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  Mutiny’s Rebellion

  Succubus Sirens 2.5: A Novella

  Lina Jubilee

  Mutiny’s Rebellion by Lina Jubilee

  © 2019 by Lina Jubilee. All rights reserved.

  Published by Caleo Press and Lina Jubilee.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including written, electronic, recording, or photocopying, without written permission of the author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  The characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Existing brands and businesses are used in a fictitious manner, and the author claims no ownership of or affiliation with trademarked properties. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  The Succubus Sirens Series

  About the Author

  My Racy Reverse Harem Book Club

  Part One

  “So basically I’m your lover tied to the railroad tracks.”

  Just once—would just once be too much to ask for?—I’d like to date a man who didn’t, at some point, spit those words at me as if they tasted like sour milk. Sure, the words are a little different from time to time—I got a “tied to a ticking time bomb” once—but the sentiment is the same.

  The guy I’m dating is my damsel in distress. Or what’s a word for male damsel? Gentleman in grief. Chap in trouble. Fellow in misfortune. I’m genuinely curious now, so I’m doing a thesaurus check out of the corner of my eye on my phone while he rants on and on, tossing his hands up in the air.

  “Jo, what are you doing?” Clive is standing in front of me, tossing a lock of his dark brown hair—so shockingly contrasted with his smooth, milky complexion—out of his eye, snatching my phone out of my fingers before I’ve finished my search for living-target-boyfriend synonyms. His plump, pale pink lips frown as his blue eyes focus on the screen. “At a time like this, you’re checking your—Really?” He holds out the screen to me, and my search results for “What do you call it when it’s a man who’s the damsel in distress?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, busted. Pay attention, Josephine. You owe him that much. I snatch the phone back and toss it on the couch so I can focus on what I need to do, almost hitting Camille, who’s sitting cross-legged on the small two-seater with her laptop on her lap. I wince. “Sorry,” I say again, this time to her.

  “Oo-kay,” mutters Camille. “I’ll give you two some space.” She cradles her laptop and tries to tiptoe around Clive and me to get to the door. Her dark eyebrows narrow above her brilliantly brown eyes that so beautifully complement the golden brown of her skin. She can’t help but send me a sharp look as she bumps Clive with her computer, since our dorm room is barely big enough for one human occupant, let alone three.

  Clive crosses his arms to match my own and I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he grits his teeth and waits patiently for Camille to exit. Poor Camille. She’s witnessed this scene unfold more than once. Better here than in public. That’s been fun. Same scene, different man.

  After the door has closed and Camille’s retreated into the dull din of dormmates going about their business in the hallways and the rest of the rooms—thank god for blares-her-music-way-too-loud-every-single-day in 106, she camouflages just about every noise that comes out of my room—Clive drops his death glare and lets his arms fall limply to his sides.

  After a moment of silence, he sighs and runs a hand through that wavy hair, probably knowing full well that drives me want-to-pounce-on-him crazy, and looks out the solitary window. In the parking lot is the car I drove him back in after I cut him loose from his restraints. His car, of course, but it wasn’t like he was using it, being in a bind like that.

  Simmering in anger and confusion, he didn’t have much to say until we made it back here. Maybe he was waiting for me to speak first. Then instead of driving himself home, he followed me inside my dorm.

  To yell at me.

  Like they always did.

  I’m a fool for thinking it could ever be different.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. That’s another question they inevitably get to sometime during this argument.

  Why didn’t I tell him I was a Natch? About one in four people are—“Naturals,” a.k.a. “Natches”—humans born with superhuman abilities. As opposed to the “Typicals,” humans born without powers. And we can’t forget the Nelians, the mostly-friendly, super-powered, elf-looking aliens who now live on Earth with us.

  Most Natches don’t bother to keep their powers a secret. And I wouldn’t necessarily keep my powers to myself if not for a little bit of colorful history. I mean, I am studying Natch law. I’m in law school to become a lawyer for Natch causes. I’ve just never told many people I’m a Natch, too.

  I take a deep breath and stop myself from explaining my whole backstory. Not only because it takes a lot of time, but because it only makes things worse. And because I can’t live with a sea of exes who glare at me every time we pass each other, they never remember it anyway. So I just say the one thing I owe him for putting him in harm’s way: “I’m sorry.”

  Clive chokes out a laugh, and it isn’t pleasant. As if to flip me the bird, he runs his fingers through his hair for probably the last time in front of me. Damn. That move has been known to get me to lie flat on my back more than once the past few weeks. Too bad we’d never gone beyond heavy petting. Through clothes. It had irritated me that he seemed to be holding himself back and now…

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” he says. “Sorry I ever got involved with you when you’re clearly not interested in volunteering essential information.”

  Yeah, so there’s that, too. I didn’t mention the fact that I’m a Natch, but I also didn’t mention the fact that he might have been in a tiny bit of danger just by being a man spending time around me. But it wasn’t like I couldn’t save him. He was never in any real danger. Mostly.

