Crowned
Cheryl S. Ntumy
Conyza Bennett will never be an ordinary teenager. Her supernatural powers make her different to other kids her age, and as hard as she tries to avoid trouble, often trouble finds her… And as more and more mysterious events begin to happen around the globe, Connie’s own powers grow stronger every day, as though forces are working to prepare her for something huge - a fight so big it will change Connie’s life forever.Now Connie must prepare to face her most hated enemy, for one final time. The winner will be crowned ruler of the supernatural, the loser will face almost certain death. Connie’s new powers make her strong, but her desire to be a normal girl is almost overwhelming.And if Connie hopes to defeat the evil Puppermaster forever and become the leader she was born to be, first she must confront her biggest fear – her belief in herself.Don't miss the final instalment in the Conyza Bennett seriesBook 1 - EntwinedBook 2 - UnravelledBook 3 - Crowned
CONYZA BENNETT BOOK 3
Also by Cheryl S. Ntumy (#ulink_ae39de97-762d-5d2b-9cf4-0c0094fc88dc)
Entwined
Unravelled
CROWNED
Cheryl S. Ntumy
Copyright (#ulink_a8b75af4-0ccb-56c5-a13e-5087e10a91fb)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Cheryl S. Ntumy 2015
Cheryl S. Ntumy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9781474034005
Version date: 2018-10-30
CHERYL S. NTUMY always knew she wanted to write. With two teachers as parents, she grew up surrounded by books. As a child she wrote everything she could think of, from comic books and magazines to short novels and film scripts – some of which are still hiding in a dusty closet. She dreamed of exploring the realms of science fiction, fantasy and the supernatural, but ended up studying textile design instead, and then journalism.
It didn’t take long for her to decide that fiction writing was the only career she was interested in. Her first book, the supernatural novella Crossing, was published in Botswana in 2010, and her first romance novel came a few months later. She has published five romance books to date. Crowned is her third young adult novel.
Cheryl is now a full-time freelance writer in Gaborone, Botswana, where she spends her days writing, reading and daydreaming about stories. Her friends and family are still waiting for her to find gainful employment. She’s determined to keep them waiting for the rest of her life.
Acknowledgements (#ulink_4ab7ff7e-a9a5-58ee-8014-20c182415de0)
I must thank the team at HQ Digital for all their help in bringing Connie’s story to life. I must also thank my family and friends for their support, the readers for inspiring me to keep writing, and as always my sister, for pretty much everything.
Dedication (#ulink_949a1a7e-72bb-52a6-99bd-ad791a63bbf8)
To everyone, everywhere. The knowledge that there are seven billions souls out there, all dreaming and feeling and thinking and doing, is more inspiration than one mind can hold.
Contents
Cover (#u0261db21-112e-56b6-b16b-f18d9dfae69e)
Book List (#u0ec51e28-578d-54b2-a7c1-756ecf332298)
Title Page (#u981adcc0-5e4f-5dab-bd03-83a175cf36cb)
Copyright (#udb41122e-4245-5634-99ca-02bd7e21cd6c)
Author Bio (#u3c1de5fd-38ba-5ec2-9918-6b328049e842)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_79696e61-b03d-5c66-84f7-f10a2cac4de4)
Dedication (#ulink_980a47e3-8544-59a8-9854-a3dc335f09e4)
Prologue (#ulink_df785991-1f02-50ca-baf8-876461a77a3e)
Chapter One (#ulink_e31cfbb1-6a8c-5e48-a845-1763e45d01d9)
Chapter Two (#ulink_aa6f271c-de71-5aa8-a097-97face3a629a)
Chapter Three (#ulink_1dd37817-1177-541e-a1c0-35724ea2ea77)
Chapter Four (#ulink_17014790-1416-55e4-92be-e927c3e18800)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Glossary (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_cbeb65e8-075d-50ec-9a68-30494ea5416e)
March
It begins with a rock. Quartzite, like the twin crystals Rakwena and I have, except this one is raw and unpolished, the white crystal still embedded in grey stone. It’s difficult to tell how large it is; in the damp, grassy field there’s nothing to compare it to. I’d say it’s roughly the size of my head. Something black and heavy comes crashing down on top of it, driving it deeper into the ground. And then I wake up.
I’m not a fan of weird recurring dreams. The last one I had warned me that the man I called my grandfather was in fact my enemy, but it took me way too long to figure it out. By then the Puppetmaster – telepath, sorcerer, shape shifter and all-round sociopath – had masqueraded as my grandfather for months, taught me to build a full-time psychic barrier, persuaded my boyfriend, Rakwena, to overdose on anti-drifter serum and led me to discover a magic box containing one of my own milk teeth. In other words, the damage was done.
This new dream is far more esoteric. A rock buried in a postcard-friendly scene is not enough to go on. Am I supposed to go on a treasure hunt? Do I look like Indiana Jones?
I sit up in bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. It’s the third time I’ve had this dream in the week since Dad and I came home to find the Puppetmaster and Ntatemogolo locked in a magical battle. I promised the Puppetmaster three meetings so he would leave my grandfather alone. He still hasn’t come to collect, but I know him. He’s lurking nearby, plotting and biding his time.
I don’t know what to make of the dream. I climb out of bed, walk over to my desk and open the wooden chest in the corner. It was a birthday gift from Ntatemogolo, containing three magical tools. One of them is around my ankle – an ancient string of wooden beads passed down through my family for generations. It protects me from deception – but only the supernatural kind. Inside the box are a small jar with a stopper and a brass bell with a gong. The jar sucks up negative energy and the bell clears my mind. I remove the bell, close the box and sit on the edge of my bed.
I tap the gong against the side of the brass bowl and a pure sound rings out, chasing away the remnants of sleep. The cobwebs fall away and my head feels light and clean. I wait for the insight to strike. I ring it twice more, but nothing happens. I get up and put it away, then climb back into bed and stare at the ceiling. Maybe my mind doesn’t need clearing. Maybe the reason I’m not getting any profound insight is because there’s none to get, and the dream is just a dream, idle thoughts that I’ve given far too much significance.
Eventually my eyes close and I start to drift off. Once again I find myself on that damp, grassy field, but this time there are no rocks. Someone is lying on the ground, writhing in agony. I run towards the figure and drop to my knees. I reach out to touch the long cloak that covers the person. It’s wet.
The figure turns to face me. It’s a woman, with eyes that burn bright green with energy. I’ve never seen a psychic signature like this before. The face is young, but the person strikes me as being old, very old, as old as it’s possible for anyone to be.
She grabs my arm. “The gifted are dying,” she gasps.
I touch her face and something plunges into me, something red and bright and laser sharp, and splits me open.
This time I wake up screaming. The scream dies abruptly as my stomach heaves, and I fling off the duvet and flee to the bathroom, colliding with my father, who’s just come barrelling out of his room.
I push past him, throw open the toilet door and retch into the bowl. It feels as though I’m throwing up all my internal organs.
“Connie! Bloody hell…”
“I’m fine,” I tell Dad weakly, when the nausea passes. “It must be something I ate.”
He fusses. I hardly get sick, so I understand his concern, but this is something I need to figure out alone, in peace. Finally he retreats to his room and I sink to the cold tiles, my head swimming, my stomach raw. Something’s wrong. Not wrong like an intruder lurking about, or a fire about to break out, or an accident involving someone I care about. Wrong on a level I can’t even comprehend. The kind of wrong that slides inside your bones and eats away at the marrow, dissolving you from the inside out. Freaky wrong, the worst kind of wrong there is.
I pull myself to my feet, rinse out my mouth, flush the toilet and walk back to my room on shaky legs. The gifted are dying. What does that mean? I lie awake in bed till morning, turning the two dreams over and over in my mind like pebbles, hoping the friction will smooth out the baffling edges.
I sense that today is the start of something, but I’m not sure what. I keep my eyes and ears open all day for rumours and whispers, and by the time I get into bed again I’ve discovered only one interesting piece of news. Prominent businessman Henry Marshall vanished from a shopping mall parking lot yesterday. The driver’s door of his car was wide open, but he was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Johannesburg, South Africa
Rakwena looks out across the tables set on the expansive lawn, listening to the chatter and laughter. Serame, the clan’s matriarch, flits between tables like a dragonfly in her sparkly suit. How many dinner parties has he attended in this house now? Too many – Serame is a born hostess and calls the clan together at the slightest excuse. He doesn’t even remember what they’re celebrating today. A promotion? A birthday?
“What are you so happy about?” A sharp elbow nudges his arm and he turns. Elias is smiling at him around a mouthful of pork ribs.
Rakwena shrugs. “Do I need a reason?”
“He’s at the best table, with the best people,” says Spencer. “Of course he’s happy.”
“You have lettuce in your teeth,” Rakwena replies with a grin.
Spencer peers anxiously into his glass. “Ag, no. Top or bottom?”
Elias starts to cackle, and Reetsang, his twin, can’t help but join in. The twins don’t laugh like normal people – they make sinister hacking, gasping sounds as though they’re in death throes, and after a minute Temper leans over and slaps the back of Reetsang’s head to make him stop. Reetsang falls silent instantly, sending Spencer into a chuckling fit, and before long Rakwena and his six cell brothers are laughing.
Rakwena laughs a lot these days. It’s unavoidable – since he joined his cell brothers they’ve been almost giddy with good spirits. All his life he’s had trouble connecting with people – especially other boys. It wasn’t just because he was a half-drifter living among ordinary humans. He grew up away from the cell and the clan, and never learned the easy rapport between siblings. Technically the six young men at his table are his cousins, but in all the ways that matter they’re brothers, and it’s a bond deeper than anything Rakwena has experienced before…except with Connie.
His smile fades as he thinks of her. In his mind she’s always the same – crazy kinky hair, blue jeans, sneakers and a knowing expression on her freckled face. Beautiful. Not drifter-beautiful, in that photo-ready way everyone in the clan seems to be, but unique-flawed-human-beautiful.
He feels a familiar tug at his heart. As much as he longs to see her, he knows he’s where he should be. He has finally accepted his drifter nature.
Drifters are the youngest supernatural creatures in existence. They can only trace their roots back a few generations – a little over a century. To this day their origins are uncertain. Their numbers, though increasing, are small. For them the nuclear family is the cell, seven drifters born in the same seven-year cycle. Drifters don’t choose their cells. A powerful bond forms as though governed by a higher power, drawing the seven members together. Sometimes, as in Rakwena’s case, the cell is made up of blood relatives. The cells come together to form clans that are close-knit and fiercely protective. Like many aspects of drifter nature, no one can explain the bond. It just is.
When Rakwena joined his cell he promised not to make contact with anyone outside his family until he was fully assimilated into the clan. He can’t remember the last time he checked his email, and his phone has been confiscated. He’s been waiting for Temper, the cell leader, to tell him when the ban has been lifted so he can finally get in touch with Connie. Drifters don’t form lasting attachments outside their cell and clan. Rakwena’s feelings for Connie should have faded as quickly his father Senzo’s love for his mother did. But he’s not like other drifters, and he’s nothing like Senzo.
Rakwena scans the garden. His father’s cell is absent. He and Senzo have avoided each other since Rakwena’s return to the clan, and he’d like to keep it that way. He has hated the man all his life. He hates him so much he injected a serum into his own body every day for years to suppress the only legacy Senzo left him – his drifter urges.
He desperately wanted to be ordinary like his mother, and did all he could to eradicate the part of him that took after Senzo. For a while it worked. Apart from his telekinesis, which he could do nothing about, he was almost normal. He never felt the desire to touch someone and absorb their psychic energy, or conquer, as the drifters call it. The serum couldn’t bury the bond, though, and when his brothers moved to Botswana to be closer to him it took all his strength to keep his distance.
Rakwena has been off the serum for months now, thanks to Connie. It was her grandfather, Lerumo Raditladi, who first gave Rakwena the anti-drifter serum. At the time Senzo was presumed dead and Rakwena’s drifter urges were growing. He would start fights at school to feed off the heightened emotions of the other children. His mother sought help, and Rre Raditladi provided it reluctantly.
The old man was ambivalent about the serum until a few months ago, when he suddenly told Rakwena to double his usual dose. The overdose would have killed him if Connie hadn’t come to his rescue. He was forced to stop taking the serum, and without it he was no match for the bond. Once he and his cell brothers were in the same room he finally understood what Connie had tried to tell him – he needed the cell as much as they needed him. But he needs Connie, too.
His connection with her is even more mysterious than the drifter bond. She absorbs his energy instead of the other way around, easing his turmoil while drawing strength from him. He wonders what she’s doing now. It’s almost eight p.m. – she’s probably home, watching one of her Rachel McAdams movies. The thought makes him smile again.
“Hey, what’s going on with you? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Rakwena faces Elias and offers him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what, man?” Elias reaches for another piece of meat.
“You mean who,” says a sly voice from across the table.
Rakwena looks into Duma’s eyes. Duma’s the baby of the cell, but sometimes Rakwena thinks the kid is the wisest of all of them. If anyone can understand Rakwena’s feelings for Connie, it’s him.
Silence falls over the table as the others catch on to Duma’s hint. Spencer shifts guiltily in his chair. Rakwena doesn’t want them to feel bad. It was his choice. No, it wasn’t a choice – it was inevitable.
“Are you worried about her?” asks Mandla.
Rakwena starts to shake his head, then remembers the Puppetmaster. “Yes.”
“We would have heard if something serious happened,” Mandla reminds him.
Rakwena nods – he has heard of the drifter network. They keep tabs on supernatural developments in case they might be affected, and information is disseminated quickly between clans. If some major event had occurred, Serame would have mentioned it.
Duma leans forward. “I’d sense it if she were…you know.” He trains his large, earnest eyes on Rakwena.
“That’s right,” says Reetsang, eager to reassure Rakwena. “She’s on Duma’s map, so if something happens her line will fade.”
Rakwena nods again. Duma can sense the gifted, and once he has located them they leave a stamp on his mind. What the others don’t understand is it’s not just about Connie’s safety. He misses her. He clears his throat and turns to Temper, but his question is pre-empted.
“Soon.” Temper’s frame almost dwarfs the chair he’s in. “There’s one more thing to take care of. I hoped we could do it tonight, but the other party’s absent.”
Rakwena scowls. “You want me to make up with Senzo.” He knew this was coming.
“I don’t care if you hate him for the rest of your life,” replies Temper. “He deserves it. But you’re in the same clan now, honour-bound to protect each other. You get that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” says Rakwena, through gritted teeth. He has taken the vow and he’ll keep it, but he doesn’t have to like it.
