, and the hunter murmured something to Buck, then followed me.

I passed the paint counter where Jolene arched her eyebrow. She raised her hand to her ear in a phone shape to indicate I must call her later. She would be utterly disappointed with the amount of clothing involved in the story I’d tell her—if I lived to tell her the story.

Hunters, Protectors of Man, Guardians of the Realm, and whatever the hell other cocky title they wanted to call themselves, were known as brutal and harsh, unreasonable, and unswayed from their mission to rid the world of evil. In their eyes, succubi equaled evil because we’re pretty much servants of Satan. Of course, it had been centuries since I had the pleasure of running into a hunter, and there were checks and balances nowadays, such as the Court of the Realms. Although, the Court of the Realms probably wasn’t any better than the hunters. No one actually knew what happened there.

Once we exited the store, I spun around, not wanting my back to him a moment longer. Sure, I could make a run for it, but hunters had brute strength accompanied with catlike reflexes. Even more alarming, they could instantly materialize any weapon known to man. Sword? Poof. Slice away. Nuclear warhead? Poof. Available for launch.

"Okay, Detective. If you’re truly a detective, then you’d want cold hard evidence, and I can get it for you."

"Succubus, I