A Parliament of Owls: Dark Raven Prophecy, #1

By J. J Lynn

Private investigator Simone Ravenscroft is happy doing the typical missing persons and cheating spouses gigs. At least until her aunt mysteriously dies. While some early thirty-somethings may inherit jewelry or property, Simone is gifted a family curse, a secret responsibility that might swallow her whole.

As her eyes are opened to the world of the paranormal, no matter how tightly she tries to squeeze them shut, Simone must face her role in life. But is it something she will be able to embrace, or will she allow it to consume her?

 

Aprooximately 266 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. J Lynn
• Release date: Jul 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223751205

Book preview

Chapter One

I could not believe I was, once again, sitting across from a shady motel, waiting to snap pictures of a cheating spouse. This was not even close to what I had in mind when I opened up my private investigation office. I actually didn’t know what I had in mind, but it was something more than bad TV fodder. 

I supposed, in my mind, there would be more adventure and allure. High-stakes crime, catching the killer, stopping sex traffickers. Something more. Now, it was a job to pay the bills, having lost all the allure years ago. 

I should have adjusted my expectations for a town with fewer than 700 people and been glad I got what I got. At least this job had me at The Pearl. The windows were enormous, which allowed ample viewing opportunities. And the hapless lover left them opened. This case basically solved itself. Now I could chill in my car and eat my burger. 

My phone rang, the shrill cry interrupting my first bite. I groaned and slumped in my seat as I saw the husband’s name on the screen. 

Hello? I said, nearly choking on a quick bite of greasy goodness. 

Did you see anything yet? It’s imperative—

Sir, when I see something, I will call you. I have to go. Bye. I know I sounded rude, but this was at least the tenth time he’s called. I returned to my burger when movement caught my eye. A shadow I didn’t notice before.  

What is that? I said to no one as I grabbed my binoculars. I scanned the front windows, focusing and zooming in on the one where I saw the wife. An extra person was in the window. I had not noticed this person before, which startled me. 

I sat up straighter in my seat. What is happening? A threesome? How did another person sneak into the room when I wasn’t looking? The strange woman stared directly into my eyes. Could she see me from this distance? The curtains being wide open seemed odd in retrospect for a person hiding an illicit affair. This woman wanted me to see her. My phone buzzed again, and I ignored it, too caught up in a weird cat-and-mouse staring contest. 

I was sure she was boring holes into my eyes. I glimpsed the raven-haired wife and the illicit affair haver in the background. They seemed totally unaware the strange woman had opened the windows.  

I didn’t miss the opportunity to take a couple of shots, but the blonde woman stood in the way for most of them. She was still staring at me, unmoving. She turned, obscuring her face with her hair just as I flashed another picture. The wife got up and snapped the curtains shut. My all-access private show pass revoked. 

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. I held two fingers to my temples and mustered every ounce of willpower I had not to throw my phone out of the car. I grimaced and checked my phone, not surprised to see the husband’s name pop up. I swallowed my irritation, which was as greasy as my burger. I reached for my antacids. I have had Amazon bulk deliver these to me since I started this job.  

I quickly texted the husband, saying I had what I needed, and pulled out my camera to peruse the pictures; fingers crossed, I got a photo of them and not just the photo bomber. I saw one; the wife was getting up to pull the curtains tight, and the man behind her—the money shot. 

I knew there had to be many people who wondered how I could do what I do. Deliver bad news to people and then ask for their money, but the thing is-people came to me. I didn’t go out looking for sad people and take advantage of them or ruin their lives. They destroyed their own lives. 

I was driving back to my office when I saw the car. A shiny black, fancy older adult Buick. I controlled the urge to sigh as I worried she would hear it even from this distance. I got out and walked to where my mother stood, her arms folded and an unrecognizable look on her face.

I twisted my face into an expression I hoped passed for a smile and braced myself. Mother, how are you? I went for the usual air hug and was shocked when vise-like arms crushed my ribs. 

She pulled away, and I saw that her eyes were red. Great. The only thing worse than my mother talking to me was her talking to me about drama. 

Let’s go up to my office. She has not even uttered a single sound. This was strange because she was usually so quick to judge my appearance, job, office space, car-anything, and everything. I was feeling unnerved. 

She just followed me. Usually, she hated my couch in the waiting room, but she sat. I was scared at this point, not remembering the last time this happened. Well, I could. It was when my dad died. Oh no. Someone died.