“You know the rules. You can’t involve us in your fight. We can’t be objective – we’ll always support you and his cell will support him, no matter what. He’s already using his influence to keep his cell away; they’ve missed three gatherings and Serame is not happy.” Temper takes a sip from his wine glass. It’s a weak blend but, as always, it’s the strongest drink on offer.
“Then he should be getting the lecture!” Rakwena snaps.
The remorse is instant. He winces. He’s still getting used to these immediate and unambiguous drifter emotions. Temper is the leader, acting in the cell’s best interest. It’s wrong for Rakwena to be petulant. His annoyance deflates almost as soon as it arises.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sure Serame has already tried getting through to him.”
Temper nods. “Senzo’s a jackass, we all know that. He’s taken his cell on a trip and hasn’t made contact. He might decide to move to China to avoid you.”
Rakwena frowns. “I thought he’d be dying to torment me, but he’s been so quiet.”
“Well, be prepared. When he gets back Serame plans to issue a directive. For the good of the clan, you two must call a truce in the presence of the council.”
Rakwena sighs. “Fine. And as soon as that’s done…?”
Temper smiles, bemused and a little exasperated. “You can call Connie. Or email her, or beam her up. Whatever you want.”
Rakwena returns his smile. Hang in there, he tells her, hoping she can read his thoughts. I’ll see you soon.
* * *
I lie in bed, unable to sleep. Someone walks down the street beyond my window and I pick up a jolt of satisfaction. Whoever it is, they’re feeling pretty good. I draw my gift away from the stranger. It’s like peeling old tape off a wall – slow and messy.
Since the night I had those dreams I’ve become more sensitive to my surroundings. Every sound, every scent, every emotion shimmering in the ether finds its way onto my radar. I pick up subtle cues that would normally have gone over my head. It’s as though the world of the unseen has been remastered in 3D high-definition, and it’s overwhelming. I haven’t felt like this since the day I came into my telepathy, over a year and a half ago.
At first I thought my gift had become erratic because I’ve taken a break from training. Now I realise that the opposite is true. Despite the fact that I’ve made no effort to develop it, my gift is getting stronger.
Chapter One (#ulink_61a81c0e-e1b3-57e1-b7af-4ef671c91d92)
This is awkward. Not cute, romantic-comedy awkward, but ground-open-up-and-swallow-me awkward. I’m standing in my living room in my underwear, my clothes flung across the arm of the sofa. My best friend, Lebz, is bent over, measuring the span of my hips. Kelly, our group’s new fourth musketeer, has encircled my waist with her manicured hands to determine whether or not I’m an hourglass in the making.
I stare at the ceiling and try not to cringe. I resisted, as much as one can resist in the face of two tornadoes. I made some protest about my dignity, but by then my skirt was already around my ankles. It’s my fault for wearing a skirt for the first time in recorded history; Lebz’s keen eye noted that something was amiss. As if that wasn’t enough, the skirt didn’t hang from my jutting pelvic bones as expected. Instead it seemed to…fit.
I’ve always been the wrong kind of tall and the wrong kind of thin, the kind that makes you look like an alien struggling to fit into a human body rather than a supermodel. But something strange has happened to my figure lately. That is to say, I have one now. Hips. A butt. Dips and curves that make clothes cling to me in unfamiliar ways. I’ve taken to hiding it by wearing loose T-shirts over my jeans, but today is laundry day and the skirt, a gift from our house help, Auntie Lydia, is all I have to wear.
Lebz straightens up, widening her kohl-rimmed eyes. “You used to look like a ruler!”
I scowl. “Thanks.”
“Your knees are still weird, your legs are too skinny and there’s no hope for those non-existent boobs, but you have hips now, so you’re officially a woman.”
I put on my most saccharine smile. “You forgot freckles, the monster pimple on my chin, hair that never does what it’s told, funny ears, big nose, fangtastic incisors…”
“Shut up,” says Kelly. “You’re beautiful. Lebz is just teasing, obviously.”
I know Kelly is trying to be nice, but no one wants to be told they’re beautiful by a girl who turns heads wherever she goes.
“You’ll have to get a whole new wardrobe,” she decides, finally releasing me.
“More skirts,” says Lebz, nodding. “Some decent skinny jeans.”
“A tube top or two, a slinky dress…”
A tentative knock sounds from the closed kitchen door. “Are you ladies done yet?”
That’s Wiki, the other musketeer, and the only boy in the gang. Poor baby. The second Lebz and Kelly saw me they shooed him away so they could strip and torture me, and he’s been stranded in the kitchen ever since.
“No!” Lebz calls back.
“Yes!” I snatch up my clothes and pull them on. “So I’m a late bloomer – big deal. I’m not going to start dressing like Kim Kardashian.”
“No, you’re not there yet,” says Kelly, with a forlorn glance at my behind.
I gape at her. Why did I invite these people over? Oh yes – I missed them. We’ve all been swamped lately. They’re battling through Form Six, and with my job as an assistant on the set of a TV show I’ve hardly seen them.
I march to the kitchen to let Wiki in, feeling flustered and more than a little embarrassed. He enters warily, carrying a tray of chips and drinks.
“I made us some snacks. And you look great,” he adds as an afterthought, though I look exactly as I did when he entered the house.
I smile and take the tray. “You’re only supposed to say that if a girl has changed something.”
“I can never tell!” he protests. “You were attacked by the Fashion Police – I assumed some sort of makeover was inevitable.”
“We were conducting a strip-search,” Lebz giggles, helping herself to a glass of lemonade and taking a seat.
“Without a warrant,” I grumble.
Kelly laughs and plonks herself beside Wiki, who immediately slides his arm around her waist. It’s like a reflex action now. I never thought I’d see the day Wiki had a girl in hand rather than a book, but then again, a lot has changed. Two years ago Lebz was a flighty serial monogamist, Kelly and I couldn’t stand each other and Wiki was practically asexual. Now Lebz is a singleton who reads newspapers as well as gossip rags, Kelly and I are friends and Wiki has a gorgeous girlfriend.
On the other hand, some things haven’t changed. I glance at the blonde-streaked quiff on Lebz’s head. As long as I’ve known her she’s been a slave to fashion, switching up her look before I even get a chance to get used to the last one. Today she’s wearing a leather skirt and a ridiculous pair of heels, just to walk round the corner from her house to mine. Kelly, on the other hand, is wearing a cute but casual dress with sandals. It seems she’s rubbed off on Lebz and Wiki’s rubbed off on her.
I lean back in my chair. “So! Tell me all the gossip. What’s new at Syringa?”
The Syringa Institute of Excellence is the best secondary school on the planet. I left at the end of Form Five last year, while most of my peers continued to Form Six, but in my heart I’ll always be a Syringa kid.
“Well, two students pulled a Henry Marshall,” says Wiki.
I frown, trying to make sense of that statement. Henry Marshall, a well-known CEO, vanished under suspicious circumstances a few weeks ago. A security guard found his car in the Airport Junction Mall parking lot. The key was in the ignition and Marshall’s phone and briefcase were in the boot. There were also three bags of groceries on the backseat. So far the police have no leads.
I stare at Wiki in confusion. “What on earth does that mean? They disappeared?”
He shakes his head. “They left their lockers open with all their belongings inside. That’s what people call it – a Henry Marshall.”
“It’s become a thing now,” adds Kelly in disgust. “People leave their lockers open or their bags lying around to bait thieves, and then they watch from a distance to see what happens and film it all on their cameras.”
“Then they post it on YouTube,” says Lebz, whipping out her phone to show me. “It’s not just Syringa. People from other schools have done it, too. It’s really catching on.”
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “You must be joking.”
“Unfortunately not.” Lebz fiddles with the phone. “The internet is so slow!”
“I think it’s a network problem,” says Kelly. “The last few days my phone’s been acting up, too. Even messages don’t always go through.”
“Ja, my phone, too.” I frown. “I wonder what that’s all about.”
“It’s about poor service,” says Wiki. “Have you forgotten where we live?”
Lebz gives up on her phone, tossing it back into her bag. “The whole Henry Marshall thing freaks me out. It’s like he teleported or something.”
“I’d say he was kidnapped.” Wiki absent-mindedly strokes Kelly’s hair. “Someone grabbed him while he was getting into the car, and there was no time to lock up. A shopping mall is a busy place – they didn’t want to be spotted.”
“My father is friends with the Marshalls,” says Kelly.
“And they haven’t received a ransom call or a letter,” I murmur, as the same words leave her lips. I look up to find three pairs of eyes staring at me.
“You’ve been doing that a lot,” Lebz points out.
She doesn’t know the half of it. Now that my gift has gone Blu-ray on me I find myself predicting all sorts of random things, from people’s words to news headlines. In the past it would take a premonition for me to be able to do that. Now the words just tumble out of my mouth – I don’t even know where they come from. Normally I’d go straight to my grandfather with something like this, but this is one mystery I’d like to solve on my own.
“Sorry. Occupational hazard.” I clear my throat and glance at Kelly, but apart from a thoughtful frown she seems unfazed.
An uncomfortable silence falls over the group. We still haven’t figured out how to handle supernatural matters in Kelly’s presence. Although she knows I have premonitions and has probably guessed that I’m a telepath, she doesn’t know about the Puppetmaster. While we don’t discuss sensitive issues in front of her, we take it for granted that she knows she’s not living in humdrum ungifted reality any more.
Last year she dated Spencer, a drifter from Rakwena’s cell. Drifters absorb psychic energy from ungifted people. In moderation it’s harmless, but in excess… Spencer’s powers were out of control, and he left Kelly drained and disoriented. She doesn’t know the details, but she’s a smart girl. She’s aware that Spencer and his family are different; she just doesn’t know how different.
I clear my throat. “Guys, have some more food, please.”
My suggestion seems to break the ice. We chat about safer topics for a while: school, music and movies, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety that won’t go away. Eventually Kelly gets to her feet, sensing that we want to be alone. Despite her relationship with Wiki she seems to understand that she’s not really one of us. Lebz, Wiki and I have known each other all our lives.
“I’m gonna fix my make-up,” she declares, then bites her lip sheepishly, because we can all see that her make-up is flawless.
The second the toilet door clicks shut Wiki’s eyes narrow. “Your gift is getting stronger, isn’t it?”
I sigh. “Yes. It’s probably a normal growth spurt. I’m sure it happens to all gifted.”
“Is that what your grandfather says?”
I turn to look into Lebz’s eyes and watch them widen.
“You haven’t told him?”
“He’s been through a lot! Remember? He came back to find that the Puppetmaster had taken over his life, then they got into a battle and he could have been hurt. He needs time to recuperate.”
Lebz and Wiki exchange dubious glances. They know Ntatemogolo has been through far worse than a little rumble with the Puppetmaster. I’m not keeping my growth spurt from him for his sake, but for my own. I’m afraid he’ll tell me something’s wrong. I’ve had a month without major drama, and I’m not quite ready for the holiday to end.
“You have to tell him,” says Wiki. “After everything that’s happened you can’t afford to take these things lightly.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“When?” asks Lebz.
Geez, I should have kept my mouth shut. I understand why they’re worried. Last year the Puppetmaster shape shifted into my grandfather, fooling all of us, while my real grandfather was out of town. If the Puppetmaster could convince me that he was my grandfather for months, it’s logical to assume he can dupe me any time he likes. Logical, but wrong. If he hadn’t fogged my brain with a magic ring I’d have figured out the truth a lot sooner. I’m not as gullible as everyone thinks.
“I’ll tell him the next time I see him, OK? Now let’s talk about Henry Marshall.” I tell them about the dreams I had the day he vanished. “So far I haven’t found a way to link the disappearance to anything supernatural, but there could be a connection.”
“Why would gifted be involved?” asks Lebz. “They like to keep a low profile.”
“I hope they aren’t involved. I think we all agree that gifted criminals are the worst.”
My friends cringe. The downside of being friends with someone like me is that when trouble comes, it’s usually of the terrifying, can’t-call-the-cops-or-tell-the-parents variety. There are eerie occurrences, dangerous chases and sinister sightings. Maybe a superhuman soldier or two. Definitely a lot of complex cover stories.
“Speaking of criminals…” Lebz looks at me, her eyes uncertain.
“The Puppetmaster?” I shake my head. “Nothing yet.”
“What about Rakwena?”
“No.” It hurts to say it. I don’t know why he’s taking so long to make contact, but the more time passes the more I think I might never see him again.
Wiki gives me a significant look. “Don’t you think it’s time you sent him an email? You said he would be inducted into the clan in March. It’s April.”
“The induction is only the beginning,” I explain. “He has to get settled, get used to everyone…”
“Stop,” Wiki interjects. “You’re just worried he’ll come running back here to protect you and ruin all the progress he’s made with his cell.”
He’s right. I know what happens when a drifter cell is incomplete. The drifters get aggressive, temperamental and unpredictable. Now that Rakwena has finally found his place, it would be wrong to tear him away. I’m afraid his brothers would fall apart again. I’m afraid he’d fall apart, too.
There’s something else I’m afraid of, and it’s such a selfish fear that I’d never admit it to my friends. I try to brush it away, but it keeps slithering back into my head. I’m afraid that even if I tell Rakwena how scared I am, he won’t come back. I know he cares about me, but I’m afraid if it comes down to it the bond he shares with his brothers will trump the bond he shares with me. He’s home, and I’m not sure one measly telepath is enough to bring him back.
“Connie?” Lebz peers at me. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I put on my best smile. “What do you guys want to do today? Movie?”
Kelly remains out of earshot. She must have put on twelve coats of lipstick by now. Lebz has that look on her face that tells me she wants to say something I’m not going to appreciate, and Wiki has that look that tells me he’s going to intervene before she puts her foot in her mouth.
“Let’s go out, maybe get some ice cream or something,” he suggests, just as Lebz opens her mouth to speak.
There’s something wonderful about knowing people so well that you can almost predict their every move – without having to read their minds. “Great idea. You go get Kelly, and I’ll get my bag.” I leap to my feet, relieved by the change of topic, and head to my room.
The crystal on my desk is dim. Whatever Rakwena’s doing, he’s not thinking of me. I feel a painful pang in my chest. No – I’m not going to pine. I’m going to go out with my friends and enjoy myself. I grab my bag, put on a pair of sneakers and try not to wince at the sight of my sun-starved legs in the mirror. Today I’m not a telepath hung up on a half-drifter who won’t call. I’m just a regular girl. Almost.
* * *
I get off work two hours early on Monday. At first I plan to go straight home; my curfew is still seven p.m., though I’m eighteen and should be allowed to come home at a sensible hour like the other grown-ups.
