Danse Macabre

Chapter 2

December 2021

"So let me get this straight." Auld Hornie patiently massaged his temples. "You see something, and automatically assume it's a ghost? Ghosts don't exists now, do they?"

"That's what I thought too."

Brontë took a deep breath. She knew that ghosts were considered extinct. Since 1746, The Battle of Culloden. Humans believed, that it was English versus the Scottish, but they could not be more wrong. Even thought the witch hunts ended a decade before, witches still remained hidden... to a degree. Back when Gods still visited the Earth, each kind of magic was celebrated. But after a war that costs millions of life, a war started by jealousy and love, there were two specialties seen as cursed. Time Travellers and Necromancers. Back then, ghosts were a normal occurrence, and witches could communicate with their loved ones long after they passed. But in 1746, Arawn, the God of Afterlife, closed the Otherworld for good. No more ghosts and no more Necromancers. Thankfully, no Necromancers were reported since then, as they have been no need for them. But the rules were clear. Any Necromancer born after 1746 must be eliminated.

Time Travellers... now, that's a different story. Despite being a reason for closing of the Otherworld, the witches could not survive without them. Magic and time, both finnicky matters could not exist without one another. But the crime they committed still needed to be punished. And as such, every Time Traveller appeared, and there was only one per generation, they were forced to spend the rest of their lives away from the coven, forbidden from using magic, with the exception to fulfil their duties. Brontë could not imagine fate worse than this.

And just like with other specialties, finding out who was a Traveller and who was a Necromancer. Time Travellers eyes were purple, just how the Gods and them described the colour of time. Necromancers eyes were black, with no pupils, to allow them to see behind the curtain to the Otherworld. Even now, locked in a jail with no access to magic, Brontë could see the shadows of ghosts, the thin material separating her from the Otherworld, and knew that the help despite being so close, will not get here in time.

"But there's more to it than this."

"Elaborate then. We have nothing but time." Auld Hornie winked at Brontë and made himself comfortable. Out of a sudden, a gold chalice appeared in his hand. "I'd offer you some, love, but we both know it's of no use to you."

Of course, Brontë thought, magic jails don't only supress your magic. They supress all of your needs.

"I always seen... 'things', you know? But I thought that it's because of when I was born, with the veil between our world and Otherworld being the thinnest on Samhain. It made sense to me."

"And it didn't occur to you, that since the Otherworld is closed there is no veil to be lifted?" Auld Hornie said, half annoyed, half amused.

"Actually..." Brontë started, but quickly stopped herself. If she wanted to Auld Hornie's help, she needed to explain everything to him, as it happened.

"Yes?"

"It didn't occur to me. I should've known better, but you know... Should've, would've, could've, hindsight 20/20 and all that jazz. The point is, I didn't."

"No need to get snappy with me, love. I'm trying to help."

"I know. Right, so where was I?"

October 2021, Edinburgh

When Brontë got to her flat, she was drenched in sweat, her heart pounding, but not from exercise. She was terrified. And it was the kind of terror that settles in your body, and makes every hair on your body stand, fills you veins with frozen ice and makes you look over your shoulder in every situation. The realisation that your life will never be the same again.