Crowned (11 page)

I recall the dream of the girl who said the gifted were dying. “Is that possible?”

“Oh, yes. A telepath is perfectly placed to manipulate the gifts of others. If you can control their minds, you can control their gifts.”

What is the Puppetmaster up to? What task could be so great that his ample bag of tricks isn’t enough? I’m curious about this woman who has disappeared, but I know Ntatemogolo won’t divulge the identity of one of his clients.

“Do you know of any spell that requires different gifts?”

Ntatemogolo shakes his head.

We’re both distracted by the sound of Dad’s car. I look at my grandfather. “If he finds out the Puppetmaster’s kidnapping gifted, he’ll lock me up for the rest of my life!”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Ntatemogolo replies. “He will never learn how to handle it if we keep information from him. He is not the weakling you make him out to be.”

Hey! How did I become the bad guy in this scenario? “I never said he was weak! I’m just worried about how much he can take!”

“And how his reaction will affect your freedom.”

Well, yes, but we should focus on my selfless concern for my father’s wellbeing. “Ntatemogolo–”

“Don’t argue.”

The door opens and Dad comes in with a shopping bag in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He looks more dazed and dishevelled than usual, which I take as a sign that he went grocery shopping without a list. I get up to help him.

“Evening, Raymond.” Ntatemogolo appears in the entryway to the living room.

“Lerumo.” Dad is smiling, and Ntatemogolo isn’t scowling in response. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this.

I carry the heavy shopping bag to the kitchen and start unpacking.
Ag
, really? Olives. Basil pesto. Some fancy cheese with a name I can’t pronounce, chocolate fudge ice cream and – honestly, on what planet? – lasagne. The green kind. I roll my eyes at the ceiling.

Ntatemogolo is old-school. A regular meal for him is
pap
and gravy with chicken livers. When he’s feeling adventurous he’ll have rice, but I’ve never seen him eat spaghetti, let alone lasagne, and he’s one of those people who think ice cream is for kids.

I shake my head and put the food away, but I guess I can’t blame Dad for his ignorance. When Ntatemogolo returned he stayed with us for a few days to give the cleansing ritual he had done on his house time to take effect. It seemed like the best option – we didn’t know what the Puppetmaster had been up to while living in Ntatemogolo’s house. Dad was in too fragile a state to pay attention to Ntatemogolo’s eating habits.

“You set the table.” Dad comes into the kitchen, beaming at me. “It looks lovely.”

“Thank you.” I put away the last of the luxury goods and turn to face him. “I’ve already cooked; you didn’t have to go shopping.”

“Oh, thank God. I had no idea what to get.”

“I noticed.”

He blushes and scratches his head sheepishly. “Oh, well. At least we have ice cream.”

“It’s almost winter and Ntatemogolo doesn’t eat ice cream.”

He sighs. “Can’t you give me credit for effort?”

“C minus.”

“Minus?”

“Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

We carry the food to the table. The front door is ajar. A moment later Ntatemogolo enters, bringing with him a whiff of cigarette smoke. Apart from wrinkling his nose Dad shows no sign he’s noticed, and the three of us sit down to our first proper family meal. It’s awkward. Dad tries to strike a balance between polite and respectful and warm and welcoming, but instead seems to swing wildly from one to the other.

“More wine?” He tips the bottle over Ntatemogolo’s glass.

“No, thanks.” Ntatemogolo snatches the glass away and a splash of red liquid spills on the tablecloth.

“Ah, bloody hell!” Dad leaps to his feet, knocking over his own glass. “Oh, for the love of… Connie, would you…?”

I’m already halfway to the kitchen. I return with a paper towel roll to find Dad having a mini panic attack and Ntatemogolo sitting cool as can be.

“I’m sorry – I didn’t spill any on you, did I? God, I’m such an idiot. Lydia’s going to kill me – look at that stain! I knew I should have gone for white wine instead…”

“Dad, chill.” I dab at the stains as best I can, then mop up the wine that’s spilled on the floor. “It’s not that bad. I’ll take the tablecloth off and soak it overnight, OK?”

“Yes, but will that be enough? For all we know, those stains will never come out!” His face is turning splotchy. He sinks into his seat, blinking furiously, his hand running back and forth through his hair until he resembles a grunge rock guitarist.

