Spirit of Prophecy by Jill Hughes
- Format: Kindle Edition
- File Size: 2668 KB
- Print Length: 366 pages
- Publisher: MoneyMagnet Global (14 April 2018)
- Sold by: Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
If you murder your soulmate to save your tribe, when and how will revenge and retribution arrive? Karma is coming for you.Olympic event rider Juliet Jermaine may run, but can she hide……?A gifted psychic but an emotional wreck, Rosetta Barrett is much more than a simple Criminal Investigation Detective seconded to a sleepy, rural English constabulary. She’s part of the International psychic CID and also a high-ranking member of EPIS (Elite Paranormal Intelligence Services) a super-secret, Inter-Governmental, global organization, based in Dulce, USA.EPIS is tasked with dealing with the new realities of the twenty-first century – the rise of AI and ensuring robotic deep-learning doesn’t lead to humanity’s destruction; alien visitation and cracking their telepathic communication codes; expanding psychic powers, including prophecy, in order to automate crime prediction and prevention. Also, Inter-generational Karma and time-travel, as they straighten out and atone for the crime generated wrinkles causing contorted disasters throughout history.When Juliet Jermaine’s Olympic Champion horse Gothic, and its teenage stable-hand rider, are callously murdered, in what appears to be a terrorist-inspired road-rage incident, Detective Barrett immediately knows there is more to this than meets the eye and feels a powerful karmic connection to an old Apache Chief and his horse, dating back to the 1800’s. Gold-medallist rider Juliet, and Rosetta must unravel the karmic connection and also nail the present day criminals before another cycle of revenge and retribution is unleashed. Can they stop the death count inexorably rising?With Barrett’s ex-husband, a power-obsessed Foreign Office Diplomat to Russia being the prime suspect, Jermaine not taking the karmic connection seriously and the EPIS time-portal out of action, since the ET’s unexpectedly hijacked it, is Detective Barrett in way too deep this time? The murder investigation takes first Rosetta and then Juliet to Southern Ireland, where they both fall for the devilishly handsome, Irish-Traveller horse dealer, Tommy Rafferty. Does Tommy know more about the road rage deaths than he’s letting on and ultimately will he betray his soul mate, to save his tribe?Finally, seeking closure, Juliet and Rosetta find themselves near EPIS headquarters, around a camp- fire on the red-tinged, wide rolling plains of the nearby Native American reservation……….”N.B: This book was previously published under the author’s pen name of J.J. Hughes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jill Hughes was born in Cottingley, a quaint little village in West Yorkshire, UK. Her grandfather Arthur Shackleton [was related to Sir Ernest Shackleton, the polar explorer – but the furthest grand-dad travelled perhaps was up the road to the men-only social club, but then he rose early and worked long and hard and filled the house with the amazing aromas of freshly baked cakes and bread..so could not be kneading dough and adventuring at the same time. Mouths always have to be fed, don’t they and baking is hard, hot, thirsty work] Jill Hughes parents Margaret and Arnold Simpson lived with her grandfather above the shop, the house was large, old and rambling with a proliferation of attics and spider filled cellars, if you cared to look closely – generally the author did not, preferring to spend her time playing catch, hop-scotch and the like in the cobbled streets, catching minnows in the beck [a small stream] or swimming beneath the waterfall which is famous for fairies, after two local girls [Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths] photographed them in 1917 [Or did they?]. Subsequently the photo’s proved to be fake, and this inspired a movie called ‘Fairy Tale: A True Story’ which starred Peter O’Toole playing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle [the creator/author of Sherlock Holmes.] He was taken in by the hoax, but then again to this day Jill Hughes believes in elves/fairies/mermaids/unicorns and all things Elemental and Other Worldly.
Spirit of Prophecy by Jill Hughes extract
“Magic is just science that we don’t understand yet.”
Arthur C. Clarke.
19th December 202
Sleep, Rosetta told herself, as she burrowed deep under the duck down duvet. It was a time of rest and rejuvenation, right?
For starters, she couldn’t actually get to sleep. It was a classic catch-22 situation which so far, no amount of hot baths followed by endless mugs of cocoa would fix. As for calm inducing essential oils, obviously she’d been there, tried that. It had now reached the point where one whiff of camomile made her want to puke. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, thinking how weird it was that when your eyes adjusted, they could perceive different shades of blackness in the dark. Spooky, she thought, how the mind would begin to interpret things which the eyes struggled to see. Like those grey swirls of nothingness lurking near the window. Just thinking about it made her skin grow prickly.
