Crowned

CONYZA BENNETT BOOK 3

Also by Cheryl S. Ntumy

Entwined

Unravelled

CROWNED

Cheryl S. Ntumy

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Cheryl S. Ntumy 2015

Cheryl S. Ntumy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9781474034005

Version date: 2018-10-30

CHERYL S. NTUMY always knew she wanted to write. With two teachers as parents, she grew up surrounded by books. As a child she wrote everything she could think of, from comic books and magazines to short novels and film scripts – some of which are still hiding in a dusty closet. She dreamed of exploring the realms of science fiction, fantasy and the supernatural, but ended up studying textile design instead, and then journalism.

It didn’t take long for her to decide that fiction writing was the only career she was interested in. Her first book, the supernatural novella Crossing, was published in Botswana in 2010, and her first romance novel came a few months later. She has published five romance books to date. Crowned is her third young adult novel.

Cheryl is now a full-time freelance writer in Gaborone, Botswana, where she spends her days writing, reading and daydreaming about stories. Her friends and family are still waiting for her to find gainful employment. She’s determined to keep them waiting for the rest of her life.

Acknowledgements

I must thank the team at HQ Digital for all their help in bringing Connie’s story to life. I must also thank my family and friends for their support, the readers for inspiring me to keep writing, and as always my sister, for pretty much everything.

Dedication

To everyone, everywhere. The knowledge that there are seven billions souls out there, all dreaming and feeling and thinking and doing, is more inspiration than one mind can hold.

Contents

Cover

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Glossary

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

March

It begins with a rock. Quartzite, like the twin crystals Rakwena and I have, except this one is raw and unpolished, the white crystal still embedded in grey stone. It’s difficult to tell how large it is; in the damp, grassy field there’s nothing to compare it to. I’d say it’s roughly the size of my head. Something black and heavy comes crashing down on top of it, driving it deeper into the ground. And then I wake up.

I’m not a fan of weird recurring dreams. The last one I had warned me that the man I called my grandfather was in fact my enemy, but it took me way too long to figure it out. By then the Puppetmaster – telepath, sorcerer, shape shifter and all-round sociopath – had masqueraded as my grandfather for months, taught me to build a full-time psychic barrier, persuaded my boyfriend, Rakwena, to overdose on anti-drifter serum and led me to discover a magic box containing one of my own milk teeth. In other words, the damage was done.

This new dream is far more esoteric. A rock buried in a postcard-friendly scene is not enough to go on. Am I supposed to go on a treasure hunt? Do I look like Indiana Jones?

I sit up in bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. It’s the third time I’ve had this dream in the week since Dad and I came home to find the Puppetmaster and Ntatemogolo locked in a magical battle. I promised the Puppetmaster three meetings so he would leave my grandfather alone. He still hasn’t come to collect, but I know him. He’s lurking nearby, plotting and biding his time.

I don’t know what to make of the dream. I climb out of bed, walk over to my desk and open the wooden chest in the corner. It was a birthday gift from Ntatemogolo, containing three magical tools. One of them is around my ankle – an ancient string of wooden beads passed down through my family for generations. It protects me from deception – but only the supernatural kind. Inside the box are a small jar with a stopper and a brass bell with a gong. The jar sucks up negative energy and the bell clears my mind. I remove the bell, close the box and sit on the edge of my bed.

I tap the gong against the side of the brass bowl and a pure sound rings out, chasing away the remnants of sleep. The cobwebs fall away and my head feels light and clean. I wait for the insight to strike. I ring it twice more, but nothing happens. I get up and put it away, then climb back into bed and stare at the ceiling. Maybe my mind doesn’t need clearing. Maybe the reason I’m not getting any profound insight is because there’s none to get, and the dream is just a dream, idle thoughts that I’ve given far too much significance.

Eventually my eyes close and I start to drift off. Once again I find myself on that damp, grassy field, but this time there are no rocks. Someone is lying on the ground, writhing in agony. I run towards the figure and drop to my knees. I reach out to touch the long cloak that covers the person. It’s wet.

The figure turns to face me. It’s a woman, with eyes that burn bright green with energy. I’ve never seen a psychic signature like this before. The face is young, but the person strikes me as being old, very old, as old as it’s possible for anyone to be.

She grabs my arm. “The gifted are dying,” she gasps.

I touch her face and something plunges into me, something red and bright and laser sharp, and splits me open.

This time I wake up screaming. The scream dies abruptly as my stomach heaves, and I fling off the duvet and flee to the bathroom, colliding with my father, who’s just come barrelling out of his room.

I push past him, throw open the toilet door and retch into the bowl. It feels as though I’m throwing up all my internal organs.