When I reach the bus rank I change my mind and take a combi to Bontleng to see my grandfather. Ntatemogolo isn’t great at responding to phone calls and messages. My approach is to drop in unannounced and hope for the best. Today it seems I’m just in time; he’s stepping out of his beat-up Toyota Venture when I walk up his street.
He looks at me in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“They let us go early.” I follow him through the small gate and up to the front door.
He grunts. He doesn’t think much of my job. He unlocks the door and we step into his house. As always we head straight for the consultation room, the small, dark room where Ntatemogolo does all his unorthodox work. My heart sinks as we sit on the reed mat in the middle of the floor. I pick up an air of disappointment – he has bad news.
“I’m afraid I have bad news, my girl.”
Yep, I know what this is about. During his most recent extended trip he found a girl drifter up north in D’Kar. She’s first generation – her parents were not drifters. Unfortunately they both died years ago, so we only have her word and her grandmother’s that they were ordinary, ungifted people.
As things stand no one has a solid theory about how drifters came to be. Physically they’re like gifted humans, except they’re super-attractive, super-smart and produce a finite amount of psychic energy, far less than other people. They need to conquer – to absorb energy from others – in order to survive.
Because they exhibit traits similar to both the incubus of gifted lore and the still alive and kicking thokolosi, some people believe they’re a hybrid of the two. The drifters themselves reject that theory, but have nothing to substitute it with. Not yet, anyway.
Ntatemogolo thinks that drifters, far from being magical creatures, are humans that evolved to address a specific problem – excess negative psychic energy. His research indicates that the earliest drifters were discovered in or near places reeling from trauma that damaged the communal psyche. He believes drifters were born to fix this imbalance by absorbing the excess energy so the traumatised communities could function properly again.
To prove it, he had to find at least one first-generation drifter. He found Maria. His search kept him away long enough for the Puppetmaster to swoop in and steal his identity. During Ntatemogolo’s first meeting with Maria she wouldn’t reveal much. He told her he’d like to come back and planned to bring me along. She agreed, but now whenever he calls it’s “not a good time”.
“Maria still refuses to see us?”
Ntatemogolo nods. He sits cross-legged on the mat across from me and pulls out a cigarette pack and his trusty lighter.
I don’t understand why this girl is going back on her word. Doesn’t she understand how important this is? Drifters are considered dangerous by the few who know they exist. The clans keep to themselves because the danger goes both ways. Conquests are an exercise in balance – if a drifter loses control he can hurt both the person he’s conquering and himself. But if Ntatemogolo’s right and drifters are meant to help communities rather than hurt them, all of that will change. If the drifters are cautious they can live peacefully among ungifted without ever being found out.
Maria’s community has mixed feelings about her. They fear her because unlike other drifters she stands out – blue eyes, dark skin – but they also have no problem making use of her abilities. Of course, they don’t realise she has abilities. All they know is that she has “a way with people”. When she’s around there’s less conflict.
Maria’s different in another way; she’s attached to her non-drifter community. Ntatemogolo thinks this is because she’s first-generation. She was born to help those people, so it’s natural for her to love them. This bond weakens with time and is eventually eclipsed by the bond between members of a cell. For ordinary drifters leaving places is easy. For her it’s not.
I take a deep breath. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe she doesn’t want to meet another stranger. What if you tell her you’ll go alone?”
“It has nothing to do with you,” my grandfather assures me. “She doesn’t trust me. We have no choice but to wait until she is willing to co-operate.”
“That could take for ever!”
He shrugs. “In the meantime I will pursue other avenues.”
“There are other avenues?”
“There might be another first-generation drifter on the continent. But you didn’t come here to discuss the drifters, did you?”
“No, I came to discuss Henry Marshall. I think his kidnapper could be gifted.”
Ntatemogolo frowns in the dim light. “I don’t know Marshall well, but I have reason to believe he is gifted.”
Now that’s an interesting twist to the tale. Marshall doesn’t fit the profile at all. He’s a prominent member of the community with a high-profile job. It’s difficult to hide a gift; for someone in the public eye it’s almost impossible.
“Are you sure, Ntatemogolo?”
“As sure as I can be without confirmation.”
“Then why didn’t he protect himself? Whatever his gift, it should have allowed him to sense danger coming, or defend himself from it.”
He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray at the edge of the mat. “You are assuming it was a kidnapping. There is a chance he fled for some reason.”
“I don’t think so.” Something is bugging me. It’s an odd nagging feeling, like I’m missing something important. My thoughts roll back to the dreams I had and the wrenching pain I felt. I don’t think what happened to Marshall was a random incident. I think it’s part of something bigger.
I hesitate before speaking. “I had two strange dreams the day he disappeared.”
Ntatemogolo looks at me sharply. “What kind of dreams?”
“The one I told you about before, the recurring one with the rock, and another in the same setting. There was a girl with green eyes. She said the gifted are dying. Then there was this red thing, like a sword or a laser or something, and it cut me open, and the pain was…” I swallow hard, my pulse racing at the memory. “When I woke up I was sick. I had this terrible feeling, like something bad was about to happen.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he snaps, leaning forward.
“I tried calling you the next day – you didn’t answer, and when I checked the news all I found was the Marshall thing, so… I don’t know. It’s like I know something, but I don’t know what I know.” I hesitate, feeling foolish. I wish I could speak with more conviction but all I have is a hunch, not even a premonition.
“Go on, my girl. Tell me what you are thinking.”
I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. “Well, you say Marshall is gifted, and the girl in my dream said the gifted are dying, and that night he disappeared, and there was the other dream with the rock…” I stop and take a breath. “Maybe I’m supposed to prevent more gifted from disappearing.”
“Ah,” Ntatemogolo murmurs, and I know what he’s going to say next. “Don’t place that burden on your shoulders, my girl. It is not your job to save the world.”
He’s said this before. My premonitions come when they want – before an event, during it or long after it’s happened. I have premonitions of some things but not of others. A lot of the time they alert me to things over which I have no control. I used to get so frustrated. What’s the point of seeing something if you can’t do anything about it?
But that’s the nature of gifts. I’m not going to see every threat before it happens, throw on a spandex suit and run off to save somebody. Still, sometimes I get the feeling I’m meant to be useful to the world in a bigger way than I’ve been. Is that arrogant? I don’t know. All I know is that I feel like crap when someone gets hurt and I couldn’t stop it.
“I don’t want to save the world,” I tell my grandfather. “Just Henry Marshall.”
He’s quiet for some time. Usually he’s the hardest person to read, but today I know exactly how he feels. He’s worried about me. He’s been worried since he got back. He thinks the time I spent with the Puppetmaster has had a detrimental effect on me. The last thing I want to do is add fuel to that fire, so I decide to keep my growing powers to myself a little longer. It’s ironic that I don’t see the question coming.
“Connie, have you noticed anything strange about your gift of late?”
For a second I’m too stunned to respond. How did he know?
“Some of my clients tell me they are having trouble controlling their gifts,” he continues. “They seem to be stronger than usual. I thought my gift was unaffected, but now I can feel a slight surge in power. Do you feel it as well?”
I have to make a conscious effort to keep the relief from showing all over my face. It’s not just me. Thank God. “Yes,” I breathe, and the word is a weight off my chest. “My gift has been more sensitive lately.”
He strokes his beard. “I haven’t heard news of any significant supernatural event, but something is going on. It might also explain why you are having these vivid dreams. Describe the first one to me again.”
I oblige. I remember every detail, down to the scent of wet soil on that misty field.
“Could the object pushing the rock into the ground have been a staff?”
I frown. “Like the kind wizards carry in stories? I don’t know. It seemed heavy. Dark and rounded.”
“The head of a staff?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Why? Would it make a difference?”
“Oh, yes. There are rituals that involve placing markers at specific points. Quartzite is often used for such purposes. You can’t touch the markers or they will become tainted, so a sorcerer will use a purified staff to fix the markers in place. It is possible your dream is a premonition of such a ritual. But it is also possible the dream is a metaphor.”
“A metaphor for what? Is it saying something is buried that I need to uncover?”
“I wish I had the answers. I will do what I can to learn more.” He reaches for another cigarette, then changes his mind. “It has been a long time since our last training session.”
I look at him in surprise. Was that a note of indignation?
“I suppose you are too busy, or perhaps you no longer need my help.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. When the Puppetmaster impersonated my grandfather we worked hard on my gift and I grew tremendously, more than in all the months I trained with my real grandfather. Ntatemogolo is jealous of that fact, though he won’t admit it. The Puppetmaster pushed me in ways my grandfather never would. Ntatemogolo’s technique is more tough fitness trainer than Zen master with a big stick. He may not have led me to build a full-time psychic barrier or unlock a magically sealed box with my mind, but I wouldn’t be anywhere without his guidance.
“I’m always going to need your help,” I tell him gently. “We can start right now.”
He’s trying not to smile. “I want you to show me your new trick.”
“Opening boxes with my gift? I’ve only done it once.”
Ntatemogolo gets up and walks to the chest in the corner where he keeps his tools. He returns carrying a small hardcover book.
“That’s not fair!” I grumble. “You know how difficult it is for me to read paper.”
He gives me a smug smile and places the book on the mat between us. “What was the Puppetmaster teaching you if you still have trouble with paper?”
I grit my teeth. This is the thanks I get for reassuring him that he’s still my number one mentor? Well! “What do you want me to do?”
“I have written some notes in the book.”
I pick up the book and open it. The pages are blank. “Invisible ink?”
He laughs. It’s clear he’s been planning this game for some time and intends to relish every moment. “I concealed them. You must find a way around my security system.”
I take a deep breath. “All right. Prepare to be amazed.”
“I am not amazed,” he remarks a while later, after my eleventh attempt.
I push the book away in frustration. I thought it would be easier than usual, with my growth spurt and all, but it wasn’t. I could sense the concealments but couldn’t find a way to undo them. Training your gift is like training your body – the first session after a break feels like you’re back at square one. Right now my brain wants to burst out of my skull.
Ntatemogolo chuckles. “OK, enough for today. You see, my girl, I may not be a powerful sorcerer, but I am still a master.”
I nod, too tired to argue. “You’re the man, Ntatemogolo.”
He’s in too good a mood to object to my colloquialism. He walks me out and stands on the veranda, chortling. When I turn around halfway down the street, he’s still grinning at me. My head is pounding, but I can’t help smiling. It’s good to have him back, even if he is the most annoying old man on the planet.
I’m less concerned about the changes in my gift now that I know I’m not the only one it’s happened to. I know it’s selfish, but an inexplicable change throughout the gifted world is easier to accept than an inexplicable change in me. I’m still no closer to figuring things out, though. What is causing these changes? Is it linked to Marshall’s disappearance?
If my dreams are accurate, there’s something sinister afoot. Something that could kill the gifted. I can’t for the life of me imagine what that could be.
* * *
My job at the production company has one major drawback – my boss’s cousin. I can think of a whole list of adjectives to describe Thuli Baleseng. Sleazy, sneaky, creepy, crazy, ghastly, haughty. That’s enough reason to dislike him, but he’s also a freak hunter. Freak hunters are, fortunately, an endangered species. They devote their time to trying to uncover the secrets of the gifted so they can exploit them.
Our relationship is complicated, and by that I mean I can’t stand the guy. I had a huge, stupid crush on Thuli for years, but he didn’t know I existed until Rakwena and I became friends. He deduced that Rakwena, so obviously gifted it’s a miracle no one else caught on, would only befriend another gifted. After that he wouldn’t leave me alone.
I’m sitting at a desk in a corner of the office when he appears. I don’t see him at first. I’m too busy flipping through copies of the latest production schedule, filling in sections where the printer ink was too faint. I sense him, though. My gift shifts in his direction long before my eyes, so by the time I finally spot him I’ve been holding my breath for an agonising few seconds.
My panic fades and rational thought kicks in. I don’t know why he affects me this way. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that almost two years ago he lured me to his room and pinned me to the bed. I escaped unscathed, but the memory haunts me.
I frown. He’s different. Not physically – he has the same long dreadlocks tied back with a dark blue ribbon. He still wears expensive shirts that hang off his bony shoulders. His sleepy, sinister eyes are still a little red from smoking too many cigarettes and other things, and he still has that arrogant smirk.
But his energy has changed. I can’t explain it, but my gift can feel it. A sudden heaviness in his aura. A new glowing strength, like stainless steel. I can almost taste the shiny tang of it. He starts to move, taking long strides in my direction. I try to push him away with the force of my glare, but Thuli’s never been one to take a hint. He comes to a stop beside me.
“Connie!” His smile is too smug to be believed. “You’re here!”
“I work here. What’s your excuse?”
He laughs and slips into the chair beside me. “How have you been?”
I inch away from him. “Great, until about five seconds ago.”
“Come on,” he purrs. “I’d really like us to be friends again.”
Again? The boy is unbelievable. “Go away.”
“You don’t mean that.” He reaches out to touch my hair and I recoil. His hand drops to the desk. “Maybe my new position will give us a chance to get reacquainted.”
“What new position?” My hands ball into fists on top of the desk. Please don’t tell me he’s going to be working here.
“I’m going to be working here.”
My stomach drops. Really? Really?
Oblivious of my agony he continues, “I’ll be dealing with the marketing side of things, but we’ll be in the same building. Isn’t that great?”
Oh, sure. It’s fan-friggin’-tastic. He’s supposed to be working for his dad’s company, learning the ropes so he can take over and become another corporate shark. The only reason he took a job here instead is so he can torture me on a daily basis – I know this for a fact. Thuli has no interest in working in entertainment; he thinks it’s beneath him. I tear my eyes from his face, unnerved by his unblinking gaze, and lower them to his arms, which rest casually on top of the desk. My breath catches in my throat.
He was waiting for me to notice. Exultation comes off him in waves. Honestly, this boy should try harder to hide his emotions. He slides his arms across the scarred surface of the desk until they’re almost touching mine. I drop my hands into my lap.
“You like it?” He raises his sleeve so I can see the full picture.
“It” is a tattoo. Brand new, the lines still slightly raised. At first I thought it was a lizard crawling up his arm in a pale imitation of the tattoo that gave Rakwena his nickname, Black Lizard. On closer inspection I see that it’s a snake, fangs bared for attack. It’s smaller than Rakwena’s, yet far more menacing. It has wicked yellow eyes and almost throbs against his skin, as though it wants to leap off his arm and sink its fangs into my flesh. Something about it makes my stomach lurch.
