Crowned

“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.