“Connie! Bloody hell…”

“I’m fine,” I tell Dad weakly, when the nausea passes. “It must be something I ate.”

He fusses. I hardly get sick, so I understand his concern, but this is something I need to figure out alone, in peace. Finally he retreats to his room and I sink to the cold tiles, my head swimming, my stomach raw. Something’s wrong. Not wrong like an intruder lurking about, or a fire about to break out, or an accident involving someone I care about. Wrong on a level I can’t even comprehend. The kind of wrong that slides inside your bones and eats away at the marrow, dissolving you from the inside out. Freaky wrong, the worst kind of wrong there is.

I pull myself to my feet, rinse out my mouth, flush the toilet and walk back to my room on shaky legs. The gifted are dying. What does that mean? I lie awake in bed till morning, turning the two dreams over and over in my mind like pebbles, hoping the friction will smooth out the baffling edges.

I sense that today is the start of something, but I’m not sure what. I keep my eyes and ears open all day for rumours and whispers, and by the time I get into bed again I’ve discovered only one interesting piece of news. Prominent businessman Henry Marshall vanished from a shopping mall parking lot yesterday. The driver’s door of his car was wide open, but he was nowhere to be found.

* * *

Johannesburg, South Africa

Rakwena looks out across the tables set on the expansive lawn, listening to the chatter and laughter. Serame, the clan’s matriarch, flits between tables like a dragonfly in her sparkly suit. How many dinner parties has he attended in this house now? Too many – Serame is a born hostess and calls the clan together at the slightest excuse. He doesn’t even remember what they’re celebrating today. A promotion? A birthday?

“What are you so happy about?” A sharp elbow nudges his arm and he turns. Elias is smiling at him around a mouthful of pork ribs.

Rakwena shrugs. “Do I need a reason?”

“He’s at the best table, with the best people,” says Spencer. “Of course he’s happy.”

“You have lettuce in your teeth,” Rakwena replies with a grin.

Spencer peers anxiously into his glass. “Ag, no. Top or bottom?”

Elias starts to cackle, and Reetsang, his twin, can’t help but join in. The twins don’t laugh like normal people – they make sinister hacking, gasping sounds as though they’re in death throes, and after a minute Temper leans over and slaps the back of Reetsang’s head to make him stop. Reetsang falls silent instantly, sending Spencer into a chuckling fit, and before long Rakwena and his six cell brothers are laughing.

Rakwena laughs a lot these days. It’s unavoidable – since he joined his cell brothers they’ve been almost giddy with good spirits. All his life he’s had trouble connecting with people – especially other boys. It wasn’t just because he was a half-drifter living among ordinary humans. He grew up away from the cell and the clan, and never learned the easy rapport between siblings. Technically the six young men at his table are his cousins, but in all the ways that matter they’re brothers, and it’s a bond deeper than anything Rakwena has experienced before…except with Connie.

His smile fades as he thinks of her. In his mind she’s always the same – crazy kinky hair, blue jeans, sneakers and a knowing expression on her freckled face. Beautiful. Not drifter-beautiful, in that photo-ready way everyone in the clan seems to be, but unique-flawed-human-beautiful.

He feels a familiar tug at his heart. As much as he longs to see her, he knows he’s where he should be. He has finally accepted his drifter nature.

Drifters are the youngest supernatural creatures in existence. They can only trace their roots back a few generations – a little over a century. To this day their origins are uncertain. Their numbers, though increasing, are small. For them the nuclear family is the cell, seven drifters born in the same seven-year cycle. Drifters don’t choose their cells. A powerful bond forms as though governed by a higher power, drawing the seven members together. Sometimes, as in Rakwena’s case, the cell is made up of blood relatives. The cells come together to form clans that are close-knit and fiercely protective. Like many aspects of drifter nature, no one can explain the bond. It just is.

When Rakwena joined his cell he promised not to make contact with anyone outside his family until he was fully assimilated into the clan. He can’t remember the last time he checked his email, and his phone has been confiscated. He’s been waiting for Temper, the cell leader, to tell him when the ban has been lifted so he can finally get in touch with Connie. Drifters don’t form lasting attachments outside their cell and clan. Rakwena’s feelings for Connie should have faded as quickly his father Senzo’s love for his mother did. But he’s not like other drifters, and he’s nothing like Senzo.

Rakwena scans the garden. His father’s cell is absent. He and Senzo have avoided each other since Rakwena’s return to the clan, and he’d like to keep it that way. He has hated the man all his life. He hates him so much he injected a serum into his own body every day for years to suppress the only legacy Senzo left him – his drifter urges.

