Crowned

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

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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