Where Are You Darling? ~Kol Mikaelson Fan Fiction~

Chapter Two: Cece Dawson

I awoke physically exhausted, my head pounding, every part of me feeling weak and unstable as my phone happily sung- the sunny beats of my alarm tone, evil within their intent to get me to work on time. I groaned reaching over for the piece of technology, which was vibrating on my bedside table, my pale hand grappling several times before finally getting the small thing in a secure grip as I silenced it.

I don’t know what happened last night that caused my sleep to be so restless, all I know is that I feel drained, as if ever piece of power within me had been drained over night, and it took the second belt of my alarm to get me out of bed, my feet encased in the fuzziness of a grey bed socks padding across my small room and into my bathroom.

At the grand old age of 20 I lived alone, in a small apartment in London, it wasn’t the most glamorous area of the city, yet I slept safely and that’s all that truly mattered to me.  I had moved to the city in order to chase my country girl dreams of being an dancer, and my parents had agreed so long as I continued with my witch training, with a teacher they had picked out specially for me and my mediocre talents and that’s what led me to this small flat, working shifts at the near by cafe and juggling the rest of my time between dance lessons and focusing on my witchcraft. Did I have everything I ever wanted in the world? No, but I was happy, and currently that’s all that matters.

My reflection in the small mirror that sat above my bathroom sink was as bad as the pounding pain in my head, my hair in pure disarray, unattractive bags looming under my eyes and a trail of dried blood leading from my nose down to the chapped cupids bow of my lips. I groaned, cleaning the blood from my face before brushing my teeth and forcing a hairbrush through my wrecked hair. Have I been taught how to perfect my looks in one simple spell? Yes. Do I trust myself enough to perform any type of magic on my face? No. So I was stuck applying my make up the old-fashioned way, yet luckily the results managed to hide the majority of evidence of my bad nights sleep.

I dressed simple; a plain white tank top matched with a mid-thigh tube skirt a simple denim shirt thrown over the top finalized with black ballet pumps and a slick of peach lip gloss and I was ready to go, my handbag thrown over my shoulder as I left the small apartment, quite content to walk the short journey to my homey work place.

The coffee shop I worked at, which was named Betsy’s Place after the owner, was a small coffee shopped that had a steady flow of customers who delighted at the comforting feel of the small shop.  It was littered with small brown leather sofas and vases filled with autumn coloured flowers, the floor was a deep brown, the surrounding walls (except from the windowed one which opened out to the street behind, were half panelled in a soft mahogany the other half painted in a delectable cream. A large blackboard took up the painted section of the wall behind the counter, chalk words describing all of the delicious treats purchasable filling it.

 As I entered the small shop, I smiled, it was hard not to when all your senses was overpowered by the delicious sent of cinnamon and coffee. “Hey, Ce.” My co-worker, Diane, greeted me warmly, gently chucking me my apron, which I tied around my waste- the small piece of black material that nearly covered my entire skirt the only official piece of uniform I had for this job.

I joined the dirty-blonde headed girl, who I worked with behind the counter. Diane was three years older than I was, and worked here along with the bar down the street to support her two-year-old son, Johnny, who she has to drop off at nursery each morning.

“How’s your little boy then?” I asked her, jostling her shoulder slightly as I set things up for when the café opened in half and hour, to accommodate the busy people as they grabbed their morning coffee on their way to work.

“Not good. His dad had him over the weekend, and was meant to have him till Wednesday, but then his new bird decided she doesn’t like my John so he was sent home early. Poor boy’s heart broken, you know how he adores his dad.”

I nodded; Johnny was the result of an unsuccessful relationship between Diane and a womaniser, and although not nice with woman Johnny’s dad was amazing with him, that is until a new girl comes along.

“So how was your weekend, doll?” Diane, never liked talking about herself too long, and I happily described my weekend of Gossip Girl, Real Housewives and ice cream to her, as we finished off all preparations needed before opening the café.

~~~~

The day went quickly, making cups of coffee and slices of cake being served until my shift finally ended at 2 in the afternoon, my entire morning wasted on looking at other people enjoying impeccable cups of coffee and devouring delicious slices of cake.

I only had 5 minutes at home, in which I quickly ate a small lunch, before I had to rush out again, head still pounding slightly from when I woke up in the morning, to get to my witchcraft lesson, handbag this time barely in my hand as I rushed down several flights of stairs in my hurry to get out of the apartment block and on my way to my lesson. 

My lessons were held at my teacher, Clarks, home. He was an elder of some random witch coven, which to my parents meant he was a perfect teacher. He was middle aged, at least edging onto 40, and harsh within his teaching. Mistakes were frowned upon, and I often made many. I was never the perfect witch; spells that were viewed as simplistic to others always seeming complicated- like some ancient gobbledegook, which it most probably was.

I arrived only 5 minutes late (which Clark treated as a bloody century), my blood racing, breathing heavy as my teacher tutted down at me. “Late again Miss Dawson.” He shook his head, holding the door to his cluttered home open as I walked in, before slamming it, a frown etched onto his features.

Despite the fact that he was mildly attractive (in the Tom Hiddleston style overload way) he always reminded me of Professor Snape from the Harry Potter series. He was harsh within his teachings, and had the Snape-ish drone to his voice, which both commanded attention and completely bored the listener.

“Today you will be performing a simple levitation spell.” I groaned, on one of the few lessons in which I did not feel prepared to do actual magic he decided to spring it onto me. “You’re not happy, by this decision?” His eyebrows were raised in shock; I was always the one complaining about having to do so much theory. 

“I just feel magically drained today, like I just couldn’t possibly do another spell, like all my power is gone.” His eyebrows rose further.

“And why is this?”

“I don’t know, I just woke up this morning feeling drained, and with a load of blood down my face. It was pretty disgusting if you ask me, I never knew you could get nose bleeds whilst you sleep.”

“And what did you dream about that night?”

Now it was my turn to frown slightly. “I don’t really know- there was three people having a conversation, two woman and a man, they were all powerful really powerful-“ I froze for a moment continuing to think. “But that didn’t matter to me, I had something more important to do.”

“And what was that?”

“I don’t know, I just knew it was important.”

“And were the people in your dream were they talking?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Very well then. Turn to page 57 in your book, we shall continue on the history of the levitation spell, next lesson be prepared to perform it.”

~~~~

That night I stayed up late, just thinking. Why had Clark seemed so interested in my dream? Why did it really matter? I wanted answers, but I wanted sleep more, and that night I slept undisturbed, no weird dreams about strange people invading my mind as my power rejuvenating throughout the night.