I raise my gaze to his self-satisfied face. “I hope you know it isn’t going to wash off when you come to your senses.”
He smiles. “I should hope not. What do you think?”
“I think it’s creepy and ridiculous. Suits you perfectly.”
He laughs. Like the Puppetmaster, he seems completely unconcerned by my low opinion of him. I should hook them up; they’d be BFFs in minutes.
I turn back to my work. “Leave me alone, Thuli.”
“Only if you agree to be friends.”
“I’d rather be friends with flesh-eating bacteria.”
“You made friends with Kelly.”
“Kelly’s not a sociopath.”
The door opens and Portia, the receptionist, pops her head into the room. “Thuli, Bernard’s looking for you.”
“In a minute.” He barely glances at her.
“He said you should come right now. He wants to–”
Thuli turns to face her. “I’m talking to Connie. Give us some privacy, would you?”
His manner doesn’t surprise me in the least, but Portia’s reaction does. Something moves over her face. Her frown melts and her lips curl in a sappy smile. Suddenly the brisk receptionist has been replaced by a besotted schoolgirl.
“Of course,” she simpers. “I’m so sorry. Take your time.” The door closes, and in the ensuing silence I hear the click of her heels moving away from the door.
I stare at Thuli. “What was that?”
He cocks his head to one side and looks at me. “I have a way with women.”
“Since when?”
“Not so long ago, I had a way with you,” he purrs. There’s an odd quality to his voice, as though there’s something in his throat. “It could be like that again.”
Ugh. He can’t seriously think I’d ever be attracted to him again. The fact that I was stupid enough to like him once will haunt me for the rest of my days. “You’re disgusting,” I tell him, since he can’t read my subtle signals.
“You’ll change your mind.” His voice holds the ring of certainty. Why should he be certain? What is he up to?
I reach towards his mind, then remember who he is and retreat. I can’t take that route with him. That’s exactly what he wants – proof of my gift.
“I’ll see you around.” He slides out of the chair and exits with a cheery wave.
Self-satisfied idiot. Thuli’s always been sure of himself, and with good reason. He’s fiercely intelligent, ambitious and comes from the kind of wealth that would make even the nicest kid a little snooty.
I remember what it felt like to lie on my back on his bed with all his weight pressing down on me. You’d think someone so lanky would be light and weak, but he wasn’t. I had to fight hard to get him off me. He’s stronger and smarter than me, but I’m a telepath, and if he gives me a reason I will come at him with everything I’ve got.
I shake my head and try to focus on my work. It’s not easy. I keep thinking of the way Portia’s behaviour changed. It was bizarre. It was almost as if – something distracts me, disrupting my train of thought. I sense a presence in the air, and then I feel a familiar prickle at the base of my neck and a thin, cold essence creeping into my skull. My hand stiffens. My telepathic phone is ringing, and the Puppetmaster is on the other end.
For a moment I toy with the notion of ignoring him, but that would be pointless. It’s not as though he’s knocking and waiting to be admitted; he’s already in the periphery of my thoughts.
Hello, Conyza.
His psychic voice hasn’t changed. Because of the anklet he can no longer come to me in disguise, and for some reason I expected his voice to change as well. Your timing is terrible,Johnny. Can I call you Johnny?
You can call me whatever you like, my dear, though John would be more appropriate. Certainly less of a mouthful than Puppetmaster.
I grit my teeth – he’s mocking me. Where have you been? Brainwashing people?
Not quite. There were things that kept me occupied, but I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again. You seem well, Princess. I’m glad.
I wish I could say the same. When do we meet? That is why you’re making contact, right?
Of course. Tomorrow afternoon. Block 8. I’ll give you directions.
I clench my jaw. Rather short notice. I have to work tomorrow.
You’re a smart girl. Find a way around that.
Hey, I’m trying to make an honest living – something you wouldn’t understand.
He’s not insulted, but I sense that he’s growing impatient. Tomorrow. Don’t be late.
I feel him withdraw from my head. I wince; it doesn’t hurt, but it’s like having someone prod my brain. I shake my head, trying to regain my equilibrium. I can’t help thinking of the concern I saw when I slipped past my grandfather’s barrier. Could he be right? Has the Puppetmaster affected me in some way? I push the disturbing thought away and get back to work.
On my way home I stop at Lebz’s house to tell her the news.
“Tomorrow!” she gasps, leaping off her bed to grab my arm. Her nails bite into my wrist. “But that’s so soon! Tell him it’s a bad time.”
“You know the terms of the agreement. He picks the time and place.”
She swallows. “Well, now you definitely have to email Rakwena. We don’t know what will happen at the meeting, but we know the plan involves both of you. He needs to be prepared.”
This time there’s nothing I can say in protest. I nod.
“Promise me you’ll come back.”
“Of course. He’s not going to throw me in a dungeon.”
“That’s not what I mean. Promise me you will come back. Not someone else in your skin.”
We both know that’s a promise I can’t make. The Puppetmaster can’t use his gifts to trick me, but he won’t need to. He could conduct his attack out in the open and I wouldn’t be able to stop him. But Lebz is looking at me with fear in her eyes, and I know what she needs to hear. I make the promise. Let’s hope I’ll have the strength to keep it.
Chapter Two (#ulink_74fa8a69-d280-56eb-8009-a0e4fb47faa7)
From: conyzab@gmail.com
To: raklanga@yahoo.co.uk
I know I’m not supposed to initiate contact, but I have so much to tell you. The world fell apart after you left and it’s not quite back together.
You were right about Ntatemogolo – he was different when he came back from that trip. I searched his house and found a magic box. Inside were a lot of odds and ends – jewellery, a vial, my missing anklet, a copy of his watch, and a tooth that turned out to be mine from childhood. Creepy, right? I assumed the objects belonged to the Puppetmaster and Ntatemogolo found them, but something wasn’t adding up. I put the anklet on right away and haven’t taken it off since.
Anyway, turns out “Ntatemogolo” was really the Puppetmaster. That’s why he behaved so strangely. That’s why he made you overdose on your anti-drifter serum. He gave me a ring that made my thoughts foggy, so it took me a while to catch on. My real grandfather got held up chasing a lead.
By the time I learned the truth the Puppetmaster was long gone. Then Dad and I came home from a wedding to find two Ntatemogolos in the living room. I didn’t know which was which, and I was terrified the Puppetmaster would kill my grandfather, so I made a deal with him. Don’t freak out. I can just see you burning furniture and crackling like an electrical storm. It’s not like he asked for my soul. Just three meetings.
Once I agreed to his terms the Puppetmaster disappeared. Dad, aka Mr Sceptical Scientist, was a mess. We had to sedate him before Ntatemogolo finally told me where he’d been. He found – drum roll, please – a first-generation drifter! That’s a whole different story, though – I’ll tell you more when I know more.
He also told me he didn’t create the serum. He found it in South America and thought it could help suppress your urges, but we think the Puppetmaster made it and arranged for Ntatemogolo to find it and give it to you. All part of his evil plan.
And get this – Ntatemogolo says he thinks he’s met the Puppetmaster before. It seems the psycho has been stalking my family – which would explain how he got hold of my tooth. Speaking of stalking, his foot soldier Emily’s been delivering photos of you. I guess it’s his way of letting me know he has eyes everywhere.
You know what’s really odd? While impersonating Ntatemogolo, the Puppetmaster taught me a lot. He pushed me to improve my telepathy. He pushed you, too. Who knows how long it would have taken for you to return to your cell if you hadn’t overdosed and had to stop taking the serum? It’s almost as if he wants us to be stronger…but that makes no sense, right?
My gifts are getting stronger. Apparently it’s happening to other gifted too. Is it happening to the drifters as well? Ntatemogolo doesn’t know what’s causing it yet, but I’m sure he’ll find out.
I don’t want you to worry about me. The Puppetmaster’s had countless chances to hurt me and hasn’t taken them. I have to wonder, though. If he put his plans in motion years ago, maybe he meant for us to meet. Maybe our whole lives are part of his plan. I don’t know. I hope not.
It would be great to see you again. Or get a phone call, or email, or Facebook poke. No pressure. I won’t go as far as saying I miss you – your ego’s huge enough – and thanks to the crystal and Emily’s surveillance at least I know you’re OK.
Take care of yourself. Take care of your brothers. And watch your back. You never know which face the Puppetmaster might be wearing.
XO,
Connie
* * *
“I’m coming with you.”
I stare at my father, then shoot an “I told you so” glance at Ntatemogolo, who has come to pick me up for my first meeting with the Puppetmaster. Now that Dad knows I’m gifted, Ntatemogolo has enforced a full-disclosure policy that I have serious qualms about. He has always wanted to prove that his “mumbo jumbo” is real, and I think he takes a perverse pleasure in shocking Dad with the details. There was no need to tell Dad about the meetings. He freaked out plenty before he found out the truth, but now freaking out seems to be his default state.
I take a deep breath. “Dad, the Puppetmaster’s not going to hurt me.”
Dad’s jaw is tense. I can see him wrestling with the options – the illusion of options, that is. There is no way he’s coming along. “What kind of father lets his child walk into this kind of situation?”
I take another deep breath, willing myself to be patient with him. He’s only been living in our world a few weeks, and he’s bound to have trouble adjusting. “I gave him my word,” I explain as I slip my phone into my pocket. “We have an agreement. If I do anything to annoy him…” I leave the rest to Dad’s imagination.
He swallows. His face turns pale. “How will I know what’s going on?”
“You won’t. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“Trust you? You’re only eighteen!”
“Then trust me,” says Ntatemogolo. There’s only the slightest trace of impatience in his voice. I’m impressed. “Do you think I would let anything happen to Connie?”
Dad hesitates just long enough to raise my grandfather’s hackles.
“Listen here, Raymond. I would never–”
“I know.” Dad sighs. “But I’m her father!”
“I’ll be fine, Dad. Ntatemogolo will be right there.”
He glowers at my grandfather. “If anything happens to her…”
“Nothing will,” Ntatemogolo assures him, and steers me towards the car.
I turn to give Dad a reassuring smile. He’s standing in the doorway looking as though he’s torn between running after us and running to his room to hide. We’re at the gate… We’re out. I close the gate behind me, get into the car and heave a sigh of relief. When the car pulls into the road, Dad is still standing in the doorway.
“He’s going to get better, isn’t he?”
“I did not realise he was sick.”
“He’s in shock. Post-traumatic stress, or something.” I turn away from the window; the house is out of sight now. “That’s a kind of sickness.”
“He will be fine. Give him time.”
We lapse into silence. We’re both anxious – this is a big moment and we don’t know what to expect.
“I have tried to find a way to get you out of this bargain,” my grandfather says softly.
I turn to look at him. “There is no way. A deal’s a deal. If I break it–”
“I know. I said I tried; I didn’t say I succeeded.” He sighs. “John Kubega has been after you for a long time, my girl. While I was gone he had the perfect opportunity to put his plan in motion.”
“But he didn’t.”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “We don’t know that. Until we know what he wants how can we know how much progress he has made? I wish you had never bargained with him. He is not to be trusted.”
Frustration boils inside me. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
“He could have killed you!”
“I have lived a long life.”
I turn away and stare out of the window, too angry to reply. How can he say things like that? The Puppetmaster had locked him in a field of energy. He couldn’t move or speak, and all it would have taken was a flick of the Puppetmaster’s wrist to snap Ntatemogolo’s neck. Did he expect me to stand by and do nothing because he’s “lived a long life”?
“I am grateful,” he says. “Please don’t misunderstand. But it is my duty to protect you, not the other way around. There is a reason he wants to meet with you in person. If all he wanted to do was talk, he could do that telepathically. Why does he have to see you? What does he gain from it? That is the question. That is always the question with him.”
He’s right. I’ve asked myself that question countless times. So far I know only three things for certain. One: he has built an army of ungifted soldiers controlled through telepathy. I saw them in a premonition. Ungifted are easier to manipulate because they operate on a lower psychic level, but the fallout is worse because their bodies aren’t used to handling gifted energy. Two: he has big plans for the gifted world that somehow involve me and Rakwena. Three: he will do anything to bring his plans to fruition.
When we struck this bargain I was in a vulnerable position, prepared to do almost anything to save Ntatemogolo. The Puppetmaster could have asked for more, but all he wanted was three meetings. Why? If I don’t go, I’ll never find out.
The Puppetmaster enters my head as soon as Ntatemogolo and I pass the traffic lights and turn towards Block 8. His directions are succinct. There’s no preamble, not even a greeting. It’s not like him to be so abrupt. I pass on the directions, and before long we pull up in front of a massive cement wall. It’s unpainted and looks as though it was put up just days ago. At the far left end is a black gate. Ntatemogolo parks in front of it.
“Connie, there is still time to change your mind.”
“No. I’m going in.”
I see the struggle in his expression. Finally he gives a terse nod. “I am going to stay right here and wait for you.”
I nod. My stomach is in knots.
“Do not let your guard down. Stay alert and focused, and if something happens use your gift to reach me.”
I nod again, then get out of the car and start walking towards the gate before I lose my nerve. I try to open it – it’s locked, and there’s no intercom. The gate slides open to admit me. Inside is an abandoned construction site. A wheelbarrow full of bricks and rubble stands to one side. There’s a ladder stretched against the wall of the incomplete double-storey structure, and near the far wall is a pile of dry weeds, their roots pointing towards me. The building has no doors or windows, and most of the right side is an assortment of naked bars and beams. I take a deep breath and walk across the yard towards the empty doorway. The inside of the house is covered with dust, the floor littered with bits of wire and metal and broken bricks. It will be quite a large house when it’s finished – except it will never be finished.
My senses are utterly deceived. The rubble crunches beneath my shoes, the dust tickles my nostrils and my eyes take in every brick, but my gift sees right through the magic. I feel the entire house pulse with energy. If I look carefully out of the corners of my eyes I can almost catch a glimpse of the walls bending before snapping back into solidity. It’s an illusion, a mental image projected from the Puppetmaster’s mind into mine. If it weren’t for the anklet, I might have fallen for it.
Up, says the Puppetmaster, and I turn towards the stairs.
Now the fear sets in, and despite knowing it’s not real I take slow steps to make sure I don’t fall. I walk up the half-finished staircase, trying not to look down. I sense his mind probing. He’s impatient as always, eager to get me in his grasp.
This way.