I locked the door to my office. The click made an immortalized sound—the final click. The last time my life was normal. I supposed it stopped being normal the moment I saw the woman in the window of the odd threesome. My phone was buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing. I knew it was the husband. I walked across the wood floor and dropped it on my desk. Many people thought that a P. I’s office had to be dingy, old. Creaky floorboards and disgusting furniture. Wasn’t sure why they thought that, probably too much TV. 

I have a lovely office suite. A waiting room separate from my office, an actual solid door. No glass in the door. Pretty soundproof. Natural light streamed through big frosted windows. I even have some air freshener spray every once in a while. Jasmine something? The floor and walls a muted grey. The furniture was a calming blue. I found it professional and tranquil. My mother always said it felt like a dentist's office. Whatever that means. 

So ... did someone die? I blurted out, pacing in front of her. I could never sit still for bad news. My mother scoffed. 

Really, Simone, must you be so gauche. Where were you this morning? I’ve been waiting for you for hours. 

The Pearl. Why does that matter? 

I’m impressed. You know, your father and I stayed at The Pearl once when you were first old enough to be left alone. She started patting under her eyes with a tissue. She barely had a wrinkle on her face, which was shocking since she turned sixty years old last month. Many a time, she had been mistaken for being forty. I knew she loved it, but she would never admit to anything as distasteful as being vain. 

Great. You’re impressed with where my clients’ spouses decide to commit their deceit. Awesome. So, are you going to tell me what happened? I continued to pace as she watched me. She wrung her hands and chewed on her tongue as if tasting the dreaded words. I imagined pieces of paper rubbing together. I remembered those hands always smelling like rose lotion. Warm, wet, and a little sticky. Cleaning up boo-boos, giving me hugs. Until it stopped in my teens. I wondered if they still smelled that way. Nostalgia immediately called up memories I pushed aside.

How are you feeling, dear? I rarely see you. It’s not that long of a drive to Portland, you know. You could come to visit your mother. I do get lonely sometimes. her gaze lingered, burning a hole through my soul. 

It’s almost three hours, mother. When I’m not working cases, you know, it’s usually a random time. I would hate to show up at your house at two am. 

She threw out her hand, dismissing my statement as if she absolutely would not mind if I showed up at two am. I knew she wasn't lonely. She had a gaggle of naggy, nosey old friends she met in high school. Portland may not be New York City or have a Page Six, but they certainly tried to be relevant. 

What kind of name is Yachats, anyway? I mean, really.

Ok, Mother. I get it. You don’t like where I live. But I did fairly well for myself. Many people don’t want to commit their sins in large cities where they know people. Go figure, right? I sat down in one of the blue chairs opposite the couch. She grabbed one of the three decorative pillows I purchased on a whim. Methodically, she started picking the ends. I could certainly understand the pain the pillow was going through. An overbearing woman, picking over your imperfections. Over and over. Not saying a word of anything else. 

Mother, what happened? 

Your aunt passed away. I vaguely realized the leather felt cold through my jacket. The office a little bit colder than usual. I enjoyed the cold, the ocean spray when it hit my face, the mountain breeze's bite. 

My aunt Mona. The one I am named for, which I never have understood and probably never would as they didn't get along. She was always my favorite. Spunky, full of energy and life. She was definitely a hippie; she embodied what people always think about when someone mentions Portland or Oregon. My brain was unable to process the information it just received. She was so ... full of life. I just saw her last week. The cold seeped into my bones. A wandering thought played through my mind. My mother was telling a joke, a horrible, cruel joke. 

I just saw her, so that can’t be true. The words came out as lies, not bothering to pretend. My mouth opened to spew them, even though it wanted to stop. I pictured sewing it shut to never speak of hurtful things again. Not because it would hurt other people but because screw other people. Really. If I heard that husband call me one more time, I would make up how I listened to his wife moan in pleasure with the three men that filled the hotel room. She could not stop screaming about how terrible he was in bed; how awful he was as a husband ... the tear hits my hand. My hand burned where it fell. I swore I heard a slight sizzle as it hit the ice where my hands used to be.  

So. Anyway. I wanted to tell you in person. My mother was a robot. She sounded like someone had programmed her. It was not far from how she normally sounded, but the depths of her emotionless soul seemed even more profound today. My own heart a cold whiskey stone sinking to the bottom of a glass.

Thank you, I said, wanting to scream. The one person who believed in me painted this office with me, helped me move out here, told me I could do whatever I wanted. My true parent once removed. I did not know the woman who sat in front of me. 