‘Shit!’ she gasped as something darted out of the corner. God forbid it was heading towards the end of the bed. A horrible surge of anticipation made her catch her breath. As soon as the thing landed on the bed with a soft, ominous thud, she knew she’d made a mistake moving into this flat. It backed onto a wooded copse, and fuck knows what lurked in that. Heart pounding, Rosetta slithered under the duvet, covered her head, and clamped her eyes tight shut. A slight rancid smell of stale smoke and perspiration reached her nose, and she realised that death smelled like this only a lot, lot worse. Right now, the recurring nightmare didn’t seem nearly so bad; that was mere spectator sport compared to this. The thing was padding across the duvet, and it was heading her way, intent on evil. What if it drained her life force? The knot in her stomach tightened, and then her guts began to churn. The silence in the room was heavy and oppressive. She decided she didn’t fancy hanging around to find out what the thing had planned. No, she had to escape, and get out fast. In a whoosh, she flung the duvet off, leapt out of bed, and hit the light switch. Atone, her large black cat, blinked, his eyes glowing yellow as he stared at her with a bemused look on his face which said: Rats, and stone the crows, what’s all the fuss about? Realising he was the zombie-like thing that had landed on her bed, Rosetta let out a sigh of relief and chuckled at her own drama queen stuff. She scrambled back into bed. For a while she scratched the cat’s chin. Soon he began to dribble and purr, and against all odds she finally drifted off to sleep.
And then it began, as always; running on and on, repeat. Rewind. Here it comes again, the never-ending nightmare.
Around five hours later, Rosetta woke up with a jolt. The premonition of something terrible about to happen began unravelling in her mind yet again.
‘Help, get help!’ her scream reverberated harshly into the darkness. No help arrived, no backup came.
‘No,’ Rosetta gasped, ‘stop.’ The real hell was about to begin. Terrible images tumbled through her mind: the horse rearing, tyres screeching, and the twisted metal of a car. The smell of smoke filled her nostrils, and then… then… the high-pitched shrieking started. Dripping in sweat, she threw back the duvet and gasped for breath. She needed air, and little by little, part of her brain realised that the image wasn’t real, it would pass. Gradually her laboured breathing slowed, and got back to normal, whatever that was. She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, blinking at the luminous green numerals on the radio alarm clock. She’d woken at 5:22 a.m. on the dot again, but this time it had a sinister finality to it. The attack would happen soon unless she did something.
What was she supposed to do? With a heavy sigh, she swung her bare legs over the edge of the mattress. Her feet found her slippers of their own accord. From the end of the bed, Atone, her familiar, opened one eye and emitted an indignant high-pitched meow, but otherwise he didn’t stir. Rosetta rolled her neck from side to side, desperate to relieve the tension that had taken hold. If only Daniel was here to offer support, she thought. He would massage her neck, and more… but he was undercover somewhere. Maybe he was in Pakistan, or Lord knows where. Anyway, for weeks now, contact between them had been limited: actually non-existent. They knew when they signed up for the project with the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, and when they’d taken the Oath of the Galactic Realms, that on occasion, they would be required to sacrifice their personal lives for the ultimate cause. But this was the first time they’d been apart for so long, and now her muscles ached from the sleep that yet again had delivered zero rest.
She’d experienced too much sleep deprivation; a total bummer this. It was torture after all.
Not for the first time since she’d been recruited by the Elite Paranormal Intelligence Service, or EPIS as they were called, she wondered if the sacrifice was really worth it. The pay was decent enough, but her work was all-consuming, talk about being married to the job. She could be posted anywhere in the world, which meant she couldn’t provide a settled home life for her two children. Also, being a regular police officer and working for EPIS meant she didn’t really fit in anywhere. Right now, what she longed for was some rest. Horrible as the vision was, it wasn’t exactly a matter of national security. Life and death, yes, but an accident on a country road was relatively low-key. Rosetta rolled her neck, trying to ease the tension that threatened to unleash a bad headache. There must be far more buried, something sinister further back, and ultimately that was the crime to be absolved and atoned. But when did it occur and what exactly took place?
The temperature in the room had dropped sharply, which set her shivering. So, she hurried over to the door to grab the thick dressing gown hanging from a hook. Wrapping herself in it, she sensed that time was running out. She’d been having the same nightmare for two weeks now, belting out in her sleep like a cheap Christmas CD stuck on a loop. She knew her premonitions could go either way, and sometimes the outcome wasn’t entirely signed, sealed, and delivered, so things could be prevented, altered, maybe even diverted. This precognitive vision fell into the preventable category. Rosetta sighed, trying to make sense of things as she headed for the bathroom across the hall. The inevitable ones were easier, as there was nothing she could do to alter events, but this kind required her involvement. Somehow, she had to figure out who the victims were and get a warning to them before it was too late. It became a kind of crime prevention in a way, she supposed. The foot soldiers in the force would investigate the who, the what, the how. But it was her job to intervene and stop serious incidents happening where ever possible, but the over-arching mission was to determine the BIG ‘why’. Why do some crimes which defy sanity or reason have a thread to be unravelled and followed to the source in order to discover the real karmic cause? However things appeared on the surface, she had to determine how events in past lives had impacted the present.