Blood pounds in my ears, loud in the sepulchral silence. I turn into the first room. The walls are whitewashed but the floor is hard cement, with fat drops of dried paint marking the edges. There are only two pieces of furniture inside – a high chair facing the window and a wooden stool opposite it. In the chair is a figure. Tall, with unnaturally long, spindly limbs. It’s just a projection – the Puppetmaster’s body is actually somewhere else – but my fear mounts, swelling in my chest and ringing in my ears, pleading with me to stand still. I fight through it, walking across the floor until I am standing beside the stool, facing the chair.
The fear melts away. The face I know has been replaced by a gaunt figure in a black suit. His eyes are sunken, his skin dark as coal and dry as paper. He has a sprinkling of white hair on an ashy scalp. There are no glasses this time. He looks old, not in the usual human way with wrinkles and liver spots, but old like an object. His face is faded and dusty, but his hands are smooth and shiny, the natural folds replaced by skin as taut as a pair of undersized latex gloves. The warm, friendly air is gone with the rest of his disguise, and yet that genial face was far more frightening than this. This is just…sad.
“This is your true face?”
He lifts his bony shoulders in a shrug. Stretching a human life has its pitfalls. I could live a good many years more, but I’ll never be known for my looks. He indicates the stool. Sit, dearest one. Welcome to our first meeting.
I lower myself onto the stool. “This isn’t a real house. It’s a projection, like your house in Kgale Siding. That’s why you decided on a house under construction – it takes less energy to keep up than a complex, furnished house with a lot of detail.”
He nods, pleased by my powers of deduction, but there’s an undercurrent of annoyance as well. Use your gift, Conyza. There’s no need for speech here.
“I want to speak.”
You should be honing your gift, not ignoring it. His eyes are faded, dark grey rather than black, but their gaze holds mine with formidable strength.
I relent. Arguing with him will get me nowhere, and to tell the truth I enjoy communicating telepathically. This is a strange choice for a meeting place.
I have my reasons. But this not a social call. We must discuss your progress.
You asked me here to discuss my progress?
You are indulging too many distractions. Jobs, friends – those things are unnecessary for someone like you. He smiles. I wish he wouldn’t. It appears to be an expression his features have outgrown and only perform under duress. The effect is unpleasant. I want you to develop your gift. You have great potential, but you are holding back.
Potential for what? I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. If he has something to do with the gifted growth spurt I want to know, but as usual he’s far too sharp to give anything away.
I want to show you something. He gets slowly to his feet and walks to the door. He doesn’t limp or hobble, but walks with dignified purpose. I follow, wondering what he looked like as an ordinary man, before he decided to try to live for ever.
He takes me down the corridor. There’s no wall on the left to hide the rest of the house, no railing to separate us from the sheer drop to the ground floor. Even though I know it’s an illusion, I press my hand against the wall on my right and try not to look at the exposed scaffolding beyond the edge of the corridor.
Something shifts in the corner of my eye, and when I turn I see that a high railing has sprouted along the other side of the corridor. It’s made of stainless steel, clean and polished, solid. As I watch dust settles on it, dulling the shiny surface, and splotches of paint appear on the bars.
The mind is a funny thing, the Puppetmaster muses. I can hear the smile in his tone, and I know the railing is for my benefit.
Thanks. It feels odd to be polite to him, and yet it would have felt even stranger not to acknowledge the gesture. He’s my enemy. The fact that he thinks otherwise shouldn’t affect me, but it does. I glance into the empty rooms as we pass. Where’s Emily?
Working.
Why does that sound so ominous? Working on what?
He doesn’t answer. Here. He turns into the last room.
From the outside it seemed the same as the others, but from the inside it’s immense. It’s out of proportion to the rest of the house; a room this size would never fit in. I frown at the Puppetmaster, baffled by this lapse. I always got the feeling that order was important to him.
He smiles, reading me. This room is special.
The walls are coated in glossy beige paint and filled with framed photographs. They form a pattern, an undulating wave from one end of the room to the other. The Puppetmaster beckons me closer. My stomach is knotted and tense. I had expected a battle of wits, a series of psychic tests, or even an awkward conversation about his devious intentions. I did not expect a walk down memory lane. Is he lonely? Is that why he keeps Emily close? Did he once have children, a wife?
I walk over to him and look at the first set of photographs. They are old, black and white, and some of them flicker at the edges and shift before my eyes. I stare at him in surprise. These are actual memories projected from his mind. Those that change are those he struggles to recollect.
I take a step backwards. A vague sense of unease has settled over me. For the first time I’m seeing the Puppetmaster as a human being rather than a menace in the shadows, and I’m not sure I want to. Will I still be able to hate him after seeing his baby pictures?
Why are you doing this? I turn to face him. To gain my sympathy?
He laughs. I don’t need your sympathy, my dear. I’m showing you this because I want you to understand. By the end of our third meeting, you will have the answers you seek. But be patient.I’ve lived a long, long life, and we have a lot to cover. He looks at me with a benevolent smile. Are you ready?
I nod, though fear has stirred again. The anklet might keep the Puppetmaster from using magic tricks on me, but it can’t keep him from using good old-fashioned manipulation. I don’t want to come out of this a convert to his twisted logic. I promised Lebz I’d come back as myself, and I intend to keep that promise. I take a deep breath and turn towards the photographs.
There are no baby pictures. The earliest one, the one that flickers most, is of a young man in a hideous suit and hat, standing outside a large house. He’s tall and thin, but apart from a wide grin his features are unremarkable. Smallish eyes, big ears. An ordinary guy.
I came into my telepathy early, he begins. I had always known that I could read people and convince them to do things. People gave me whatever I wanted. Toys, money, clothes. When I was sixteen my father’s employer gave us his house.
My eyes widen. I look at the house, then at the Puppetmaster. His expression is calm, unruffled. “You took his house?”
He gave it to us, he corrects me patiently. But instead of being grateful, my father beat me senseless. He was worried people would accuse us of witchcraft. So I left.
The next photograph is of a train, and the one after that is a colour shot of a red-faced man with a fistful of money.
You ran away.
He frowns. Running away is what children do. I left to seek my fortune.
I roll my eyes.
I met a wealthy businessman who gave me money to start a business of my own. There were others after him. Many others. He smiles slyly. People liked to throw money at me. It was quite remarkable.
I’m sure it was. I’m growing impatient. When is he going to get to the part where he goes from petty thief to evil mastermind?
I had a plan. My parents were too busy trying to blend in to be of any use, so I had to find other people like me. Gifted. Ambitious.
Crazy. Ja, I get it.
His eyes slide in my direction. The knowing expression in them tells me he sees through my armour of disdain. I purse my lips and fold my arms across my chest. I want to understand how he became what he is, and what he’s after. But I’m terrified to find out. Somehow I know that when we reach the end of this tale, everything will be different.
It was difficult to find gifted then. The world wasn’t as open as it is now – everyone lived in shadow. But I found kindred spirits.
We come to an image of a group of friends sitting in what appears to be a bar. It takes me a minute to recognise the Puppetmaster. He wasn’t handsome, but there was a certain appeal to his face, an air of sophistication. He looked like the sort of person who would always have something clever to say.
I reach up to touch the wooden frame. It feels surprisingly solid beneath my fingers. “When was this?”
He shoots me a disapproving glance, annoyed by the sound of my voice. Over a century ago. 1860? Maybe 1850. The years start to blur together after a while.
My hand freezes on the picture frame. A flare of panic makes my throat tighten.
You knew I was old, Conyza. He’s bemused by my reaction.
Yes, but I thought… I don’t know what I thought. So how old are you, exactly?
It’s hard to say. A hundred and ninety-something, probably.
I hate to admit it, but I’m in awe. I’m standing next to a man who has been around for almost two centuries. The mind that is now moving through the outer rim of my thoughts has lived through things I’ve only read about, things that seemed almost to have been part of a dream the world has long since woken from. I swallow hard, too overwhelmed to speak.
It passes quickly, he muses. At first. But the older you get, the more you feel it. The mind tires of stretching so far and you have to start cutting things away.
I lower my hand. Things like what?
Things you no longer need to remember. I have no childhood memories any more. Everything I know about my early years comes from notes I wrote in my twenties. That memory, the one of my father’s employer’s house, came from my first journal. I don’t actually remember it. He points at the photo in front of us, the one in the bar. This is my earliest true memory. I was forty or so. I remember the bar because we spent so much time there. I remember that there were five of us. I don’t remember their faces, so I replaced them with others.
There’s something callous about that. I can’t imagine forgetting my friends, though I suppose one day I might. I feel funny now. Too thoughtful, too serious. This meeting isn’t turning out at all the way I thought it would.
I follow him to the next set of photographs, eager for a distraction. The next photo looks like a still from a horror film. It’s a man, or half a man, and half a…something else. It’s as though his face is melting. I lean closer, trying to make out the details, and I see the blurry edges.
He’s shape shifting!
Yes. In all these years I’ve never met anyone as good. He shifted so fast it was impossible to see the transformation taking place. I was fascinated, so one day he slowed the process down for me.
I look up from the photo. I didn’t know that was possible.
Very few shifters can do it. It takes great discipline.
I suppose he must have died long ago.
Yes. The Puppetmaster’s tone grows wistful.
He’s the one who taught you how to shape shift?
What makes you think I’m not a natural shifter?
Natural shifters don’t need accessories, I point out, remembering the items I found in the box he left in Ntatemogolo’s house. I deduced that some of them, like the copy of Ntatemogolo’s watch, were used to aid the Puppetmaster in his transformations.
He smiles, pleased as always by my powers of deduction. What a weirdo. Everyone knows the bad guy is supposed to be furious when his enemy figures out one of his secrets, but apparently Johnny here didn’t get that memo.
The next photo is of a pretty woman. Her skin is swarthy and her hair long and black. Is this Mrs Puppetmaster? I sneak a glance at him. The idea of him in love is a little disturbing.
He chuckles. Romance is not something I spent a lot of time pursuing. But shewasmy lover for a time. She was a gypsy. She taught me a great deal.
I try to stifle it, but I’m impressed. Everything I know about gypsies comes from popular culture and is probably offensive and inaccurate. What was her gift?
Sorcery, like your grandfather.
I flinch. Ntatemogolo has never referred to himself as a sorcerer. He reserves that word for powerful types with great ambitions. He prefers to think of himself as a wise man, in the mould of the wise men in folklore.
The Puppetmaster nods indulgently. Sorcery is an instinctive understanding of the supernatural and an ability to manipulate energy. That is his talent, isn’t it? He calls me sorcerer, but by nature I am just a humble telepath.
Humble?
He laughs again. I wish he’d stop taking my insults so well. He’s enjoying my company, and that knowledge makes me uncomfortable. He knows I’ll sabotage his plans any way I can. He should loathe me. He should spend long hours plotting my demise.
You could kill me if you wanted to.
With ease.I could have killed you the moment you stumbled onto my plans.
My heart is beating so hard my head hurts. I remember that moment. I was at the mall with Wiki and Lebz and I caught sight of five girls with grey, glassy eyes and empty spaces where their thoughts should have been. I had no clue what I’d found, not yet. I didn’t know about the Puppetmaster. All I knew was that those girls were under someone’s control, and I had to stop it.
Why didn’t you?
Killing you would destroy everything. When will you understand? I need you alive and at your best. I have no intention of harming you, and I will take swift and decisive action against anyone who does.
I swallow. Swift and decisive action. I picture a sword swinging through the air and blood splattering, like in Wiki’s anime shows.
This is the last one for today.
I turn my attention to the photo, and it takes me a moment to switch gears. He has just implied that he would hurt anyone who tried to harm me. I stand in front of the photo, too shocked to do anything more than gaze at it in silence. It’s the Puppetmaster in the middle of a transformation. His features are anguished, the edges of his body stretched and distorted.
I clear my throat, knowing he expects a reaction. You learned to shape shift. How?
The answer will come later. The photographs vanish. You can ask three questions.
Why three?
Three is the magic number.
I have a million questions; I don’t even know where to start. Emily’s face floats into my thoughts, and I decide that’s as good a place as any. How do you control Emily?
He heaves an impatient sigh. I don’t.She’s not my prisoner.
But she has powers like she did when you were inside her head. Superhuman strength, super speed… How?
His lip curls. Is that your second question?
No – it’s an addendum to the first.
He smiles. She has tools that give her limited access to certain abilities. As long as she serves me, they are hers to use.
That makes sense, but something else doesn’t. I don’t understand why she’d want to help you after what you did to her.
He lifts his shoulders in a delicate shrug. You’ll have to ask her that.
I take a deep breath. All right. Number two. Why did you take my tooth?
He chuckles. I was waiting for that one. I wanted a keepsake, and a lost milk tooth was something you wouldn’t miss.
Ugh. What a creep. How did you get it? Did you stand around outside my house, looking through the rubbish?
That’s a new question – no more addendums. You might want to use your questions more wisely.
Fine. Number three: what do you know about Henry Marshall’s disappearance?
I know that it happened.
That’s not a proper answer.
I know it happened in the afternoon in a busy shopping area.
Were you involved?
You’re out of questions, my dear. I said three.
That’s not fair! You didn’t tell me everything you know!
You didn’t ask me to tell youeverythingI know. Frame your questions better.
Arrggghh! This man – this monster – is impossible! He tricked me! I don’t even know why I’m surprised – that’s what he does. At least I know now that he has information on the disappearance. He’s probably behind it. I glare at him, willing to him to display some remorse, but he doesn’t. That would be evidence of a conscience.
I clear my throat. “Whatever your plan is, at some point you’ll no longer be here to keep it going.”
His smile is indulgent. I don’t need to live for ever. I don’twantto live for ever.
Even without the anklet I sense the ring of truth in his words. If he doesn’t intend to be around for all eternity, why is he building an army? What does he think he’ll achieve?
Footsteps sound outside the room and a moment later Emily appears in the doorway. She’s taller, and through her black leggings and shirt I see limbs that are long and toned from all that fence-jumping. She still has that pretty face I remember, but there’s a sly, cynical light in her eyes. She senses my probing and her barrier goes up.
“It’s time,” she says.
The Puppetmaster nods. “Show Conyza out and come to the warehouse.” His voice is the same as I remember, soft and a little high-pitched. He turns to me with a smile. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry to cut this meeting short, but I have pressing matters to deal with. I’ll see you soon.
He disappears before I have a chance to ask any more questions. I turn to Emily. I don’t understand this girl at all. The Puppetmaster befriended her pal Amantle under false pretences and gave her a set of bewitched necklaces that placed her clique, including Emily, under his control. He sent them gallivanting around town, pushing them until their bodies almost broke. It took a lot for me and Rakwena to break the spell, and now Emily is right back in the Puppetmaster’s clutches. Her family thinks she’s dead. There’s a tombstone with her name on it and she’s acting like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Stop looking at me like you’re going to cry,” she says wryly. “I chose to come back.”