He desperately wanted to be ordinary like his mother, and did all he could to eradicate the part of him that took after Senzo. For a while it worked. Apart from his telekinesis, which he could do nothing about, he was almost normal. He never felt the desire to touch someone and absorb their psychic energy, or conquer, as the drifters call it. The serum couldn’t bury the bond, though, and when his brothers moved to Botswana to be closer to him it took all his strength to keep his distance.

Rakwena has been off the serum for months now, thanks to Connie. It was her grandfather, Lerumo Raditladi, who first gave Rakwena the anti-drifter serum. At the time Senzo was presumed dead and Rakwena’s drifter urges were growing. He would start fights at school to feed off the heightened emotions of the other children. His mother sought help, and Rre Raditladi provided it reluctantly.

The old man was ambivalent about the serum until a few months ago, when he suddenly told Rakwena to double his usual dose. The overdose would have killed him if Connie hadn’t come to his rescue. He was forced to stop taking the serum, and without it he was no match for the bond. Once he and his cell brothers were in the same room he finally understood what Connie had tried to tell him – he needed the cell as much as they needed him. But he needs Connie, too.

His connection with her is even more mysterious than the drifter bond. She absorbs his energy instead of the other way around, easing his turmoil while drawing strength from him. He wonders what she’s doing now. It’s almost eight p.m. – she’s probably home, watching one of her Rachel McAdams movies. The thought makes him smile again.

“Hey, what’s going on with you? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

Rakwena faces Elias and offers him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About what, man?” Elias reaches for another piece of meat.

“You mean who,” says a sly voice from across the table.

Rakwena looks into Duma’s eyes. Duma’s the baby of the cell, but sometimes Rakwena thinks the kid is the wisest of all of them. If anyone can understand Rakwena’s feelings for Connie, it’s him.

Silence falls over the table as the others catch on to Duma’s hint. Spencer shifts guiltily in his chair. Rakwena doesn’t want them to feel bad. It was his choice. No, it wasn’t a choice – it was inevitable.

“Are you worried about her?” asks Mandla.

Rakwena starts to shake his head, then remembers the Puppetmaster. “Yes.”

“We would have heard if something serious happened,” Mandla reminds him.

Rakwena nods – he has heard of the drifter network. They keep tabs on supernatural developments in case they might be affected, and information is disseminated quickly between clans. If some major event had occurred, Serame would have mentioned it.

Duma leans forward. “I’d sense it if she were…you know.” He trains his large, earnest eyes on Rakwena.

“That’s right,” says Reetsang, eager to reassure Rakwena. “She’s on Duma’s map, so if something happens her line will fade.”

Rakwena nods again. Duma can sense the gifted, and once he has located them they leave a stamp on his mind. What the others don’t understand is it’s not just about Connie’s safety. He misses her. He clears his throat and turns to Temper, but his question is pre-empted.

“Soon.” Temper’s frame almost dwarfs the chair he’s in. “There’s one more thing to take care of. I hoped we could do it tonight, but the other party’s absent.”

Rakwena scowls. “You want me to make up with Senzo.” He knew this was coming.

“I don’t care if you hate him for the rest of your life,” replies Temper. “He deserves it. But you’re in the same clan now, honour-bound to protect each other. You get that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Rakwena, through gritted teeth. He has taken the vow and he’ll keep it, but he doesn’t have to like it.

“You know the rules. You can’t involve us in your fight. We can’t be objective – we’ll always support you and his cell will support him, no matter what. He’s already using his influence to keep his cell away; they’ve missed three gatherings and Serame is not happy.” Temper takes a sip from his wine glass. It’s a weak blend but, as always, it’s the strongest drink on offer.

“Then he should be getting the lecture!” Rakwena snaps.

The remorse is instant. He winces. He’s still getting used to these immediate and unambiguous drifter emotions. Temper is the leader, acting in the cell’s best interest. It’s wrong for Rakwena to be petulant. His annoyance deflates almost as soon as it arises.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sure Serame has already tried getting through to him.”

Temper nods. “Senzo’s a jackass, we all know that. He’s taken his cell on a trip and hasn’t made contact. He might decide to move to China to avoid you.”

Rakwena frowns. “I thought he’d be dying to torment me, but he’s been so quiet.”

“Well, be prepared. When he gets back Serame plans to issue a directive. For the good of the clan, you two must call a truce in the presence of the council.”

Rakwena sighs. “Fine. And as soon as that’s done…?”

Temper smiles, bemused and a little exasperated. “You can call Connie. Or email her, or beam her up. Whatever you want.”

Rakwena returns his smile. Hang in there, he tells her, hoping she can read his thoughts. I’ll see you soon.