The bathroom mirror had disappeared behind a shroud of mist. In the corner she’d stuck her affirmations on yellow Post-it notes: Your words are your wand. You’re a star! You’re the best, always rate yourself. Rosetta wiped the surface clear with the sleeve of her dressing gown. She recoiled at the sight. Yuck. Her lustrous dark auburn hair shot out in random unruly spikes from what was best described as a halo of frizz – a seriously bad case of bed hair. Fit, fabulous, and forty, was supposedly the new twenty-something. Really, who were they kidding? Apart from the plastic surgeons, her gay best friend, her mum, and maybe her Aunty Mabel, who really believed that shit? Her eyes weren’t too bad, big, bright emerald green and almond shaped, framed with thick lustrous lashes. Rosetta blinked as she huddled over the sink and splashed cold water over her face. She longed for a hot shower to ward off the cold and soak away the aches and pains of another long night. But there was too much to do, too much at stake, and a deadline looming.
She headed downstairs to the kitchen and lingered in her study over a large mug of black coffee. What she really needed, post the welcome caffeine hit, was inspiration. She stared into the cup that now contained only dregs and grounds, it had been drained. Just like me, she thought wearily.
Fourteen nights of interrupted sleep, imagine torture and then some.
Screw it, she thought, I’ve got to do something. An adrenaline rush cut through her exhaustion, and Rosetta set about retracing her thoughts going over the things she’d seen. At some point in the nightmare she recalled that she’d been plotting to ‘do in’ Peter, her evil ex. Hmmm, dreaming of revenge, nothing new there, then? Still, she could always cast a spell on him, but then she chuckled to herself. Now that would be a waste of a perfectly good spell, wouldn’t it? Why did Peter suddenly appear? Was there some significance? He now had a new wife with a neat blonde bob, who played tennis, and frequently flashed her tight butt at the coach, no doubt. This Patricia woman, who had flaunted herself at Peter, whipped her knickers off – whoosh – and was rewarded with an expense account, a McMansion which had once been Rosetta’s matrimonial home, plus her darling kids came as part of the package. Rosetta sighed at the sheer bloody injustice of it. Focus, she chastised herself, shaking her head. She was digressing, and she needed to think straight, so she checked her notebook. What else? Ah yes. She’d dreamed about rewriting the ending of Wuthering Heights, about Cathy and Heathcliff.
Rosetta opened her dream journal and scribbled this down, and added: The Yorkshire moors, the cobbled main street of Howarth, the parsonage where the Brontë family lived, the graveyard opposite.
What was she missing?
Jane Eyre… Rochester. Guardian Angels, give me a clue, please.
Novels, novelists, what had that got to do with it? She got up, and flipped the switch on the kettle, refilling her cup once it had boiled, and all the while her brain began circling like a hawk about to swoop on an unsuspecting field mouse. She took another glug of the strong stuff. Then it came to her in a flash. Gothic novels. Gothic. Swiftly, propelled by a sense of urgency, and mounting apprehension, she darted back into the study. She plonked herself in the office chair, a smart ergonomic one with backrest and neck support. After she got herself comfortable she flipped the lid of her laptop which she positioned on the left side of the desk, then she switched on the Mac PC, and logged into the Eclipse system.
As she typed, words in the violet spectrum appeared on the screen:
Charlotte Brontë Emily Brontë
Graveyard Gothic Wuthering Heights Jane Eyre
Eclipse presented images in 3D, an incredible visual collage, on an interactive whiteboard that filled half of the office’s main wall. For the clairaudient, there was an optional sound dimension, currently switched off, and for the clairsentient, Eclipse could be programmed to create atmospheres and emotions. Simultaneously Eclipse sent prompts to the Mac screen:
Charlotte Brontë, born 21st April 1816 – died 31st March 1855 Emily Brontë, born 30th July 1818 – died 19th December 1848
Is this significant? Rosetta drew a sharp intake of breath as she typed: Yes – today is the 19th December. Eclipse reconfigured:
Emily Brontë Dies: 19th December of tuberculosis TB Gothic Wuthering Heights
The Eclipse extrasensory database was the most sophisticated in the world. EPIS employed only prophets, masters, and adepts, the caretakers of the secrets yet to manifest. They also had incredible predictive architecture systems, and Rosetta never ceased to be amazed at the possibilities Eclipse came up with.
