Crowned (18 page)

My heart sinks. I knew I was right, but hoped I wasn’t.

“There must be a logical explanation,” he says. “I feel fine, apart from the amnesia. I’ve just lost my…gift, as you put it.”

“Do you think it got lost when you disappeared?”

“When else? It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Dread unfurls in my belly, and suddenly I feel nauseated. “As far as I know, it’s impossible to separate a gift from its bearer. I’ve never heard of such a thing before, and now there are two gifted who no longer have gifts. Do you understand what this means? We’re all in danger.”

Marshall’s shrug is stiff. He rubs the back of his neck, but even that doesn’t appear to ease his tension. “Let me be honest; I’m not upset that the ability is gone. My life will be less complicated without it. I’m just concerned about the
way
it vanished. I assume when it left me it didn’t stop existing, if you see my point, and since I can’t explain exactly how it vanished it’s impossible for me to speculate about where it might have gone.”

My thoughts are racing. After removing the gifts, does the Puppetmaster put them somewhere else? Into another vessel? Or does he destroy them completely?

“I wish I could give you more information,” says Marshall.

“Me, too,” I murmur. “You remember nothing at all?”

He shakes his head. “It could be temporary – a result of the trauma.”

I look into his eyes. He doesn’t believe that any more than I do. I sigh. The meeting has served its purpose – confirming my suspicions. Marshall rejected his gift, the Puppetmaster kidnapped him and took the gift away, and now Marshall is ungifted and has a huge gap in his memory.

I don’t get this man. He used to be able to teleport. Now he can’t, and he’s fine with it. His reaction to losing his gift is the exact opposite of Jafta’s. I see no pain, no sense of loss at all. His only concern is that the gift might cause trouble, wherever it is. I suppose I should be happy for him. I wouldn’t wish Jafta’s despair on anyone, and maybe, for Marshall at least, life without a gift will be better.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr Marshall.”

“I hope I helped a little.” He rises and I follow suit.

“You did. Now that we know for certain what’s going on, it will be easier to find a way to deal with it.”

He clears his throat. “Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”

I hesitate. “We have our suspicions,” I reply, like I’m part of some supernatural investigative team. In a way, I guess I am. “But you’re no longer in danger.”

This time his smile reaches his eyes and his shoulders relax. “If I remember anything that might be of use, I’ll let you know.”

He walks me to the door. Once I’m on the front step he says goodbye and closes the door. He’s only too glad to be rid of me, to be done with the whole messy business, and I can’t say I blame him. Who wants to be mixed up with kidnappings and missing gifts? Life is complicated enough as it is.

The gate opens and I walk out into the street. I have to find out how the Puppetmaster’s taking the gifts.

First you have to put aside your fear.

I stop, startled, then keep walking. She’s right. I am afraid of finding the answers to all my questions, because I know what will happen when I do. I’ll finally understand the Puppetmaster’s plan. I’ll finally know what role I’m expected to play. And then the battle will really begin, and I’m not sure I’m ready.

* * *

The phone is ringing when I get home; I leave the front door open and run to answer it. “Hello?”

“Conyza Bennett?” It’s an unfamiliar female voice. She sounds brisk and efficient.

“Yes.” My eyes narrow. “Who’s this?”

“Victoria Miyandazi,
GC Chronicle
. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the reappearance of Jafta Simon at Airport Junction yesterday. Are you friends with Mr Simon?”

I’m so stunned I don’t even know how to respond. How did she know I was there? How did she get this number? We’re not in the phone book. And to call me on a Sunday, too – don’t reporters have weekends?

“Witnesses heard you ask him to draw something. He allegedly became very upset afterwards. What can you tell me about that?” The woman speaks so fast it’s a wonder I can make out the words. “Miss Bennett? Care to comment?”

“Um, no. Sorry.” I hang up quickly before she can rattle off another question. I can’t believe I just got a call from a journalist! The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself, or Ntatemogolo.

I stare at the phone in distaste, then pick it up to call my friends. Lebz’s sister Kena answers; Lebz is in the bath, having just woken up half an hour ago. I leave a message warning her not to speak to any reporters. Wiki answers on the first ring.

