Danse Macabre

Chapter 8

Edinburgh, October 2021

It's been five days since Sophie died. The tension in the room was so thick, that it could easily be cut with a knife. Grief filled each and every one of them. Everything reminded them of what they lost, a Sophie-shaped hole was present like a gaping wound. Brontë was never that close with Sophie, but a loss of one of them was a loss for all. Yet nothing was more painful than watching Lachlan and Ahmed, Lachlan's best friend, lost like children in fog, unable to find a place for themselves.

These three were thick as thieves, Ahmed and Sophie had the kind of love people dream of. They were each other best friends, companions, the light at the end of tunnel and now it was over. Brontë and Diana spent countless hours since the news broke out trying to help, but nothing they could do would bring Sophie back.

Now they were sitting in Ahmed's living room, in an apartment he once shared with Sophie, trying to survive yet another day.

"I just... I can't believe it." Ahmed's whisper sounded like a scream in the silent room. But it was the first time Ahmed spoke since they learned the news. Brontë expected him to scream, to curse, to do anything, but he turned into a stone. She wondered if he just gave up on living, now that Sophie was gone. She opened her mouth, but one look from Lachlan stopped her. Let him talk, his eyes seemed to have said. Diana made her way to the sofa where Ahmed was sat, and put her hand on his arm.

"She was the nicest, kindest person, how could someone do it?!" his question echoed, and Ahmed broke into tears.

"We don't know what happened yet, Ahmed..." Lachlan was just as lost as his friend, but tried his best to reason. Practical Lachlan, one always looking for explanations, that's what was familiar to all of them. "It could've been an accident-"

"You can't really think that." Ahmed looked at Lachlan in disbelief, tears streaming down his face. "Someone stabbed her and dumped her body on the top of Arthur's fucking Seat by accident?!"

Brontë took a deep breath, determined not to allow a fight to start.

"It was brutal, and I wish you didn't know all of those details. But I think what Lachlan means is that maybe it was a case of wrong place, wrong time. There's nothing that could have done. And trust me, wondering what you could've done will drive you crazy." Brontë avoided looking at Lachlan when she was saying this. She wanted to help Ahmed, not make them go back to that summer afternoon when they lost Steph. "We know what you're going through, Ahmed."

"Does it get easier?" Ahmed hid his face in his hands, and timid cry escaped him.

"Poor Ahmed..." Brontë refused to look back but she immediately recognised the voice. She felt her heart beat faster, as blood rushed to her cheeks and she shook her head. Oh Gods, not you, not now.

"With time." Lachlan said, curiously glancing at Brontë.

Brontë turned around and looked straight as Sophie. Sophie with her curly hair, in her beautiful white turtleneck. Sophie the way she remembered her, not the way she's last seen her. Sophie stood with her mouth open, shocked when she realised Brontë sees her.

"You can see me?!"

December 2021

Back in her cell, Brontë started to pace back and forth. All this time she thought that Sophie's death was her fault, that she had her blood on her hands. But it was just now that she realised something way more important. Sophie died before the accident happened. Before Brontë ever stepped into the Otherworld, before she brought Jagoda back from the dead. She wasn't responsible for Sophie's death. She was not her killer.