“Why?” My voice echoes in the empty building.
Emily starts down the corridor and I hurry after her. “Because he’s right.”
“About what?”
“Everything.” She moves quickly, almost running down the stairs. When she reaches the bottom she turns to face me suddenly and I almost walk right into her. She takes a step backwards and grabs my arm to steady me. Her grip is stronger than Rakwena’s. I pull my arm away.
“Emily, the man is a lunatic! He bewitched you and your friends and made you do all his dirty work. You were guinea pigs, a trial run for his zombie army.”
“Zombie army.” She shakes her head, amused. Amused! “John has been around for ages – do you really think he hasn’t tried to build an army before? He wasn’t testing his methods. He was testing you.”
“Me?”
She winces. She’s said too much. “Everything he’s doing is for the greater good. You’ll see.” She waves a hand towards the gate.
“I think we need to talk about–”
“Next time,” she interjects, then glances up.
I follow her gaze and suck in my breath. The walls are staring to fade. The illusion is coming apart.
“He doesn’t like to wait.” Emily starts up the stairs again. Where is she going?
“Wait! What about Rakwena?”
She stops. “It took him a while to adjust but he’s fine.” She looks down at me. “Don’t worry. John would never let anything happen to either of you. You’re far too important.”
“Emily–”
She flickers, running up the fading staircase, and then passes out of sight. I hurry through the doorway. When I turn to look over my shoulder, the house is gone. The gate opens just enough for me to squeeze through, then closes behind me. I can feel the Puppetmaster’s energy rise into the air and depart from the premises.
“Well?” asks my grandfather, when I climb into the car. “How was it?”
My head is swirling with jumbled thoughts as I tell him what happened. “What does that mean?” I ask, when I reach the end of my report. “The greater good? How can building an army of unwilling, brainwashed ungifted be for the greater good?”
He shakes his head. “You see what he is doing, don’t you? He is trying to win you over.”
“He’ll never win me over.”
Ntatemogolo starts the car in silence. He doesn’t even nod his agreement.
I glare at him, indignant. “He’ll never win me over!”
He glances at me. “Am I the one you are trying to convince, or yourself?”
I have a retort on the tip of my tongue, but it seems wiser to keep quiet. The meeting threw me off. My enemy thinks he’s my friend. He is cruel and calculating, probably guilty of kidnapping a gifted, and yet one of his victims returned to him of her own free will. He’s done terrible things, but as I stood beside him in that room he was almost a normal person. He was polite, even gentle, and it wasn’t an act. What does that mean?
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was an act and Emily is suffering from a supernatural version of Stockholm syndrome; I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything any more.
Chapter Three (#ulink_29dfafe3-01e9-5c9c-9300-982d75ab4fdc)
The University of Botswana, fondly (sometimes disdainfully) referred to as UB, is quiet on Saturday morning. Dad’s office, hidden on the top floor of the Biology building, is cluttered in that way unique to academics. Papers upon papers, stacks of books he hardly uses, and copious handwritten notes that seem obsolete next to his computer.
I hitched a ride to UB with Dad so I could meet my friends at the nearby Riverwalk Mall, and decided to stop at his office to check my email. There’s nothing from Rakwena. It’s only been a few days and I know there’s a good chance he hasn’t checked his mail since he left Botswana. The cell said no outside contact; I’m sure they take that seriously. But he was inducted last month – he’s officially part of the clan now, and there’s no need to keep him cut off from the influence of his telepath girlfriend.
I’m not even sure I’m still his girlfriend. Did we break up? No one said the words “it’s over”, but our actions implied it. Maybe we are over, but that’s no reason not to contact me, if only to make sure I haven’t been hacked to death in my sleep. Doesn’t Rakwena care about me any more? Is he too happy in his new life to ruin it by reaching back into the past, or is something else going on that I don’t know about?
Maybe it’s better he doesn’t contact me. Rakwena’s cell brothers were open about the role flirting with girls plays in topping up their energy levels. What if he’s romancing his way across South Africa, dropping kisses left and right?
“Are you all right, love?”
Dad’s looking at me, an anxious half-smile on his lips. His hair’s been cut and stands up at the front like he’s a member of a pop band. The circles under his eyes have faded, but he hasn’t lost the nervous energy he’s been giving off since he learned the truth.
“I’m fine. Just thinking.” I sign out of my email account.
“No news from across the border?” Sometimes Dad can be surprisingly perceptive.
“Nope. But he’s probably busy.”
“What with assimilating into a community of magical beings and all.”
I smile. “Right.” Dad has left two browser tabs open to international news, and one of them catches my eye. “I thought this cell phone issue was just a local problem.”
“Hmm?” He looks at the screen. “No, it’s happening in a lot of places. Not just phones – internet, electricity, radio. Even the local airport is having trouble with air traffic control.” He walks over to the desk and leans forward. “See? Scientists say–”
“The energy surges are in ten locations around the world, including here.” There it is again, that funny nagging sensation, like knowledge buried deep in my gut trying to find its way out. “What could be causing it?”
“No one knows. Some of my friends think ET’s heading this way and his advanced technology is messing with our archaic systems. Other people think it’s–”
“Terrorists.”
He sighs. “Please stop stealing my words, darling. It’s unnerving.”
My pulse is racing. It’s not ET or terrorists. I don’t know what it is, but I’d bet all the money in the government coffers that this is a problem of the magical kind. I turn away from the computer. “What do you think?”
Dad shrugs. “I think it’s some kind of military exercise. Isn’t that usually the case?”
Sure, usually. Energy surges in ten locations around the world, gifts going haywire, gifted CEO missing… Right now I can’t see a pattern, but it can’t be a coincidence. I get to my feet. “I’d better go.”
“You sure you don’t want a ride?” He takes my place at the computer.
“I can walk.”
“You’re meeting Malebogo and Elijah?”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. I don’t know why Dad can’t just call them Lebz and Wiki. “Yep.”
“Anyone else coming?” His expression is a tad too innocent. He’s looking at the computer, tapping away at the keyboard, but I know where his thoughts lie.
I pull the strap of my bag over my shoulder with a sigh. “No one else, Dad. No gifted, no sorcerers, no drifters. Just Wiki and Lebz, who are absolutely not gifted.”
“You’re sure?” Tap-tap-tap-tap. Blink. Tap-tap-tap. Who does he think that nonchalant act is fooling?
“I’ve known Lebz and Wiki since we were born; you’ve been friends with their parents for twenty years! Don’t you think I’d know if they were gifted?”
He stops pretending to work and turns to me. “What about Elijah?”
I grin. “Wiki’s gifted, but not in the way you’re thinking.”
He nods, finally satisfied. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
“From what?”
“Who knows? Werewolves, or whatever.”
“Werewolves, Dad? This isn’t a movie.”
He glances at me. “No werewolves?”
I give him a look. “Either you can shape shift at will or you can’t.”
He raises a sceptical eyebrow. I’ve told him before that my world isn’t all that different from his, but I think this is the first time he’s actually paying attention.
I fish my phone out of my pocket to check the time. “Oops. I’m going to be late.”
“Go on, then. Will you see your grandfather later? He says you’re training again.”
I turn at the door. “I’m seeing him tomorrow.”
I’m relieved Dad and Ntatemogolo have stopped using me as a messenger now that they can talk on the phone without hurling insults. Last year, when they started working on a big project for the Salinger Biological Institute, I was sure they’d put aside their differences. It didn’t quite work out that way, since the Ntatemogolo who agreed to work on the project was actually the Puppetmaster. He disappeared without submitting a single thing, leaving Dad in the lurch. But all that’s sorted out, and now the two of them have a new project to bring them closer – protecting me.
“That’s good,” he replies earnestly. “You need to be able to protect yourself.”
Poor Dad. I wish he’d stop worrying. “I need to go before my friends kill me.”
“Right.” He takes out his wallet and shoves a P20 note at me.
I thank him and sprint out of the building.
* * *
Lebz and Wiki are waiting in a corner of a restaurant when I reach the mall. I slide into the seat opposite them.
“Sorry I’m late.” I snatch up Wiki’s menu. “I’m dying for a milkshake.”
Lebz snatches it back. “First things first. What happened with the Puppetmaster?”
I roll my eyes in mock boredom. “Oh, that.”
“Don’t joke,” Wiki chides me, frowning. “We’ve been worried. You haven’t said anything besides that SMS describing the meeting as ‘cryptic’.”
“It was cryptic. I feel as though I understand him a little better now, which was probably the point, but it was nothing like I expected.”
“Now you’re being cryptic,” Wiki protests.
“Details!” Lebz hisses. “We’re not ordering until you give us a full report.”
My stomach growls on cue, so I launch into a detailed account of the meeting.
“He’s nearly two hundred years old,” whispers Lebz with a shudder, when my report is done. “That’s just wrong.”
“There are still a lot of questions,” says Wiki. “What is he after?”
“And did he mean it when he said he’d take action against anyone who hurt you?” Lebz looks uncomfortable at the idea.
I shrug. “I think he meant it. Emily said the same thing. But it’s not like he really cares – it’s just that I’m useful to him. It’s like the way you’d protect your phone. Speaking of phones, have you guys heard the news? Flights being delayed, signals disturbed and stuff? It’s happening in other places.”
“Isn’t it meteorological?” asks Lebz. “Weird weather patterns, climate change?”
I give her a sceptical look and turn to Wiki. “Any theories?”
“Military,” he says. “You think it might be freaky weird, don’t you?”
Freaky weird means supernatural weird, the kind of weird that is my specialty. I nod and share my theory that the disturbances are linked to my growing gift and the changes other gifted are experiencing. “But I have nothing concrete to go on.”
“I can look into it, if you like.” As always Wiki seems thrilled at the prospect of extra-curricular research.
“You’re a superstar,” I tell him, and then pick up his menu again.
We place our orders. I tell them about Thuli’s new job, they’re horrified and sympathetic, and we move on to more frivolous topics. Inevitably, the conversation winds back to the Puppetmaster.
“Be careful,” says Wiki, sipping his soft drink. “I don’t like these meetings. I think he’s using them to manipulate you.”
“Hey, ye of little faith,” I protest indignantly. “Why do you think I can be manipulated? I’m trying to stop his evil plan.”
“The plan we haven’t figured out yet.”
“Well, it’s obvious he’s involved in Marshall’s disappearance.”
Lebz glances over her shoulder and leans closer. “What would he want from Marshall?”
I lower my voice. “Ntatemogolo says Marshall’s gifted.”
They exchange surprised glances.
“Remember that dream I told you about? The second one. I think that’s what it’s about. Gifted people are in danger because the Puppetmaster’s kidnapping them. Only one so far, but still.”
Wiki shakes his head. “He doesn’t need other people’s gifts. Maybe he wants you to go chasing clues in the Marshall case while he works on his real plan – the one involving you and Rakwena.”
Lebz’s eyes widen. “Wiki’s right. You can’t trust a word that comes out of that guy’s mouth. He knows you have the anklet on so he can’t trick you with his gifts, but he can tell you all the lies he wants.”
I don’t think the Puppetmaster was lying. He’s lied to me before. He lied to me the entire time he pretended to be my grandfather, but I’m convinced he was honest during the meeting and I’m even more convinced he’s behind Marshall’s disappearance.
There’s a dangerous sliver of anticipation stirring inside me. It’s hard to believe, but I’m looking forward to my next meeting with the Puppetmaster. That scares me. Am I exhibiting a healthy curiosity about my enemy, or am I falling into the trap he set long before I was born?
* * *
It appears Thuli is campaigning for the title of Most Annoying Person to supplement his medals in egotism and general wickedness. For the next week he harasses me at work every chance he gets, dropping in while I’m at the photocopier, following me around and offering to help me carry things. His presence makes my gift quiver. His energy is murky and weird, and I want to put as much distance between us as I can.
“Go away,” I snap for the billionth time as he reaches for the pile of copies I’ve just made. “Don’t you have a press conference to plan, or something?”
“I’ve done my assignments for the day,” he replies with a slow grin. “Marketing isn’t rocket science, you know. Isn’t it time for your tea break? Oh, look – it is!”
I glare at him, but he’s immune. He follows me across the main reception area. It’s almost empty – the cast and crew are on location today.
I drop the copies in the in tray on the director’s desk, then whirl around to face my stalker. “What will it take to get rid of you? A drop of blood? A kidney?”
Thuli laughs. I’m glad he finds me so amusing. “Have a cup of coffee with me. Just one cup, and you won’t see me for the rest of the day.”
“The rest of the month.”
“I’ll give you the next two working days.”
“The whole of next week.”
He grins. “Let’s do this: spend your tea break with me, and I’ll give you all of next week to yourself. But if you come looking for me, the deal is off.”
“Like that’ll ever happen,” I snort. “Fine. But we’re sitting here, not in your office.”
He nods, looking very pleased with himself. He’s becoming more and more like the Puppetmaster. I should find out whether they might be related. It would explain a lot. We stop at the kitchen to make two cups of coffee, then head back to the reception area and settle in a quiet corner.
I cradle my mug in my hands and blow lightly on the surface of the milky liquid. “OK, you have my attention. What do you want?”
“I told you. I want to be your friend.” He reaches out to place his mug on the small table, pushing aside some magazines, and giving me a good view of his ghastly tattoo.
My gift stirs. I get that odd taste of new metal in my mouth again, as though I’m sucking on a spoon that just came out of the packaging, and then my stomach lurches. The premonition hits so hard it makes my head ache.
The light in the room grows faint and murky, Thuli’s arm is blurred, and the snake tattoo starts to glow blue and wriggle. His voice wafts towards me, sluggish and distorted, then suddenly changes. His words come fast now, slippery, sliding out of his mouth like they’ve been coated in oil. There’s someone in the background with a pencil and paper. Before I can make sense of it I’m back in the reception area, breathing hard.
I stare at the tattoo. It’s not glowing or moving, but I know its secret now. It’s no ordinary tattoo. I look into Thuli’s face. His nostrils are flared, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. He’s staring at me as though he’s just seen me in my underwear. I inch away, repulsed.
He shakes his head and licks his lips. “You saw something. A premonition!”
I’d never have chosen to have a premonition in his presence, but right now I have bigger concerns. “Where did you get it?”
He blinks, apparently confused. “What?”
“The tattoo, Thuli! Who did it?”
“Oh.” He smiles, back to his cocky self. “I was wondering when you’d realise. Impressive, isn’t it?”
