Funk-N-Fiction

We’re back to our recurring theme of authors exploring new directions in storytelling today! Rayvn Salvador is bringing us a taste of something new with this fun & sassy intro to her demon defying feline front-man Jinx!

Purranormal Activity

Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not just a black cat. I’m the black cat. The one perched on the fence between your backyard and the neighbor’s, the one who watches you stumble home at three a.m after one too many maple bourbon splashes. The one whose eyes gleam just a little too knowingly in the moonlight.

You can call me Jinx. Yes, really. I know. The irony is *chef’s kiss*.

Now, let’s talk about why you’re really here. You want a story. Something spooky but fun, with a dash of murder and a side of snark. Lucky for you, I specialize in all of the above.

So, settle in, grab a pumpkin-spice latte—or something stronger, I won’t judge—and let me tell you about the night I solved a murder. Well, thwarted one, anyway.

Oh, did I forget to mention I do that now?

It all started, as most things in my life do, with a human who was almost too stupid to live.

His name was Alaric Wynthorne III. Yes, the Third, because apparently, his family had no originality, and he was the kind of man who wore monogrammed cufflinks to a dive bar. The type who sneered at stray cats like me instead of offering tribute (read: tuna).

So, when I found him sprawled across the floor of his study, eyes wide and mouth slack, my first thought wasn’t, Oh, no.

It was, Well. That’s karma for you.

My second thought? Huh. That’s a lot of blood.

The police would later call it a “tragic accident.” A slip on the stairs, a tumble down them, a cracked skull. But I knew better.

Because I’d seen the shadow lurking in the corner just before it happened.

And because Alaric’s last words, gasped between wheezes, had been: “The cat…it’s watching me…”

Which…rude! I was observing. As I always do. There’s a difference.

Enter: Mortimer. But let’s call him Morty.

Not a living, breathing, tuna-offering human. Oh, no. That would be too easy.

Morty was a ghost.

And not even a cool, chain-rattling, scare-ya-in-the-night kind of ghost. No, Morty was the I-died-in-the-1920s-and-still-think-cravats-are-peak-fashion kind.

He appeared in a swirl of mist and pretension, flickering like a bad Wi-Fi signal (don’t you just hate that!?), and gave me a look that suggested I was inconveniencing him by merely existing.

“You,” he said, pointing an accusing, translucent finger at me, “are trouble.”

I licked my paw. “And you’re dead. What’s your point?”

Morty sighed. “Alaric wasn’t supposed to die tonight.”

I blinked. “Then maybe he shouldn’t have pissed off the shadow monster in the corner.” I jerked my tail in the direction of said corner.

Morty’s face did a complicated thing that suggested he was regretting his life choices. Oh, wait. He was dead. Whatever. I digress.

“That shadow monster,” he hissed, “as you call it, is a demon. And it’s coming for the rest of the Wynthorne family.”

I yawned. It was past my naptime, and I was really kinda bored. “And this is my problem because…?”

Morty’s expression turned sly. “Because the next target is the only human in this town who leaves out salmon for strays.”

I froze.

Salmon.

Not Marin!

Damn it.

I sighed. Fine. If hell wanted a fight, it picked the wrong cat.

***

Here’s the thing about demons. They’re messy.

They don’t care about claw marks on furniture or the sanctity of a well-planned nap schedule. They just ooze everywhere, dripping bad vibes and ectoplasm like a frat boy after tequila night. Ever seen a Cappa Lambda Whatever-the-Hell after tequila night? Then you get it.

And this one? Seemed this one had a grudge.

Turned out, great-great-grandpa Wynthorne had made a deal back in the day: prosperity for the family line, in exchange for everythird heir getting an express ticket to hell.

Alaric had been the Third.

And the next target?

Marin Wynthorne. The third daughter of the fourth son.

The “crazy-cat” salmon lady.

She of my favorite late-night snack and boarder of my paramour.

Double damn it.

Marin was the kind of human who talked to cats, plants, and believed in “positive energy.” She also had the good sense to scratch behind my ears just right, not to mention the salmon and the gorgeous tabby, so obviously, I couldn’t let her die.

Morty and I formed a shaky alliance (read: I tolerated him because he could float through walls, and he tolerated me because, well, I’m adorable. And super smart. I mean…come on. He’d have been lost without me).

The plan was simple:

1. Lure the demon into a salt circle. (Morty’s idea. I think he got it from watching that show Supernatural.)
2. Knock over a candle for dramatic effect. (My idea. Because…fun!)
3. Yowl like a banshee to scare it off. (Also my idea. Cats are great at psychological warfare. Have you ever met one? You should know this by now.)

And, it almost worked.

Until the demon looked at me and said, “You’re just a cat.”

Oh.

Hell no.

I’ve taken down spiders twice my size. Stared into the void of a vacuum cleaner and laughed. Faced down a whole gaze of baby raccoons (yes, that’s what you call a group of those trashy little bandits) without so much as a flinch.

A demon?

Please.

“Try not to die, hotshot,” Clawdia drawled from the windowsill, flicking her tail like this was just another Tuesday.

Psssh. As if I’d let some bargain-bin shadow monster ruin our dinner plans.

I arched my back, hissed like I’d swallowed a thunderstorm, and—because I’m fabulous—sent an entire bookcase toppling into the salt circle.

The demon screeched.

Morty whooped.

Marin, who had just walked in, screamed, “Jinx, what did you do?! Bad cat!”

The answer? Saved her ungrateful life. Clearly.

The demon dissolved into a puddle of shadow, hissing curses about “overpowered familiars” and “disrespectful felines.”

Morty grinned. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

I flicked my tail. “I shouldn’t have to remind you. Just remember it. Now…salmon.”

Marin survived. Duh. Obviously. The Wynthorne curse? Broken. As it turns out, demons hate paperwork, and Morty may have forged a contract termination in ghostly calligraphy. *shrug* You do what you gotta do.

And me?

I got a permanent spot on Marin’s couch, a never-ending supply of gourmet fish, quality time with my Clawdia, and the satisfaction of knowing I’d outsmarted the underworld. Again.

Oh, and Morty? He’s still around. But only because I allow it.

And because he finally learned how to open cans and refrigerators.

So, the next time you see a black cat watching you a little too closely…

Maybe offer some tuna. Or even better, some salmon.

Just in case.

You never know when you might need one to save you from a ghost. Or a demon. Or a curse. Or all three.

But let’s be real. Most black cats aren’t half as fabulous as me. Just sayin’.

Author’s Note:
I hope you enjoyed this snarky, spooky little tale. If you liked Jinx’s voice, you’ll probably love what I’ve been working on lately. Paranormal women’s fiction rom-coms, where ghosts, grudges, and questionable life choices collide. It’s different than my backlist, but I’ve been having a ball with it. If you think Jinx is trouble, wait until you meet the ghosts who haunt my next heroines’ love lives and careers.
Keep an eye out for news! Happy Halloween! 🎃🐾

CONTEST: While we all wait for this delightful new project from Rayvn, she’s offering one lucky reader a sprayed-edge hardcover copy of her whole Haunted New Orleans series!!!
To enter – leave a comment about the story, and let us know if you’ve ever been to a haunted house. (Either a fun one set up for holiday, or an all-the-time-people-live-there-and-so-do-ghosts kind of house.)
** Entry for this contest will ALSO count as your entry for the overall HFF event contest. **special-edition,