* * *

I lie in bed, unable to sleep. Someone walks down the street beyond my window and I pick up a jolt of satisfaction. Whoever it is, they’re feeling pretty good. I draw my gift away from the stranger. It’s like peeling old tape off a wall – slow and messy.

Since the night I had those dreams I’ve become more sensitive to my surroundings. Every sound, every scent, every emotion shimmering in the ether finds its way onto my radar. I pick up subtle cues that would normally have gone over my head. It’s as though the world of the unseen has been remastered in 3D high-definition, and it’s overwhelming. I haven’t felt like this since the day I came into my telepathy, over a year and a half ago.

At first I thought my gift had become erratic because I’ve taken a break from training. Now I realise that the opposite is true. Despite the fact that I’ve made no effort to develop it, my gift is getting stronger.

Chapter One

This is awkward. Not cute, romantic-comedy awkward, but ground-open-up-and-swallow-me awkward. I’m standing in my living room in my underwear, my clothes flung across the arm of the sofa. My best friend, Lebz, is bent over, measuring the span of my hips. Kelly, our group’s new fourth musketeer, has encircled my waist with her manicured hands to determine whether or not I’m an hourglass in the making.

I stare at the ceiling and try not to cringe. I resisted, as much as one can resist in the face of two tornadoes. I made some protest about my dignity, but by then my skirt was already around my ankles. It’s my fault for wearing a skirt for the first time in recorded history; Lebz’s keen eye noted that something was amiss. As if that wasn’t enough, the skirt didn’t hang from my jutting pelvic bones as expected. Instead it seemed to…fit.

I’ve always been the wrong kind of tall and the wrong kind of thin, the kind that makes you look like an alien struggling to fit into a human body rather than a supermodel. But something strange has happened to my figure lately. That is to say, I have one now. Hips. A butt. Dips and curves that make clothes cling to me in unfamiliar ways. I’ve taken to hiding it by wearing loose T-shirts over my jeans, but today is laundry day and the skirt, a gift from our house help, Auntie Lydia, is all I have to wear.

Lebz straightens up, widening her kohl-rimmed eyes. “You used to look like a ruler!”

I scowl. “Thanks.”

“Your knees are still weird, your legs are too skinny and there’s no hope for those non-existent boobs, but you have hips now, so you’re officially a woman.”

I put on my most saccharine smile. “You forgot freckles, the monster pimple on my chin, hair that never does what it’s told, funny ears, big nose, fangtastic incisors…”

“Shut up,” says Kelly. “You’re beautiful. Lebz is just teasing, obviously.”

I know Kelly is trying to be nice, but no one wants to be told they’re beautiful by a girl who turns heads wherever she goes.

“You’ll have to get a whole new wardrobe,” she decides, finally releasing me.

“More skirts,” says Lebz, nodding. “Some decent skinny jeans.”

“A tube top or two, a slinky dress…”

A tentative knock sounds from the closed kitchen door. “Are you ladies done yet?”

That’s Wiki, the other musketeer, and the only boy in the gang. Poor baby. The second Lebz and Kelly saw me they shooed him away so they could strip and torture me, and he’s been stranded in the kitchen ever since.

“No!” Lebz calls back.

“Yes!” I snatch up my clothes and pull them on. “So I’m a late bloomer – big deal. I’m not going to start dressing like Kim Kardashian.”

“No, you’re not there yet,” says Kelly, with a forlorn glance at my behind.

I gape at her. Why did I invite these people over? Oh yes – I missed them. We’ve all been swamped lately. They’re battling through Form Six, and with my job as an assistant on the set of a TV show I’ve hardly seen them.

I march to the kitchen to let Wiki in, feeling flustered and more than a little embarrassed. He enters warily, carrying a tray of chips and drinks.

“I made us some snacks. And you look great,” he adds as an afterthought, though I look exactly as I did when he entered the house.

I smile and take the tray. “You’re only supposed to say that if a girl has changed something.”

“I can never tell!” he protests. “You were attacked by the Fashion Police – I assumed some sort of makeover was inevitable.”

“We were conducting a strip-search,” Lebz giggles, helping herself to a glass of lemonade and taking a seat.

“Without a warrant,” I grumble.

Kelly laughs and plonks herself beside Wiki, who immediately slides his arm around her waist. It’s like a reflex action now. I never thought I’d see the day Wiki had a girl in hand rather than a book, but then again, a lot has changed. Two years ago Lebz was a flighty serial monogamist, Kelly and I couldn’t stand each other and Wiki was practically asexual. Now Lebz is a singleton who reads newspapers as well as gossip rags, Kelly and I are friends and Wiki has a gorgeous girlfriend.