“Dad? Are you OK?” I shoot a glance at my grandfather. I told him Dad was too fragile. Didn’t I tell him? I’m a medium for a reason.

“Relax, Raymond,” says Ntatemogolo. “There is nothing to worry about.”

Dad’s eyes boggle. “Nothing to worry about? A madman is after my daughter, aliens might be about to land and people are vanishing into thin air! That’s three people gone already, under very suspicious circumstances–”

“Three?” I interrupt.

He gapes at me. “Didn’t you hear? Some poor woman vanished from work yesterday, and this morning a boy evaporated in the middle of traffic! It was on the radio. Everyone’s blaming witchcraft, and for once I’m inclined to believe them!”

I stare at Ntatemogolo and he raises his eyebrows. Three disappearances, the last two only hours apart. I whirl around to face Dad. “Wait – you said the boy disappeared in traffic. What was he doing in the road?”

“Not
in
the road, exactly. He’s one of those people who sell art by the roadside.”

Ntatemogolo and I exchange glances. Jafta!

“What?” snaps Dad. “What’s with the funny looks? You know something, don’t you?”

No one responds.

“What’s going on? Do you know the missing people? Are they like you?”

I reach for his mind, looking for a way to calm him, but his thoughts are racing so fast they make my head ache. “Dad…”

“Is that what this is? Gifted are going missing? Is the Puppetmaster part of this?”

Ntatemogolo sighs. “Connie is not in danger.”

“Not in–”

“Raymond.” Ntatemogolo’s eyes flash impatiently. “The Puppetmaster will not hurt Connie. It would be counter-productive to his plans. He needs her alive and strong.”

Dad’s face pales. “Yes, that makes me feel loads better.”

I reach across and put my hand over his. “He’s not going to get me.”

Dad lets out a burst of hysterical laughter. “How are you going to stop him?”

I glance at Ntatemogolo, wondering whether he has any sedatives on him. Not that I think we should get into the habit of doping my father whenever he goes off the rails, but it’s reassuring to know we have options.

I clear my throat. “Maybe I should get some more water. Is anyone thirsty?”

No one responds. Dad turns to me, his eyes pleading. “Can’t you stop?”

“Stop?” I know what he means. I don’t even have to look for it – it’s all over his face. I’m hoping his thoughts will turn in on themselves and re-emerge in a different shape, one that won’t make me feel like my insides have just gone hollow. No such luck. His thoughts keep racing ahead, and before I know it they’re spilling out of his mouth.

“Stop being…bloody…gifted!” He licks his lips. “There must be a way to undo it, make it go away. If you’re normal he won’t want you any more. He’ll leave you alone.”

Stop talking, Dad.

“Lerumo.” He turns those desperate eyes on my grandfather. “You must be able to do
something
! You can’t just sit by and watch your granddaughter’s life fall to pieces!”

Since when was my life in pieces? Amidst the riot of emotions moving through me is a sliver of confusion. Is that what he thinks? My life is a mess because I’m gifted?

“Lerumo, damn it! Fix her!”

My head is starting to pound. Fix me.
Fix
me? I don’t know what comes over me. Suddenly it’s all too much. My gift throbs with the force of Dad’s distress and my own frustration, and I flee to my room. A painful spasm moves through my legs and I grab my desk for support and sink into the chair. I grit my teeth and stretch out to grab my crystal, then drag it into my lap. At first I thought it was a cramp but it feels more like something moving in my bones, a pain too deep to touch.

I call out to Rakwena, willing him to answer. He does. The crystal glows, and through it I feel the faintest tingle in my fingertips. It’s enough to chase away the worst of the pain. I take a deep breath.

Someone’s knocking. I want to answer but my head is pounding and it’s hard to focus.

I’m hurt and angry. Dad wants me to be normal. I shouldn’t be offended – for most of my life I wanted exactly the same thing. He wants to keep me safe, and he can’t. I need to be more understanding. Maybe if I were a saint that would be easy.

“Connie?”

I raise my head to see my father and grandfather standing in the doorway. My head is heavy. I don’t understand what’s happening. I was fine and now I feel like hell.

Dad steps inside. He looks remorseful. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean it. You don’t need fixing; you’re perfect!”

I stare at the crystal and blink, waiting for my headache to subside.