  “Clive, it’s not that I wanted you to get captured. I tried keeping it all from you—”

  “But that’s just it, Joey.” He points a finger at me accusingly. “You shouldn’t keep something that important from someone you’re dating.”

  I chew my lip. “We’ve only been going out three weeks—”

  “What does that matter?” He tosses his hands up again. “Was there a specific milestone when you were going to tell me? Our one-month anniversary maybe?”

  I shake my head. “No…”

  He scoffs. “Then don’t try to talk yourself out of this. You know what? I don’t care.” He thrusts out his palms, as if to wash his hands of me. “I’m done. I thought we had something, but… If you won’t tell me everything, even now, then I was lying to myself.” He bites his lip, then nods, as if he’s decided something. Shifting slightly to get around me, he moves to go, but we have to awkwardly shimmy past each other, bringing us in way too close contact—reminding me I’m never going to jump him again—as our backs scrape against the two beds and desks that take up the bulk of the room.

  “Sorry,” I say again, and then I do what needs to be done. Erase all memories of a romance with Josephine O’Shea. With a wriggle of my fingers in front of his face, a white light escapes from my fingertips and Clive crumples downward. I swoop in to cushion the fall, lowering him slowly to the floor.

  I can make anyone within reach forget anything I want with a wave of my fingers—though I have to be right in front of their face. It seems I leave behind some kind of vague replacement memories, like maybe Clive will think he went to all those places with some other girl
or by himself. In any case, his need to check in with me again should be gone.

  And I have at least ten or so minutes before he’s even going to get up again. Memory rewiring seems to do that to a person. If I want them out and don’t have time to come up with some elaborate way to mess with their memories, I can just make them forget the wad of gum they saw once under their shoe. Anything works. A wriggle of fingers and they’re out cold.

  I seize two huge chunks of my hair in my hands in frustration. I don’t even care that I’ve made a mess of the thick, red mop now covering my eyes. So it’s happened again. Another potential romance turned sour thanks to a few secrets and an ex who can’t get over our past.

  There’s a knock on the door, and Camille lets herself back in, her laptop in one hand. She wrinkles her nose as she stares at Clive. “I’m not helping you move that one.” She balances her laptop over her head and takes a giant step over poor Clive’s collapsed body, plunking herself back on the couch. “So I take it he’s another member of Josephine O’Shea’s league of memory-challenged ex-boyfriends?” She goes back to typing without a care in the world.

  Sighing, I step back, tucking my hands under Clive’s shoulders to get a good grip. Camille’s a Typical, so I can’t exactly count on her for super strength or anything to help me move him out of the room. But being a Natch with memory-erasing powers helps not one bit with something like upper body strength. Grunting, I stop in front of the door and look over at Camille. “Can you at least get the door?”

  “A please would be nice,” she grumbles, tossing her laptop on the couch. “Especially since your cooperative roommate is cramming hard for her test.” She struggles to keep her balance as she steps around Clive’s unconscious body.

  Okay, she’s got me there. I owe her about a thousand thanks at this point. Still, I wish she’d offer a hand, even if it is my problem.

  “Please,” I say, grunting.

  “After you,” she says mockingly, opening up the door and gesturing for me to exit and drag my unconscious ex-boyfriend into the hallway. If he still counts as an ex-boyfriend if he never remembers we ever dated, that is.

  “You know, one very simple solution to all of this involves erasing his memory, not continuing to hope he’ll leave your dates alone,” says Camille. She twirls a lock of her curly black hair around an elegant finger as she watches me drag Clive out into the hallway.

  “You know… I don’t… want to… do that…” It takes a bit of effort to speak. Clive is heavier than he looks and more awkward to handle than expected.

  Camille shrugs. “Just saying.” The door slams as soon as Clive’s feet clear the doorway. I blow a wad of hair out of my face and keep dragging him, shuffling my feet backward, praying no one opens their door.

  Music-too-loud-in-106 does just that, the very instant I pass her doorway. She has a toothbrush handle hanging out of her mouth, and her lips are painted with toothpaste foam, her brown hair all messy and pulled up with a headband. I freeze and she does too, her eyes flicking from me to Clive and back again.

  I try to smile. “Drunk,” I say, like that explains everything.

  Apparently it does. 106 shrugs, keeps brushing and takes a giant step to walk over Clive, making her way without comment to the floor bathroom.

  I go back to shuffling backward, dragging Clive through the hallway. Damn, Clive, maybe try not to put on so much muscle. It’s not like it’d save him anyway. Not if he’s up against a Natch with a more useful power than mine.

  By the time I get to the common room, I’m sweating buckets, probably staining my top irrevocably. Not that Vim didn’t already do a good job of permanently wrinkling it with his little stunt back at that abandoned office building.

  Making me fetch my boyfriend from a condemned building that could have collapsed if I’d stepped on the wrong holey floorboard? I’m a law school student, not a hero. My ability is not at all useful when it comes to the practical stuff.