She typed: configure possibilities, priority = ‘urgent’ and pressed the Enter key.
On a conscious level, what Eclipse came up with seemed bizarre in the extreme, but to her subconscious, it made perfect sense.
Gothic – four-star event horse, Irish Thoroughbred – TB Dies: 19th December 2021.
‘Shit,’ Rosetta muttered, scraping a strand of hair off her face. Not if I can bloody well help it.
She typed furiously, Call someone. Her index finger jabbed the Enter key.
Owner or rider? Eclipse asked helpfully.
Both. She stabbed out the instruction. Now!
On command, Eclipse started dialling like an ultra-sophisticated Echo device. Rosetta checked her watch, 6:45 a.m. Come on, come on, she prayed to herself, answer the God damn phone. No one calls you at this Godforsaken hour, unless it’s urgent. Pick up the phone, please. She drummed her fingers on the desktop and checked her watch again. She hated being late, and she really needed to get ready for work. She couldn’t be a no-show, as she was leading a training session for over twenty officers. But she had to warn the riders. The dilemma made her breathing quicken, and she cleared her throat several times.
I’m torn, as in should I stay, or should I go? she pondered this as she scratched her chin. I know, leave a message and tell Eclipse to broadcast it. Ok, here goes.
‘Hi, this is Rosetta, DS Rosetta Barrett. Please listen carefully, get off the road, now! There’s a car crash about to happen. The driver will try and mow you down. Call me back urgently, please.’ She replayed the message, satisfied that if the horse rider picked up or dialled back she’d at least know what to expect. With a sigh of relief, Rosetta hurried to the bathroom and dived in the shower.
Later, still dripping and wrapped in a towel, she went to the study to see if the outgoing call had connected. So far, no luck, Eclipse was still dialling out as she headed to the bedroom. Ditching the towel and grabbing a dark navy suit complete with a pale pink shirt, she quickly got dressed, ready to go to work at Yorrex police station. The training session kicked off at 8:30 a.m., so she couldn’t hang around too long. She checked the Eclipse call display status message, one more time. Still no luck, but the system was synched to her mobile so at least she wouldn’t miss anything.
It occurred to her that the situation was too ominous to leave to chance. The best thing would be to send a couple of uniforms out to the rider’s home address. After a few minutes Eclipse came up with: Luckenham Park, YO6 7DD.
‘Phew, thanks.’ She sighed with relief as she called the station to dispatch someone as a matter of urgency.
Rosetta pulled on a pair of black designer boots, knotted a scarf round her neck, and was about to leave. Then she changed her mind, dashed upstairs, and grabbed the duvet off the bed, dislodging Atone in the process. The haughty cat looked rather peeved. Rosetta dashed downstairs and rattled his food dish. Predictably, he swiftly graced the kitchen with his presence, and wound himself between her legs, announcing his arrival with his distinctive raspy mewling.
‘Out-the-way, oh mighty Mouser,’ she said, bending down to stroke the top of his head. She cleared her throat as she stuffed the duvet in a black plastic bag. ‘Right, off to the dry cleaners with you.’
With that, she let herself out the back door, locked it behind her, set the home security system via her mobile, and scurried to her car. Clicking the remote, she chucked the bin bag on the back seat of her car. She thought about the prophetic dream which had the potential to ruin Christmas for an awful lot of people. One minute they’re just riding down a quiet country lane, and the next, normality is flipped over into blood, guts, and hospital visits. Outside, daylight hadn’t yet penetrated the thick blanket of grey fog, and Rosetta cursed when she realised that all the car windows were caked with ice. After a furious rummage under the passenger seat, she unearthed the de-icer spray and went on the attack. Then she sat in the car with the heater blaring, trying to clear the icy mist on the inside as she pondered the motive. There was a growing trend where vehicles were used as lethal weapons. ISIS and Al Qaeda had called for followers to use trucks and 4X4s as weapons – the ultimate mowing machines to cut down the enemies of Allah. Was this incident terrorist motivated or inspired?
With a knot in her stomach, she wondered how the day would unfold. Sometimes unexpected things happened, and the reasons were only revealed with the passing of time. Rosetta shook her head as she remembered their call to the cause: if you can make a bomb you’re a bomber. But if you can’t, use a gun or a knife. And if you can’t find a knife, use a car. Innocent victims lined up like skittles. Would there be enough time to warn them, or would she be too late?
‘Please, God, spare them,’ she whispered under her breath.