I see it now – what’s different about him. He’s giving off a new energy, and most of it comes from his voice. It sounds smooth and supple, a snake slithering through grass. There’s magic in it, running from the tattoo to his larynx, adding power to his words.
I lean forward and grab his arm so I can study the tattoo. On closer inspection I can see that there’s something odd about the ink. It looks like it was applied with a brush rather than a needle, yet the longer I look at the black lines the more I get the sense that they’ve seeped right through to his bones. I turn his arm over, and sure enough I see the faintest trace of an outline on the other side. It vanishes before my eyes, the ink fading until it’s completely gone.
“What did you do?”
He pulls his arm away but doesn’t answer.
“You have no idea what you’re messing with!” I hiss, furious that any gifted would be stupid enough to give a magic tattoo to an ungifted, let alone a freak hunter. “Tell me where you got it!”
Thuli glances at his watch. “Tea time’s over.” He gets up and gives me a sly smile. “See you around, Connie.”
I sit there in the empty reception area, my mind reeling. I can’t believe he finally got what he’s always wanted. Thuli Baleseng, freak hunter and scum of the earth, has a gift.
* * *
I can’t sleep. I’m agitated and restless, and my bed feels by turns too soft or too hard, too hot or too cold. I’m worried about Thuli’s tattoo. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I’m seeing Ntatemogolo in the morning.
I get out of bed and sit at my desk for a while, reading a mystery novel I picked up second-hand at the Main Mall. I only get through a few pages, though; I’m too wound up to concentrate. I close the book, fold my arms on the desktop and rest my head on my arms. My mind is full of clashing sounds and images and I need to find a way to put them all in order.
I raise my head, open the chest and take out the bell. I set it on the desk and ring it softly. Immediately I feel the confusion and anxiety drift away. I remember the person in my premonition – the figure with the pencil and paper. It wasn’t ordinary paper – it was a sketchbook. The person is an artist. He must be the one who drew the tattoo.
I ring the bell again, and the fragmented thoughts in my head start to knit together. He’s not a tattoo artist; that much is clear. The first time I saw the tattoo the skin looked raised and a little swollen, but now I realise that wasn’t because of a needle. It was because of the influx of energy moving through Thuli’s body – energy his body isn’t used to. His tattoo was done with ordinary paint, and the only thing keeping it from washing off is the fact that the artist is gifted.
But who is he, and why would he give Thuli a tattoo infused with psychic energy? Money? It’s possible. Maybe the artist is poor and Thuli offered him a fortune. Or maybe Thuli bullied him into it. Either way, I have to track him down.
I ring the bell once more for luck, then put it away and return to bed. There’s a good chance Ntatemogolo knows this gifted artist; a lot of gifted come to him for counsel.
I curl up in bed and drift off, my mind clear and quiet. I dream of a forest with rich black soil that smells of living things. I’m barefoot, but it doesn’t bother me. Despite being a child of dust and thorn trees, I am at home in this wilderness.
It feels old, as old as time itself, and somewhere in the midst of all the chirping and bird calls I hear a soft voice like a fading echo. I follow it through the trees, pushing aside leaves large enough to serve as blankets.
There’s someone sitting at the bank of a small, narrow river. She turns to face me. Her eyes exude bright green energy. Everything about her stirs a vague sense of recognition deep inside me. Primal. Yes, that’s it. This dream, like the one of the figure lying in the field, feels primal.
I approach warily. “Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Connie.”
“You can’t be Connie. I’m Connie.”
“Yes, but I’m Connie Who Knows.”
I wake with a start and stare around my dark bedroom. I’m not alone. The feeling is so strong it propels me forward. I jump out of bed, almost tripping over my shoes, and stumble towards the desk. My heart thuds in my ears as my hand scrabbles for the desk lamp. Light floods the room and I whirl around, expecting to see the intruder. There’s no one there.
* * *
“Your dreams have become quite enigmatic,” Ntatemogolo remarks the next day.
“Is that important?”
He shrugs and takes a long pull on his cigarette. “It is interesting. Important? That is more difficult to say. Who do you think she is? This girl with the green eyes?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said she seemed familiar.”
“But she didn’t look like anyone I know.” I frown. “She looked like a random person, except for those eyes.” I wish I knew what that green light meant. “There’s something else, Ntatemogolo. The freak hunter I told you about. Thuli. Do you remember?”
“Of course.” His features settle into a frown. “Is he causing trouble again?”
I sigh. Thuli doesn’t cause trouble; he is trouble. “He’s working at the same place as me. He’s been bugging me, trying to be friends – but that’s not the problem. The problem is he has a magic tattoo.”
My grandfather blinks. “How is that possible?”
“It’s not a proper tattoo, but it’s painted on his arm. A snake. Yesterday when I was with him I had a premonition. There’s energy in the tattoo, and I think I saw the person who gave it to him.”
Ntatemogolo leans forward. “Tell me more about the premonition.”
I recount it in as much detail as I can. “The tattoo contains gifted energy that changes the way Thuli speaks,” I conclude.
“Changes it how?”
I shake my head. “I can’t explain it. I guess it makes his words more…I don’t know, persuasive? Charming? I can’t really tell. The other day he spoke to the receptionist and she changed her attitude completely. But when he talks to me he just sounds like Thuli.”
“Such a thing would not work on a gifted at your level,” he replies with a dismissive wave of one hand. “It is low-grade trickery, and you have the anklet.”
Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? My gift picked up the strange vibe Thuli was giving off, but the anklet kept me from being susceptible to the changes in his voice. “What do we do about this artist? Do you know any gifted artists?”
“Not yet. I will find him. There is something else we must discuss.” He puts out the cigarette. “You must have heard about the unexplained energy surge that has happened here and in nine other places, and we have discussed the changes in the gifted here – the slight increase in our abilities.”
I get a chill as I realise what he’s about to say. “The growing gifts are happening in other places, too, aren’t they? The same places as the energy surges! Talk about coincidence.”
I see a brief flash of teeth. “What have I told you about coincidences, my girl?”
“They’re something in the supernatural world manifesting in the physical world.” I look at him, willing him to give me an explanation.
He’s quiet for a moment. “I have tried to find out what is causing it, but there is nothing. Gifted in all ten places are investigating. All we can sense is a build-up of energy, but no gifted signature. If it is a ritual of some sort it is very well protected.”
“By a powerful, egomaniacal sorcerer?”
He looks at me sharply. “We must not assume.”
I sigh, frustrated but not surprised. Ntatemogolo always prefers to err on the side of caution.
“We should get back to work,” he murmurs.
My gaze drops to the book on the mat. I haven’t tried to open it since that first time. “Maybe I’ll have a breakthrough,” I remark, cracking my knuckles in preparation.
“I doubt it,” he says cheerfully. “But there’s no harm in trying. Are you ready?”
I take a deep, steadying breath. I focus all my attention on the book, letting my gift dance around it for a minute before trying to break through it. Like a human mind the book is surrounded by a barrier, only this barrier is artificial.
When I read the Puppetmaster’s magic box I could see the words of the spell that protected it. All I had to do was unravel them, like pulling stitches from a piece of fabric. This is different. Ntatemogolo has put up a barrier to conceal the words in the book, and then a barrier to conceal the concealment. So far all I’ve done is walk my gift round the barrier, searching for a weak point that doesn’t seem to exist.
“Take your time,” he tells me. “Focus.”
Focus. There must be a crack. There’s always a crack. I just have to keep looking.
Or you could break it open.
What? Where did that thought come from? Break it open, indeed. Who am I, the Incredible Hulk? Despite my scepticism, the thought persists. I try to brush it aside. My gift is growing, but it’s not that strong. I can’t break barriers – I need a crack. I focus my gift, drawing all the filaments together into one point, centred on a spot in the barrier.
No. Target the entire barrier.
The voice echoes inside me. It’s the strangest sensation. It sounds like me, but calmer, steadier. I listen, waiting to hear it again, but all is quiet in my head. This must be related to my growing gift. I take a deep breath. I’ve never thought of targeting a barrier all at once. The logical thing to do is find a weak point. Then again, logic hasn’t got me anywhere so far. I shift tack, letting my gift spread across the barrier until the entire glowing ring is encircled by my energy. I breathe in and out, in and out…and then strike, squeezing hard.
I keep up the pressure, though I see no sign of the barrier weakening. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze… The barrier shatters in my mind’s eye, revealing the concealment. I sneak inside where I can see the stitches holding it together. I pick them apart one by one. I lift up the book and open it. Words appear on the pages, faint at first, then bold and clear in black ink. I laugh, thrilled by my success.
I flip the book over so the open pages face my grandfather. “Ta da!”
His jaw drops. He stares at me, speechless, and licks his lips. “How?”
“Thinking outside the box,” I reply with a smug grin. “See, all this time I was looking for a crack. That’s my usual technique – look for the crack and force my way through it. This time I spread my energy across the whole barrier instead of one point, and it was much more effective. Like a bomb rather than a bullet.”
“Graphic, but fitting,” he says wryly. He’s quiet for a while, then says, “Let’s try another one.”
I feel almost invincible. I thought only Rakwena’s energy could make me feel that way. It’s good to know that I can be awesome all by myself.
* * *
I leave Ntatemogolo’s house giddy with triumph. I passed every test he set me. I’m eager to tell my friends, but my SMS won’t go through. I have to wait till I get home to call them and arrange a Skype chat for tonight. I’m surprised to find Dad home when I get in; he usually stays in the office till late, working on the Salinger project.
“Your friend came by to deliver a gift,” he says as I head for the fridge.
“Which friend?” I reach for a bottle of water and pour myself a tall glass, then walk back to the living room.
Dad’s sitting at the computer table in the corner, tapping away. “Emily. I didn’t want to ask if she was that Emily, but she did have a sort of strange, jaded look about her.”
“She’s that Emily.” Why would she be here in broad daylight? Why would she come to the door and talk to my father like a normal person rather than sneak around at night like the creepy foot soldier she is?
“God, should I have kept her here? Called the police? Isn’t she presumed dead?”
I gulp down my water. “No, no, and yes. The police wouldn’t believe you, Dad.”
“But…her parents…”
“I know. It’s one of those situations you have to let go.”
He scowls. “You seem to have a lot of those in your world.”
I can see where this road is leading, so I take a quick detour. “What did she bring? Is it an envelope?”
Dad shakes his head and points to the dining table. I turn, and wonder how I missed it. A rust-orange gift box with a yellow ribbon sits in the middle of the table, looking cheerful and innocuous. A present from the Puppetmaster? Why?
I walk over to pick it up. “Did she leave a message?”
“She just said to give it to you. It’s not ticking, but I’m not sure that means much.”
I lift the lid. Inside is an exquisite wooden jewellery box with small flowers carved into it in painstaking detail. I gasp in wonder.
Dad leaps to his feet. “What? Should I get the fire extinguisher? Salt? Garlic?”
I laugh. “It’s just a jewellery box. No danger.”
He comes forward to take a closer look. I hand him the box, then turn back to the packaging, searching for a note. There isn’t one. What does this mean? I haven’t done anything for the Puppetmaster. At least I hope not.
“This is a puzzle box,” says Dad, turning it over before handing it back to me.
“A what?” I study it, fascinated.
“You know, a box with a secret mechanism. My gran used to collect them. You have to figure out how it works before you can open it.”
I smile, understanding. It’s a test, like Ntatemogolo’s book. The Puppetmaster has made it clear how important my progress is to him – maybe he’s hoping to speed it up by giving me another magical code to crack.
Dad looks uncomfortable. “Why would the Puppetmaster send you this? Are you sure there isn’t something dangerous inside?”
I shake my head. My gift – or the anklet – would have alerted me if the box was dangerous. “This is his way of testing me. He likes doing stuff like that. I’m going to change and then start working on it.”
“What about dinner?”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, already halfway to my room.
“I was talking about me,” he calls after me.
“Oh – I’ll whip something up in a minute.”
I close my bedroom door and gaze at the box. I’m excited. After the success I had at Ntatemogolo’s, I think I’m up to the Puppetmaster’s challenge. Then I remember the Skype chat. Eish. I’ll have to start on the puzzle box afterwards.
I change quickly, dash to the bathroom to wash my face, then go to the kitchen to make a quick potato salad and fish fingers. Not quite Master Chef-worthy, but food is food, right? After serving Dad and myself I turn on the Wi-Fi, rush back to my room, turn on my laptop and log into my Skype account. It takes ages for the internet to come on. Military exercise, my foot.
Wiki’s already online by the time the page loads. I initiate the call and a few minutes later I see his face on my screen. “How goes it, Connie?”
“Good. Where’s Lebz?”
There’s a serious time lag before his response, but at least he’s not breaking up. “Probably admiring the purchases she made earlier today. She and Kelly went shopping.”
“Hang on – there she is.”
“What’s the big news?” she demands, a few seconds after I pick up. “Did Rakwena make contact?”
Sigh! “No. I haven’t heard from him.”
“That jerk! How dare he leave you hanging like this?”
“Calm down,” says Wiki quietly. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“We’re not here to discuss Rakwena,” I remind them quickly, discomfited by the sudden burst of longing in my chest. Must not think about Rakwena. Must not think about Rakwena! “Look what I got!” I hold up the puzzle box for them to admire.
“Ooh,” gasps Lebz, as I knew she would. “That’s gorgeous. Where did you get it?”
“The Puppetmaster sent it. It’s a puzzle box – I can’t wait to start working on it!”
There’s a brief silence. Wiki clears his throat. “Why did he send it?”
“To test me, obviously! You know how much he wants me to grow.”
I can tell by the expressions on my friends’ faces that if they were in the same room they’d be exchanging those knowing glances I hate.
“Isn’t your grandfather training you now?” asks Lebz, a trace of acid in her tone.
I sigh impatiently. “There’s nothing wrong with an extra challenge.”
“This isn’t about helping you make progress,” says Wiki. “The Puppetmaster wants to be in control of your training.”
“He can want it, but it’s not going to happen.” I put the puzzle box down. “It’s just one test. It’s not a big deal.”
I can tell by the ensuing silence that my friends don’t agree with me, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture. I had a good day and I’d like to ride the wave a little longer, so I use my tried and tested tactic for avoiding uncomfortable conversations. I change the subject. “Thuli’s gifted, by the way.”
“What?” says Lebz, reaching towards her laptop to turn up the volume.
“Thuli Baleseng, our dear friend, has got himself a gift.”
Wiki exhales loudly. “OK, you’re going to have to start at the beginning.”
I oblige, and by the time we say goodnight they’ve forgotten all about the Puppetmaster. But I haven’t.