“That was quick,” he remarks, when I tell him what happened. “How did they get our names?”

“Perils of living in a small city,” I sigh. “If she calls, don’t say anything. And pass that on to Kelly – she’s likely to get a call as well.”

We chat a little longer. I tell him about the meeting with Marshall, and his tone grows grave.

“Be careful, Connie,” he says, before hanging up.

People always tell you to be careful, as if it will make a damn bit of difference. Anyone who’s watched horror movies knows that if the bad guy’s out to get you, all the locks and bolts in the world won’t be enough. The bad guy’s been trying to get me for a long time, and he’ll stop at nothing.

I spend some time going over recent events, trying to put the pieces together. Slowly a picture is starting to emerge. The Puppetmaster is conducting a spell or ritual of some kind, something complex enough to affect people’s gifts and spill over into the physical world. Either he’s conducting it in ten places at once or he’s working with other people. The latter notion seems unlikely – he’s not a team player. This spell is related to his quest to find the Ultima, and somehow me and Rakwena are part of this plan.

What does he want? What happens when he finds the Ultima? If the stories are true even he can’t hope to control her. Is he after the fame and glory that comes from solving the greatest mystery in gifted lore? No, that’s a petty goal for someone like him.

I’m not sure I believe in the Ultima. My world has rules, a working order. I don’t know whether an all-powerful force that brings gifts together can fit into that order.

It seems more likely that the Puppetmaster wants me to believe in her because it serves his purposes. But that would mean Connie Who Knows isn’t real. It would mean he planted her, and I didn’t know it. That’s not possible, either. I may not be the most brilliant telepath in the world, but I know when someone’s messing around in my head. And if I miss it, I have the anklet to help.

I think back, trying to find a point when I was vulnerable enough for him to plant without my knowledge. When he was impersonating Ntatemogolo I was in a fog. Could he have done it then? Maybe, but then Ntatemogolo would have noticed the change in me sooner.

Despite the fact that it seems the most logical conclusion, I don’t believe what’s happening to me is the Puppetmaster’s handiwork. It might be useful to him, but it’s not his fault. Connie Who Knows isn’t his creation, and she’s not a figment of my imagination either. She’s something else. Something…primal.

I feel a prickle on my neck and turn around, beset by sudden paranoia. There’s no one in the room, of course. The person I’m worried about isn’t behind the curtain or in the wardrobe. She’s in my body, an alien that’s taken over. The thought is so frightening I reach for the chest on my desk, open it and take out the small jar. I haven’t used it in a while. I pull out the stopper, hold my hand over the narrow opening and concentrate my gift in the centre of my palm, where the bottleneck presses into my flesh. My hand grows hot with energy, and then I feel the tension drain away with a faint popping sound, leaving my palm cool and tingly. I replace the stopper and put the jar away.

But the unease remains. Technically the jar is meant to store negative energy I’ve absorbed from other people rather than calm my own fears, but I had hoped it would make me feel better. My gaze scans the room and falls on the puzzle box, and my pulse quickens. The box is the key. I have to open it.

No,
says Connie Who Knows.
Not yet.

Her calm voice infuriates me. I pick up the box. I sit cross-legged on my bed, trying every move I’ve got, targeting it from all sides, but it just sits there, pretending to be unremarkable. Connie Who Knows makes no attempt to assist me. She’s so full of advice until I actually need it. In a fit of exasperation I pick up the box and fling it across the room. It hits the door and drops to the carpet, unharmed. Part of me is disappointed. All that trouble and it still hasn’t opened.

Dad knocks and pushes the door open. “Waging war?” he teases.

“Ja, and losing.”

He picks up the puzzle box. “It would be a shame to break it, even if it is from the Puppetmaster. It’s beautifully made.”

I heave a weary sigh. “Beautiful and impossible.”

“I doubt it’s impossible.” He studies it carefully from all angles. “I used to try the ones my gran had. After a while I got quite good. There’s a trick to them, something you’ll miss unless you’re very, very careful. You can’t take a sledgehammer to it, love. You have to be patient. Gentle.”

I scowl. Gentle, my foot. I think Dad might be forgetting who he’s talking to. “This is different! It’s sealed by magic, not springs and clockwork.”

