Crowned (5 page)

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

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

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.