I reach out to him as I lie in bed, turning the puzzle box side to side. I suppose I should thank you.
He wastes no time in responding. You’re welcome. Do you like it?
It’s great. What’s the occasion? Did I steer some poor soul onto your path?
He chuckles, but I get the sense that his attention is divided. You did so well with the first box of secrets that I thought you’d appreciate a fresh challenge.
Is this your way of trying to get into my good books?
Am I in your good books?
No.
I didn’t think so. I’m sure it would take more than a puzzle box.
I tap the wooden panel on the left side of the box. I don’t sense any psychic energy in this thing.
Of course not. I’m not an amateur.
I find myself smiling, and immediately twist my features back into a scowl. A thread of fear coils tight around my throat. I’m starting to enjoy our talks. I know I shouldn’t, but there’s something special about being able to communicate telepathically with someone who can talk back. I value this exchange of energy. He’s the only other telepath I know and, like it or not, that connection matters to me.
You’re thinking too much, he says, and I panic, wondering whether he’s found a way into my innermost thoughts. But I can feel his presence on the outside, in the safe zone.
Would you prefer I didn’t think at all? I thought you needed me at my best.
I do.
What exactly do you want from me?
I’ll tell you soon, I promise. I must go – evil machinations to oversee, and all that.
I roll my eyes. You realise that nothing you do can change how I feel, right? You’re still my enemy. You always will be.
If you insist. Goodnight, my dear.
Wait! Where is Henry Marshall?
There’s a pause. Safe.
You haven’t hurt him?
He’ll be home soon. You have my word.
He leaves my mind and I set the puzzle box down on my bedside table. He’s telling the truth…but he’s also lying. There are things beneath the surface that he hasn’t revealed.
I lie still and listen to my heartbeat, and the certainty comes up from that old, primal place inside me, the place that recognises the strange dreams I’ve been having. I’ve always been able to sniff things out – that’s what my gift is all about – but this is different. Something’s changed. It’s more than my gift growing. Once again I get the eerie feeling that I’m not alone.
I don’t know what to make of this sensation. It’s not like having an intruder in the house or even in my head. It’s as much physical as supernatural. It’s as though something is stirring inside, and it has important things to tell me.
What it tells me now is that the Puppetmaster cares about me, but he cares about something else more. I can’t trust him, even when he speaks the truth. I have to be extra careful. If I don’t watch my step with him, I’ll fall.
I turn to look at the puzzle box. Maybe I’ve already fallen.
Chapter Four (#ulink_cc79681f-509b-5231-b65f-19cdba5ad56b)
My first conscious thought when I wake up is that I should have had a more sensible dinner. My stomach is cramping and my head feels woozy. I feel my gift buzz behind my eyes and shut them against the pain. I’m having another premonition. I can hardly believe it – so soon after the last one! Then I can’t think any more – I’m distracted by my stinging eyes and contracting muscles. My head jerks upwards, and for a fraction of a second my whole body freezes. I keep my eyes closed and the images flow in, like shaky, unclear clips from a home video.
I hear footsteps before the image comes into focus – the sharp click-click of heels on tar. I see solid calves, stylish brown shoes. There’s a shadow in the corner of my eye, deformed and threatening. The woman stops. She turns to run, then she’s falling through the earth. I hear the air rushing past her, her ragged, frightened breath and something else, like a voice from far away. As she’s falling, someone passes her. He’s falling upwards, returning to the place she just left. She catches a glimpse of a face. Henry Marshall.
I open my eyes. My breathing is still coming in gasps. Though the images weren’t in focus, the sounds were clear and crisp. That’s new. I shake my head slowly and take a deep breath to steady myself. Henry Marshall is coming home, and someone else is about to take his place.
I stay still for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Call the police? No, of course not. What would I say? “Hi, I had a premonition that an unknown woman is going to vanish from an unknown place at an unknown time. Could you take care of it?” I don’t think so.
Premonitions are tricky. Popular fiction would have us believe that it all gets mapped out in a medium’s mind, the details fall into place and hey, presto – the crime is solved. In reality premonitions are often fragmented and frustrating, influenced by everything from the medium’s emotions and perceptions to those of the people close to her. In other words, my blind spots can easily get in the way of my second sight.
For all I know, the woman is being spirited away at this very moment. I send my gift back into my memory, searching the premonition for any lingering threads. A place would be enough…but there’s nothing. All I have to go on is what I’ve been given. A woman, a shadow, a deep, dark hole, and Henry Marshall’s face.
I drag myself out of bed, squinting at the sunlight sneaking in between my curtains. Dad’s just coming out of the bathroom, dressed to go out.
“You look awful,” he remarks.
“Thanks.”
“Why don’t you go back to bed?” He puts his hand on the top of my head and tilts it back so I’m looking at him. “You look like you could use more rest.”
“I can’t. I’m supposed to see Ntatemogolo this morning.” I stifle a yawn.
“You should tell him to stop by later; we need to discuss the Salinger project. Or maybe just invite him over for dinner.”
I blink. A few months ago those words would never have left his mouth. A few months ago he’d rather have starved than broken bread with Ntatemogolo, and my grandfather would have felt the same.
His smile falters as he realises what he’s just said. “Unless you’re not feeling up to it,” he says hastily. “You’ll be tired, I’ll be tired – he and I can talk on the phone.”
I’m not letting him off the hook. The fact that he suggested dinner, albeit absent-mindedly, means a part of him wants to have a good relationship with my grandfather for his own sake as much as mine.
“No, it’s a great idea,” I tell him. “I’ll cook. It’ll be a proper family dinner, and the two of you can talk business afterwards.”
“Actually…”
“It’s settled!” I beam at him, walk into the bathroom and close the door before he can argue, and I stay in there until I hear the car pull out of the driveway. A Bennett-Raditladi family dinner. I wonder what that’s going to be like.
An hour and a half later I walk up the road to Ntatemogolo’s house with the Puppetmaster’s puzzle box in my bag. I still feel unwell. My bones ache and my stomach keeps lurching. Premonitions don’t affect me this way, so I can only assume I must be coming down with something. I knock on my grandfather’s front door, then open it and enter. Ntatemogolo is in the kitchen, washing his only pot.
“Dad wants you to come over for dinner tonight,” I announce after greeting him.
He turns to give me a suspicious look. “Why?”
“He wants to discuss Salinger business.”
“We both have phones and email accounts.”
“He wants us to spend time together as a family.”
Ntatemogolo places the pot on the drying rack, dries his hands on a napkin and turns to face me. “Has something happened? Did he have another supernatural shock?”
I shake my head. I understand his position. In his shoes I’d be suspicious, too. “He’s trying to mend things between you two. It’s only dinner.”
He sighs. “Seven p.m. A simple meal, no sweets.”
Typical. We invite him, yet he dictates the terms. We head to the consultation room, where I tell him about my premonition.
His expression turns grave. “What can you tell me about the woman?”
“Nothing. All I saw was her legs.”
“Think, Connie.”
I close my eyes and call up the memory. It has faded in intensity, but I still recall the details. “She was wearing brown shoes with a bit of a heel. I couldn’t see them properly, but I got the impression they were expensive. She was walking on a road.”
“Tar or dirt?”
“Tar. It was dark, but not dark like night. It just felt dark. She was in a hurry.”
“Was she late? Afraid?”
“Not late.” I take a mental step back so my gift can take charge, picking through the premonition with care. “Afraid.” I feel it now, the accelerated thud of her heartbeat. “There was no obvious threat, but on some level she knew about the shadow.”
“What shadow? Describe it.”
“It was on the edge of my vision – hard to see. Misshapen, like a monster in a movie.”
“Metaphor,” murmurs Ntatemogolo.
“When she saw it she tried to run, but something hit her and she fell. It’s all so vague.”
“The culprit has taken steps to shield himself.”
My eyes open. “Which makes sense if he’s the Puppetmaster.” My premonitions are always related to people I know. I don’t know the victim, so I must know the culprit.
Ntatemogolo strokes his beard and doesn’t answer.
“Do you think we can save the woman?”
He shakes his head, as I knew he would. “We don’t know who or where she is.”
My mind is whirring, wondering what on earth the Puppetmaster wants with a gifted CEO and a woman with fancy shoes. I shake my head and look at my grandfather, who still seems deep in thought.
“Ntatemogolo, is something wrong?”
He takes a moment to answer. “I’ve located another first-generation drifter in Ghana. I leave tomorrow.”
I swallow. I don’t want him to leave now, when so much is going on. I don’t want to be left to deal with the Puppetmaster alone. Look what happened the last time Ntatemogolo left!
“He will come to you.”
He means the Puppetmaster. We both know how the tricky devil operates – the minute Ntatemogolo is out of the way he’ll schedule the next meeting.
Ntatemogolo leans forward. “Don’t go. Come up with an excuse to postpone until I return.”
I stare at him. “He’ll see right through it!”
“Let him. You promised three meetings and you will deliver, but we need time. He wants us to think he is in control, but he is not. You have a choice. He is not going to kill me if you defy him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t. It is only a suspicion. But try. That’s all I ask.”
I nod, but I’m scared. I can throw my bravado in the Puppetmaster’s face. I can be rude and give him attitude, but only up to a point. Lives are a game to him – he can end them without a second’s thought.
Ntatemogolo exhales, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. One more thing: I know the identity of the artist who gave that boy the snake tattoo.”
Oh, finally – good news! “Who is it?”
“A young man, not much older than you, who sells his artwork at the roadside. He is from Serowe – Kgosana knows him.”
I frown at the mention of my uncle, Ntatemogolo’s son from his first marriage. I’m not at all close to that side of the family. They think I’m too white. None of Ntatemogolo’s children are gifted and since they live in Serowe I see as little of them as I can.
“Did Uncle Kgosana say the artist was gifted?” I ask.
“He said there were stories. The boy has always been a brilliant artist, but not very bright. He was bullied at school, then strange things started to happen to the children who bullied him. Sudden illnesses, unexplained injuries.”
I’m holding my breath. There are many things I appreciate about the world of the gifted, but the bad stuff always freaks me out.
“The boy was confronted about the events and his schoolbag was searched. Inside was a sketchbook filled with drawings. Some of them had been cut out. It was soon discovered that he had pasted them underneath the desks where the bullies sat in class, or hidden them in their books. When they came into contact with the drawings, they got hurt. The boy confessed. He was removed from school and sent here, to Gaborone, to live with an aunt. The living arrangement didn’t last. The aunt kicked him out, claiming he was unstable and violent. As far as his family knows, he is now living with friends.”
I shudder. If he’s as dangerous as people say, I think I understand how he got mixed up with Thuli. I rub my arms, suddenly feeling cold. “I’ve never heard of a gift like that. Drawings that hurt people? How does that work?”
“He is a channeller,” my grandfather explains. “A sorcerer who can only direct his gift through a specific channel, or medium. Without his art materials he would be helpless.”
“That must be rare.”
“It is. It is considered a handicap – the part of the brain that allows you to direct your gift is blocked, and can only be unblocked by a specific activity. But channellers also tend to be savants.” He peers at me. “Do you know what that means?”
I nod. “Someone who knows things or can do things ordinary people can’t.”
“In this case, the boy can direct his energy to do almost anything through his drawings, which explains how he could give Thuli a gift he himself does not possess.”
I nod again, piecing the information together. “He sounds like trouble.”
“That is the impression I got as well. I am going to see a client in Block 7 this afternoon, but after that I will try to find out where he lives. His name is–”
“Jafta,” I whisper. The back of my neck tingles with unease.
Ntatemogolo’s eyes narrow. “Your gift is getting even stronger. Do you see why I want you to stay away from the Puppetmaster? If he is behind the energy surge you could be in great danger.”
“I know.” I take the puzzle box out of my bag. “He sent this to me. I think it’s safe, but I thought you’d better check it to be sure.”
Ntatemogolo takes it from my hands. “It is protected by complex concealments.” He examines it for several minutes. “Nothing dangerous, but it is high-level sorcery. Even I would struggle with it.” He returns it to me, but his expression has grown concerned. “It is an exciting challenge for someone like you, but growing gift or not it will take you years to open it. He must know that. He is pushing you too hard.”
I chew my lip and frown at the puzzle box. “If you don’t think I should try it, I won’t.”
He considers for what feels like for ever. Finally he shakes his head. “You can attempt it, but remember that everything comes with strings where the Puppetmaster is concerned.”
I put the puzzle box back into my bag. “I should go; you need to prepare for your trip.” I get to my feet.
“Be careful, Connie. All our gifts are growing, but yours is growing in a different way. I can sense it in you. It is stronger than it should be. It has changed.”
My stomach tightens. “What does that mean?”
He’s quiet for a long time. “I don’t know,” he says at last.
* * *
On the way home I pick up a newspaper. There’s a story about an “inferno” in a shop, but since every fire is described as an inferno I know better than to panic. There’s an update on the energy surge and assurances that authorities are working on the problem. There’s nothing about disappearances. It appears the woman in my premonition is safe for now.
When I get home I check my email again, but there’s nothing from Rakwena. I’m disappointed, but I don’t want to dwell on it. Instead I head to the kitchen to figure out what to make for tonight’s inaugural family dinner.
A simple meal, Ntatemogolo said. I settle on samp and beef stew with steamed vegetables. There’s still some time before I have to cook, and I find my mind going over today’s events. I reach out for the Puppetmaster’s mind, but he’s quiet.
Where are you?
There’s no answer. I can’t even sense him.
You said you’d tell me what you’re up to, so tell me. I wait for an answer. I stand still, my gift searching, but there is no trace of him on the gifted hotline.
Puppetmaster? John? Why do you play these silly games? What’s causing the energy surge? Why do you need to kidnap people? What are you doing?
Silence.
I sigh. Fine. Don’t answer. Go on hiding like the coward you are, dragging innocent people into your plots. You won’t get away with it for ever.
I don’t know if he’s deliberately ignoring me or just too busy with his schemes to pay attention. When he feels like talking he just slides into my head, but I can never reach him unless he’s in the mood. If I can just get him to talk to me for a while, maybe I’ll be able to pick something up from his tone. Maybe his words will trigger another premonition. There has to be a way to find out where he’s hiding.
It’s not in that fake house in Block 8, that’s for sure. It would be careless to layer too many illusions on one site. Most likely he has several sites, each one serving a different purpose. He must have a physical base of some sort, a place he can walk in and out of without attracting suspicion, like the house in Kgale Siding. He must also have a base of operations, where he keeps his army – and possibly Henry Marshall.
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