“The principle is the same.” He sits on the bed beside me. “The hardest ones took me ages. I’d spend hours studying one panel, looking, feeling, listening. Then I’d find a tiny knob in a corner that made a clicking noise when I slid my finger over it – but only if I slid it just so.” He puts the box down near my knee. “After that, the rest was easy.”

I pick up the box. I see what he means. I can’t solve the puzzle until I can see the magic protecting the box, and I can’t see the magic because I don’t know how to look.

“Keep trying,” says Dad. “Maybe when your granddad comes home he can help.”

“I don’t want him to help. Anyway, I probably won’t see him till tomorrow, and I plan to work on this all day.”

“You really think he’ll be home tonight?”

“He said he’d be back at the end of the week. It’s the end of the week.”

Dad raises his eyebrows. “You know what he’s like when he goes off on one of his missions. He becomes utterly unreliable.” He ruffles my hair. “I’m going back to work; I have exams to set. Good luck!”

I turn my attention back to the box. Maybe if I can do this one thing I won’t feel so helpless in the face of all the other mysteries I haven’t solved, and all the people I haven’t helped. People like Jafta, and the woman still in the Puppetmaster’s grasp.

But by nightfall I’m no closer to my goal. Just after nine, while I’m still trying to open the box, a car pulls up outside. I’d recognise that deathly rattle anywhere. I leap to my feet and run to the front door. Dad’s already standing in the doorway, watching Ntatemogolo emerge from his car.

“Good,” says my grandfather. “You’re both alive and well. After what happened last time, I had to make sure.”

“Welcome back, Ntatemogolo.” I step back to allow him into the house. “Dad didn’t think you’d be home today.”

He grunts. “Your father has never had much faith in me.”

“You never gave me much reason to,” Dad counters, blustering.

Ntatemogolo glares at him. I hold my breath. They’ve managed not to fight for weeks; it would be tragic to break that record now. My grandfather drops his luggage on the floor with a sigh. “Fair point.”

Dad deflates, and just like that the tension in the room dissipates. So easy. My heart breaks when I think of all the arguments that could have been avoided by someone saying, “Fair point.”

After offering Ntatemogolo some food, which he declines, Dad returns to the computer to finish his work. Ntatemogolo and I sit in a corner of the living room. We talk in low voices, so as not to disturb Dad.

“Did you send my message to the drifters?”

I nod. “As far as I know, the council is still deliberating. Speaking of which, you haven’t told me how it went with the other first-generation drifter.”

His face lights up. “It went well. He tried to evade me, but once he realised I was gifted he agreed to meet me. His name is Sangu Dele. He provides far more conclusive proof of my theory than Maria. His parents are both alive. I met them.”

My eyes widen. “And they’re not drifters? Not gifted?”

“Not in the least,” he declares. “His relations with his cell are complicated, though, because he is the only first-generation among them and is still attached to the non-drifters in his home town.”

“Like Maria.”

“Yes. However, his community is far less tolerant. He has been beaten and even imprisoned.”

Poor guy. I can only imagine what he’s been through. “And now?”

“Now he is with his cell. Safe.”

I nod, relieved. “You don’t have to go back, do you?” I realise how important it is to help the drifters, but my major concern right now is the Puppetmaster.

“No. There is too much to be done here. How have you been?”

That’s an interesting question. Where do I begin? I tell him all he’s missed, from Wiki’s notes on the energy surge and Jafta’s return to my meetings with Marshall and the Puppetmaster.

When he finally responds, his voice is tense. “I asked you to stay away from the Puppetmaster.”

“I tried! I was scared of what he would do if I didn’t turn up. What do you think about all this Ultima business? Have you heard of her?”

He sighs. “Everyone who studies the history of the gifted knows about the Ultima. Most people take her to be a figurative representation of perfect balance – the state of being of those who have reached their full potential as gifted while maintaining productive roles in the natural world.

“It is like the quest for immortality; there will always be fools who try, fail and self-destruct. The Ultima is a powerful myth, but her existence is impossible. Even those who seek her believe she’s not of this world. She has been described as everything from an alien to a force from the future or the dawn of time, but to think she could be contained in a person… I have never heard such a theory.”