You can go now. I got up and went to my office, and closed the door. I would say I felt terrible, but I heard her leave out the front door. I imagined her walking to her car, sitting in the front seat and turning the AC on. Even though it had to be thirty degrees outside, at least. She was always turning the AC on. I guessed the temperature outside had to match the one inside her chest. 

The husband called yet again. Something to focus on, I supposed. I picked up the phone. Hello?

This is so unprofessional! I’ve been calling multiple times! You said you got the shot? You got it? I need to meet. When can we meet? I can get in the car now! His words stampede into my eardrums without time to breathe. 

I’m sorry, I’ve just been alerted that I have experienced a death in my family. I will scan and email you the photos. I hope that is professional enough. I heard silence. I had nothing further to say, so I just sat there, the uncomfortable pause filling the air between me and Eugene, where this husband was sitting in his sunshine filled kitchen. Children running around him. So much life. 

So much life, and he can’t just accept it. He had to ruin it with his spying and his need to know. People ruined everything they had, everything good. Ignorance was bliss, ok? Just love it. Love your life. Enjoy it. Most people don’t leave after an affair anyway. They stayed, didn’t want to upset their children, didn’t want to sell the house, move or live on one paycheck, or, rarer still, they actually loved each other. Worked it out, they said. Counseling, they said. I started laughing and stopped abruptly, remembering I was on the phone.

Yes ... that is fine. My condolences. He hung up with no further pleasantries.

I hoped this didn't drive down my Yelp and Google reviews. I prided myself on having an excellent five-star review from the five people who decided to rate my services. Most people would not want to do that, but every little bit helped. 

I was still holding the phone. I stared at it. Blank screen. Empty. Like my aunt was now. I opened it and scrolled through our pictures. We had gone to the beach. It was something we both loved. We talked about moving in together and renting a huge house. I would run my business out of the back, with a separate entrance. She would decorate the yard with her glass and iron sculptures. She was actually quite famous. Maybe not worldwide, but nationwide. I looked over in the corner of my office at something she sculpted for me. 

She had found some rose-tinted glass. This was a huge deal now. It was just a giant magnifying glass. The metal warped like a funhouse mirror. The glass part tinged pink. It was gorgeous. I loved it. Now, I wished I could put it out with the trash. I wanted nothing to remind me of her or what I had lost. But I also did not want to lose her. I wouldn't accept this. I refused.

I jumped up from my seat, grabbed my keys, and went to my car. It was cold inside since I did not use the remote start to warm it up for me first. Something I did consistently in January. Everything about this fits my mood. January, the cold, the wind blowing from the ocean. My mother. Cold and biting. I would feel this way forever, I thought. Barren. A deep hunger to never be satisfied. A a dry well, the water escaped through the crackers her death made. 

I was going to drive to Portland to my aunt’s house. I was an investigator. I could find something. I needed to know what happened. I imagined telling myself every day for the rest of my life and whether that would make it true. I supposed I could have asked my mom, but she was not a flowing fountain of information and hadn’t bothered to tell me anything before so could I trust her?

I jumped on the 20, not bothering to watch my speed. I needed to get to Portland. Now. My mother would probably have a fit if she knew I was going to Portland. It would have saved her the trouble of driving almost three hours to come out and see me. I listened to nothing but silence. My ears almost bled from the absence of sound. The only thing I would ever hear from my aunt again. Nothing. 

I briefly wondered why she did not come and see me. Didn’t ghosts do that sometimes? Say goodbye? At least to the people they loved and cared about. I can’t see her going to my mother, but then again, they were close. I have no idea why. I could never figure out the allure Eleanor had on Mona. Or why on earth would she name me after her sister? They were twins, sure, but could twins be that close?

After a few hours of highway hypnotism, I made it. I had driven here so many times I thought I could do it with my eyes closed. On the outskirts of Portland, in a small house with a vast yard littered with sculptures, stood my childhood. My heart froze. I opened the door and barely made it to a bush before vomiting. I knelt on the ground. Mud seeped through my jeans, staining my knees brown. I could picture the tiny cracks of skin covering my kneecaps. Soaked with mud. Brown, life-giving earth. I wondered if I could kneel over my aunt's grave and somehow soak her up. Keeping her with me for always.

Maybe it was two minutes or three days that I saw there, unwilling or unable to get up. I forced myself off the ground and walked toward the front door. It’s not locked. It had never been. I wondered if that was what happened and asked myself once again why Eleanor didn’t just tell me.

I opened the door, and it creaked. Her kitchen was as it had always been. Some dishes were in the sink, but primarily spotless. Cluttered, Mother would say. Full of personality, I would counter. But she was not here. I had yet to determine if she went home or stayed in Yachats, or went to my place. I didn’t care, either. Not right now. I was looking for clues.