“Connie, darling…”

“Wait.” Ntatemogolo’s voice is sharp. “Something is wrong.” He comes to me and looks into my eyes. “What happened? Did you have a premonition?”

I shake my head. I feel weak. “I don’t feel well.”

Dad presses his hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up! You should get into bed.”

I shake my head again and attempt to get to my feet, but my legs won’t co-operate. They buckle under my weight and the crystal falls and rolls across my rug.

Dad lifts me into his arms and lays me down on the bed. “What’s going on, Lerumo? Is this physical or…the other thing?”

“I am not sure,” Ntatemogolo replies softly. “Connie, how do you feel?”

I swallow. “Weak. Achy. Actually I’ve been feeling a bit off all day. But dinner…”

“Forget about dinner. You are not well.”

You need to sleep.

I don’t want to sleep. I want to find out why I feel so sick, but my eyes start to close regardless.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“It could be exhaustion. She has been through a lot, and her gift has been overworked.”

“But it could also be something else?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Rest. You will feel better when you wake up.

I don’t want to rest, but my body is stronger than my will. I sink into the pillow and sleep.

* * *

I slip in and out of consciousness. When I wake up properly Dad is at my side. On my desk is a half-full bottle of a murky green liquid that resembles pureed spinach.

“Please tell me I haven’t been drinking that,” I murmur, sitting up.

He smiles. “Just a little. It’s one of your grandfather’s herbal concoctions, and I have to say it’s done wonders. Your fever’s gone. How do you feel?”

“Like a voodoo doll – full of pins and needles.” I turn my head one way and then the other, testing it. Well, it’s not falling off, so that’s good.

“Clearly your wit is none the worse for wear,” Dad quips. “You had us scared for a while.”

“What happened to me?”

“We’re not sure. Your grandfather said your gift increased and then reduced again, but he couldn’t find any signature. I assume you know what that means.”

I nod and wince. My head is still a little heavy. “When a gift is used it leaves a trace. If someone had attacked me Ntatemogolo would have found evidence of it.” Unless the person is extremely good at covering his tracks. Fear sets in as I allow myself to consider the possibility that this was the Puppetmaster’s doing. It makes no sense, though. If he meant to hurt me he could have done worse.

“I’m sorry about what I said last night.”

I wave my hand. “Forget it, Dad.”

“No, I need you to understand.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m out of my depth here. I don’t know how to be the father of a telepath.” The word sounds odd on his lips. “It’s going to take a while for me to figure this out. I need you to be patient.”

I nod slowly. “I’ll try.”

“OK. You must be hungry – let me get you some leftovers.”

Wait a minute. “Dad, is it morning?”

“Almost.” He turns at the door. “It’s ten to six.”

I throw back the covers.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting up. I have to go to work.”

“Don’t be silly – call in sick.”

I shake my head. “I feel much better. Is Ntatemogolo gone already?”

Dad nods. “He said to tell you to stay out of trouble and remember your promise.”

I remember. I said I’d try to get out of my next meeting with the Puppetmaster. “Thanks. I will.”

“I wish you’d stay home, Connie.” He gives me a plaintive look. “Give yourself a little time to rest. I don’t want to spend all day worrying about you.”

It’s emotional blackmail. It’s below the belt and I should call him on it, but I think I’ve put him through enough. I sigh and get back into bed. “Fine. But if I get fired it’s on you.”

It’s just as well I stay home. I’m still light-headed and aching all over, and despite my tough talk I fall asleep again as soon as I’ve had breakfast. I spend the day alternating between sleep and watching movies. I don’t go near the puzzle box or any other magical mysteries. I try not to think about the Puppetmaster, but I can’t stop myself. What if he has done something to me that not even Ntatemogolo’s medicines can fix?

Lebz stops by the house in the evening, and is horrified to learn that I’m sick. I tell her it’s flu. She’s offended that I think she’s foolish enough to buy that.

“You’ve never been sick in your life, Connie. What’s going on?”

I sigh. “To be honest, I don’t know. But don’t worry – Ntatemogolo’s left me a bottle of medicine. It tastes terrible so it must be effective.” I point at the thick yellow file she brought with her. “Something new in the File?” The File is where we store information on the supernatural. Wiki is the File’s custodian, since he’s the one who basically lives in the library, but every so often we pass it around to make sure we’re all on the same page.