Danse Macabre

Chapter 3

October 2021, Edinburgh

Brontë felt the blood drain from her face. Her ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton wool, muting all of the outside noises. The only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart.

"I'm about to throw up." she said, not sure if anyone could actually hear her. Her stomach was churning, and her mouth filled with a bittersweet taste. She has never felt so sick in her life, not even when as a child she broke her arm. Her head was spinning, and she barely noticed when a cold hand touched her arm.

"Breathe." The words showed up in Brontë's mind, bright as a sun. But she knew that it was not her own thought, it was as if someone was playing with her mind. Brontë took a couple of deep breaths and looked around. What felt like a never ending torture to her, was barely a glimpse in real world. Lachlan just stood up, didn't yet make his way to stand next to Niamh. People were clapping and cheering, even Dennis was happy for his friend. Traitor, Brontë thought, but she couldn't be mad. She knew that Lachlan and Dennis were friends, it would be unfair of her to expect Dennis not to celebrate. She took another deep breath and looked around, trying to pin point who communicated with her. Everyone looked happy and busy, not one person was paying attention to her. Or, almost none. Melody, with a self-righteous smirk on her face, seemed to enjoy Brontë's humiliation. Sadly, she also seemed to have noticed her initial reaction. Stupid cow. However, Melody was not the person Brontë was looking for. She was not a powerful witch, she could only dream of playing tricks like this. Brontë kept scanning the room, when she felt cold hand on her arm again. This time, she noticed it. She looked to her left, and froze.

A girl, not much older than her, with curly blond hair, pink lips and lovely freckles was right next to her. She looked at Brontë with sympathy, and gently touched her hand again. She smiled shyly, but it wasn't the surprising display of affection from a stranger that stunted Brontë. It wasn't even girl's clothes, looking as if she's ran away from 18th century. It was the certitude, that she is from 18th century. The girl, just like Stephanie earlier, was see through. And Brontë could feel her touch. Her heart started to beat faster, when the girl looked to the side and became scared. Just as simply as she appeared, she was gone.

What could possibly scare the ghost? Brontë thought to herself, and looked in the same direction. And she's noticed Niamh McLelland piercing eyes staring right at her.

###

The rest of the evening felt like a haze. Brontë decided to fake it till you make it. Lachlan becoming Samhain's organiser was a massive blow to her plans, but also to her ego. He was on the fast track to become the leader, a part of the Hidden Dair and Brontë didn't know what to do with herself.

"I'm fine, Dennis." She smiled at her friend. They were standing outside the meeting hall, waiting for Lachlan. Or, more specifically, Dennis was waiting. Brontë would rather bite off her right arm, piece by piece, than face him now. She's faced enough as for one day. Wiccan's lecture, ghosts, now this...

"It's okay not to be fine, Brontë. You've worked hard for this position, no one would blame you if you felt defeated." Dennis tried his best to cheer her up, but his efforts were making Brontë only more agitated.

"Defeated? Love, I am not defeated. Lachlan is a step ahead of me, but that does not mean that I won't get that position in the end."

"I know, but you know the odds of that happening..."

"Odds shmods. Lachlan won a battle, but I'll win the war. Remember that." Brontë pointed her finger at Dennis, one hand resting on her hip. She was focused and determined, and truly believed in what she said. She was not going to give up on her goal, not this easily.