I couldn’t pinpoint what got me into this line of work in the first place. My father was not a cop or anything like that; nothing bad happened to me in my childhood. The trauma was saved for my teenage years. I was not previously a cop—nothing like that. I read many detective novels when I was a teen and always thought it would be cool to do that but not have to follow many rules. So being a cop was never a question. It was not something I could do. I decided to look up the qualifications for being a private investigator and realized ... there were not any. This seemed pretty weird to me, but I was ok with that because it made it easier. I started fresh out of high school. Floundering around like a fish with lungs, solving mysteries for my old classmates in Portland. Cheating spouse, stolen dog. That type of thing. I always figured it out, however. I sometimes wondered if I was psychic because I always knew where to look.  It has greatly helped my business because I have never had a dead end. Never. If your spouse was cheating, I would find out. I would recover if your dog or a family heirloom had been stolen. If someone hurt my aunt, I would find them. I would know.

Kitchen first. I checked countertops, cabinets. The fridge. The oven. The pantry. Nothing. Moved on to the living room. I stopped. There she was, sitting in her favorite chair, working on some crochet item I’m sure she would give me for Christmas. A new hat or scarf for those late nights I spent spying on people.  Then the world blinked out.

Chapter Two

I came to but didn’t recognize where I was. I sat up, finding myself on my aunt’s floor. Rugs particles etched into my face. Too fast, the blood rushed, and my eyes lost vision. Afraid the world was going to fall out from underneath me again, I braced myself. The reality was much worse once the fog lifted. The world crashed back around me, and I remembered Eleanor’s visit to my office this morning. She drove three hours to tell me my aunt had died—her twin sister. But I saw my aunt, very much alive. There was no way my mother would commit to a joke like that. Also, she was not funny in the slightest. Had I ever seen her smile?

I walked into the living room. There my aunt was, still crocheting. Mona?

She turned to look at me, all smiles. Hi, Simone. How are you, dear? Hearing her say my name after the silent trip to her house sent relief and blood flowing through my body. I approached, a bit wary.

I’m ... not great, really. I’m actually confused. Do you know why my mother would drive three hours to Yachats to tell me you had died?

Oh, dear. I’m dead, huh? Well, that means I don’t have much time, then. Come, sit down, dear.

I walked to the couch like I’m moving through syrup. Thick, Sticky. Definitely not going to come out of my clothes. I could never wear this outfit again. Which was a shame because I loved this jacket. But every time I put it on, I would be reminded my aunt told me she was dead.

I... She starts to speak but stops and shakes her head. How long have I been dead?

I don’t know. My mother came to me this morning. I don’t ...I didn’t ask questions. I called her a liar and told her to leave, and she did.

She nodded her head as if this all made sense. I’m afraid I don’t have much time then, Simone. I’m guessing I’ve been dead a day or two-then someone called, or your mother came to visit. You know she likes to visit about every other day. I only get a limited amount of time to stay on this earth. I fear my time is over now. It’s not enough to tell you anything. You will have to ask Eleanor.

I scoffed at that idea, which was funny because I was talking to a literal dead person. There’s no way I am telling that woman I saw you after she told me you were dead. In fact, I don’t know which one of you to believe. I reached out to my aunt to touch her, to feel her. My hand stayed halfway between us. If she felt slighted, she didn’t show it.

We’re both right, dear. It doesn’t matter. I love you so much, Simone. I wish I had more time with you. I don’t know what happened to me, but it was not natural, do you understand? Something killed me. Find out, please. Find out and come find me.

Chills tickled up my spine and I noticed the frost in the air. I puffed my breath out and watched it dissolve the way I did as a teenager, pretending to be cool and holding small sticks like they were cigarettes. She said Something. Not someone. I looked back at my aunt, who was fading. I jumped toward her and tried to grab her. My hand slipped straight through her evanescent form.

That’s not how this works, Simone. Talk to your mother. I was left with my hand clutching air. 

I was clearly on drugs or had been poisoned. The thought made me sick, as Chubby’s was a staple of my diet, and wasn’t sure what to replace the burgers with-salad? The idea food poisoning caused hallucinations was silly, right?  I had to convince myself I was simply seeing things from grief. How was that any better? Calm down, detective. Go over the facts.   I got here, saw my dead aunt, grasped at the air. Not sure those are the cold, hard facts I was looking for at the moment.

I looked at the ground and see something at the foot of the chair where my aunt