  With one final heave, I drag Clive onto the ratty, smelly old sofa. I collapse backward in order to catch my breath a second, then snatch the remote sitting on the chipped glass coffee table next to the piles of newspapers, tissues, and ew, a used condom. I turn on the old standard def TV, dropping the remote into the nook between Clive’s arm and side to make it look like he dozed off watching TV. Not that he’d have any idea why he was watching TV here. No one watches TV here. That’s precisely why I can always count on it to be a good dumping ground for mind-wiped boyfriends.

  The audio from the TV catches my attention. “All but one known member of the villainous Natch group ‘The Vipers’ is now in custody after the incident at the chemical warehouse last week,” says the tanned male newscaster with white hair so stiff, it looks unnatural. “They each made their first appearance in court today, where they’ve been charged with breaking and entering, intent to cause harm, and malicious destruction of property. The Natch Division of the police force is working hard to keep these supervillains in custody.” My nose wrinkles at the term “supervillains.” The media throws that around too much, at any Natch who acts out of line. Granted, The Vipers probably deserve the title. The newscaster shuffles his papers, and I consider the news about The Vipers. I never came across them in all my days out there on the streets. They’re a step up from what I was ever involved in, that’s for sure.

  “In an unrelated incident,” continues the newscaster, “authorities say there’s no immediate danger to the public from yet another show of bravado from solo Natch supervillain ‘Vim.’” His image appears on the screen, practically stopping my heart. Handsome doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s like a model, only more buff. Close-cropped black hair poking out from a black hood, dark eyes framed by black eyeliner behind a black eye mask, the focal point of his narrow, chiseled face and sepia complexion. His eyes have always haunted me. It’s not a mug shot, but a picture snapped by someone at the scene of one of our messages, and he’s looking over his shoulder. Vim has never been caught.

  Neither have I.

  Should a future lawyer tell the police everything she knows about a wanted Natch labeled a “supervillain”? Probably. Would I? No. Not only because of my own involvement in the vandalism, but because… Because we had history beyond just our crime together.

  I walked away to become a lawyer, to be a better person who operated within the law. But I never really wanted to walk away from him.

  Why I couldn’t quash the love I felt for him, I don’t know. He was idealistic, made me feel that things could change for the better for Natches if only we just stretched the rules a little. I was a young adult ready to take on the world—ready to do something meaningful. To live for a bigger purpose. So I thought.

  Really, it might have just been because I fell in love with him.

  It wasn’t fair to the men I dated since—and not just because I knew they were bound to get captured at some point. And it was hella confusing, considering I felt something real with Clive, too.

  The TV switches to a helicopter view of downtown, where the streets are still glowing with white light energy. It looks like something out of a parade of lights. Or a typical Thursday evening when your boyfriend gets taken hostage. “As you may be aware,” says the newscaster, “Vim’s Natch abilities allow him to harness the light from any electrical lamps in his vicinity, transforming them into radiant orbs of light that remain where he plants them for hours afterward, rendering the surrounding electrical lights useless in the meantime. Vim often fashions these lights into legible messages, usually decrying the injustice of Natch-hating behavior among Typical-owned businesses, though his messages have evolved as of late. It is thought that he uses these messages to communicate with the woman who used to accompany him on several of his excursions.”

  The TV screen flashes through a montage of previously-captured bright-light messages that Vim left out for all to see every other time he kidnapped whatever current guy had gone on a few dates with me, as well as a few from back in the day with more
important messages. Luckily, the public never knew about the kidnappings—that would bump him up a few notches in the police department’s most wanted list, surely. Vim’s m.o. was to make a spectacle of a message precisely a few blocks over from wherever I needed to look. Then after a memory-wipe, even the guys in question didn’t remember the incident. No one was ever the wiser.

  There’s a shot of firefighters trying to put out one such glowing orb, but nothing they spray at it works. Not water. Not chemicals. The orb isn’t going out for a few hours. That’s just how Vim’s powers work.

  They burn and burn until they die, leaving behind a permanent scorch mark, but not doing much other damage.

  The camera returns live to the latest inscription, this one at a street corner precisely three blocks over from where I found Clive tied up on the second floor of the rotting office building. “Mutiny,” it reads, “you belong to me. I will never truly set you free.”

  Dating really sucks when your first love was a supervillain.

  Part Two

  “You have two options.” Camille flips her curly black hair over her shoulder and then chomps on her lollipop. She lets go of the sucker stick just long enough to push her chunky black glasses up her nose, then smacks her lips, taking out the candy. She types one-handed, her eyes never peeling away from her laptop. “One: You confront that asshole Vim once and for all and erase his memory of you. Two: You keep roping a string of poor innocent guys into this mess in the hopes that Vim will leave you alone someday when you know that’s not true, erasing their memories, though they’ve done nothing to deserve it. Seems a no-brainer to me.”

  I lean back in my desk chair, pushing my glossy tablet screen away, tired of reading my third case of the dozen or so assigned for the weekend. I don’t want to tell her that part of the reason I was going through a string of guys was because… It’s always been hard for me to commit to just one.