Danse Macabre

Chapter 4

October 2021, Edinburgh

"Brontë, is that Lachlan?" The curiosity in Diana's voice was easily detectable even through the phone.

"I will have to call you back." Brontë was in no mood to deal with both Lachlan and Diana at the same time. As if her day couldn't get any worse. Determined to make it as quick as possible, she put her hands on her hips, blocking the entrance. "Want to explain why you come to my house at this ungodly hour, screaming?"

"Don't play smart with me, Stewart, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You just couldn't let me have this one thing and this whole time you knew you'll truly be in charge. Ohhhh, all of those weeks knowing, you must've been pretty chuffed knowing I'll be stood there, looking like a right dick. All this time spent planning Samhain is for nought, now that you can veto all of my decisions." His fists were clenched, little sparkles all around them. He was this close to losing control over his magic, and for a minute Brontë was happy he had no power over lighting. She was sure if he did, she'd be standing here looking more like a crisp fry and less like a witch. Lachlan was annoying, frustrating, absolutely irritating, but not threatening. Never to her. But now, for the first time in her life, Brontë was genuinely terrified of him.

"What are you talking about?"

"How you're my bloody supervisor! How could you, Brontë?!" His voice now changed. Lachlan was not mad anymore, he was upset.

"You're right, Lachlan. Twenty-one years ago I specifically decided to be born on October 31st, so I could be stuck as your babysitter and not Samhain's organiser. Now you know the truth, kindly fuck off."

"Sarcasm does look good on you, Brontë, but I'm not in the mood."

"You're not in the mood?" Brontë was flabbergasted, and for a moment Lachlan managed to render her speechless. They stood in complete silence, so different like day and night, Lachlan with light blonde hair and blue eyes, Brontë with dark hair falling down her shoulders. Both tall and beautiful, determined and stubborn, we're a perfect match, but the mutual aversion for each other was clear as day. The tension was so thick one could cut it with a knife, and yet neither of them was willing to lose this silent duel.

"I didn't know, not until Niamh and I went for a walk." Brontë started softly, annoyed at Lachlan, wt Niamh, at this whole situation. "But, since you seemed to have time to plan, must've known before. How long, Lachlan?"

Now it was his time to be surprised. His eyes widened, as he stood there, opening and closing his mouth, not sure what to say. For a moment Brontë felt a glimpse of satisfaction that she managed to make him look like an idiot, but anger quickly took over.

"Today, please, I've not got all night."

"I... I knew since the end of summer."

"End of summer? And you said nothing?"

"I couldn't.. they had me promise I wouldn't and I listened."

"You must've loved it. Weeks of knowing you won." Brontë hissed, remembering the humiliation and hurt she's experienced earlier. She also remembered the smug face on Melody's face and could not stop herself from feeling hurt. "Your newest toy... Melody knew, didn't she?" Melody knew, didn't she? Who else?"

"I didn't tell Melody anything, Brontë..."

"Leave."

Oh, how the tables have turned. Lachlan lost and confused, Brontë furious and unstoppable.

"You've got some nerve, to come here and accuse me of playing some games, when it's been you all along. I'm not interested in winning by cheating, Lachlan. I'll win because I'm better. Go."