A Conyza Bennett story

Dad shrugs. “I think it’s some kind of military exercise. Isn’t that usually the case?”

Sure, usually. Energy surges in ten locations around the world, gifts going haywire, gifted CEO missing… Right now I can’t see a pattern, but it can’t be a coincidence. I get to my feet. “I’d better go.”

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” He takes my place at the computer.

“I can walk.”

“You’re meeting Malebogo and Elijah?”

I refrain from rolling my eyes. I don’t know why Dad can’t just call them Lebz and Wiki. “Yep.”

“Anyone else coming?” His expression is a tad too innocent. He’s looking at the computer, tapping away at the keyboard, but I know where his thoughts lie.

I pull the strap of my bag over my shoulder with a sigh. “No one else, Dad. No gifted, no sorcerers, no drifters. Just Wiki and Lebz, who are absolutely not gifted.”

“You’re sure?” Tap-tap-tap-tap. Blink. Tap-tap-tap. Who does he think that nonchalant act is fooling?

“I’ve known Lebz and Wiki since we were born; you’ve been friends with their parents for twenty years! Don’t you think I’d know if they were gifted?”

He stops pretending to work and turns to me. “What about Elijah?”

I grin. “Wiki’s gifted, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

He nods, finally satisfied. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“From what?”

“Who knows? Werewolves, or whatever.”

“Werewolves, Dad? This isn’t a movie.”

He glances at me. “No werewolves?”

I give him a look. “Either you can shape shift at will or you can’t.”

He raises a sceptical eyebrow. I’ve told him before that my world isn’t all that different from his, but I think this is the first time he’s actually paying attention.

I fish my phone out of my pocket to check the time. “Oops. I’m going to be late.”

“Go on, then. Will you see your grandfather later? He says you’re training again.”

I turn at the door. “I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

I’m relieved Dad and Ntatemogolo have stopped using me as a messenger now that they can talk on the phone without hurling insults. Last year, when they started working on a big project for the Salinger Biological Institute, I was sure they’d put aside their differences. It didn’t quite work out that way, since the Ntatemogolo who agreed to work on the project was actually the Puppetmaster. He disappeared without submitting a single thing, leaving Dad in the lurch. But all that’s sorted out, and now the two of them have a new project to bring them closer – protecting me.

“That’s good,” he replies earnestly. “You need to be able to protect yourself.”

Poor Dad. I wish he’d stop worrying. “I need to go before my friends kill me.”

“Right.” He takes out his wallet and shoves a P20 note at me.

I thank him and sprint out of the building.

* * *

Lebz and Wiki are waiting in a corner of a restaurant when I reach the mall. I slide into the seat opposite them.

“Sorry I’m late.” I snatch up Wiki’s menu. “I’m dying for a milkshake.”

Lebz snatches it back. “First things first. What happened with the Puppetmaster?”

I roll my eyes in mock boredom. “Oh, that.”

“Don’t joke,” Wiki chides me, frowning. “We’ve been worried. You haven’t said anything besides that SMS describing the meeting as ‘cryptic’.”

“It was cryptic. I feel as though I understand him a little better now, which was probably the point, but it was nothing like I expected.”

“Now you’re being cryptic,” Wiki protests.

“Details!” Lebz hisses. “We’re not ordering until you give us a full report.”

My stomach growls on cue, so I launch into a detailed account of the meeting.

“He’s nearly two hundred years old,” whispers Lebz with a shudder, when my report is done. “That’s just wrong.”

“There are still a lot of questions,” says Wiki. “What is he after?”

“And did he mean it when he said he’d take action against anyone who hurt you?” Lebz looks uncomfortable at the idea.

I shrug. “I think he meant it. Emily said the same thing. But it’s not like he really cares – it’s just that I’m useful to him. It’s like the way you’d protect your phone. Speaking of phones, have you guys heard the news? Flights being delayed, signals disturbed and stuff? It’s happening in other places.”

“Isn’t it meteorological?” asks Lebz. “Weird weather patterns, climate change?”

I give her a sceptical look and turn to Wiki. “Any theories?”

“Military,” he says. “You think it might be freaky weird, don’t you?”

Freaky weird means supernatural weird, the kind of weird that is my specialty. I nod and share my theory that the disturbances are linked to my growing gift and the changes other gifted are experiencing. “But I have nothing concrete to go on.”

“I can look into it, if you like.” As always Wiki seems thrilled at the prospect of extra-curricular research.

“You’re a superstar,” I tell him, and then pick up his menu again.

We place our orders. I tell them about Thuli’s new job, they’re horrified and sympathetic, and we move on to more frivolous topics. Inevitably, the conversation winds back to the Puppetmaster.

“Be careful,” says Wiki, sipping his soft drink. “I don’t like these meetings. I think he’s using them to manipulate you.”

“Hey, ye of little faith,” I protest indignantly. “Why do you think I can be manipulated? I’m trying to stop his evil plan.”

“The plan we haven’t figured out yet.”

“Well, it’s obvious he’s involved in Marshall’s disappearance.”

Lebz glances over her shoulder and leans closer. “What would he want from Marshall?”

I lower my voice. “Ntatemogolo says Marshall’s gifted.”

They exchange surprised glances.

“Remember that dream I told you about? The second one. I think that’s what it’s about. Gifted people are in danger because the Puppetmaster’s kidnapping them. Only one so far, but still.”

Wiki shakes his head. “He doesn’t need other people’s gifts. Maybe he wants you to go chasing clues in the Marshall case while he works on his real plan – the one involving you and Rakwena.”

Lebz’s eyes widen. “Wiki’s right. You can’t trust a word that comes out of that guy’s mouth. He knows you have the anklet on so he can’t trick you with his gifts, but he can tell you all the lies he wants.”

I don’t think the Puppetmaster was lying. He’s lied to me before. He lied to me the entire time he pretended to be my grandfather, but I’m convinced he was honest during the meeting and I’m even more convinced he’s behind Marshall’s disappearance.

There’s a dangerous sliver of anticipation stirring inside me. It’s hard to believe, but I’m looking forward to my next meeting with the Puppetmaster. That scares me. Am I exhibiting a healthy curiosity about my enemy, or am I falling into the trap he set long before I was born?

* * *

It appears Thuli is campaigning for the title of Most Annoying Person to supplement his medals in egotism and general wickedness. For the next week he harasses me at work every chance he gets, dropping in while I’m at the photocopier, following me around and offering to help me carry things. His presence makes my gift quiver. His energy is murky and weird, and I want to put as much distance between us as I can.

“Go away,” I snap for the billionth time as he reaches for the pile of copies I’ve just made. “Don’t you have a press conference to plan, or something?”

“I’ve done my assignments for the day,” he replies with a slow grin. “Marketing isn’t rocket science, you know. Isn’t it time for your tea break? Oh, look – it is!”

I glare at him, but he’s immune. He follows me across the main reception area. It’s almost empty – the cast and crew are on location today.

I drop the copies in the in tray on the director’s desk, then whirl around to face my stalker. “What will it take to get rid of you? A drop of blood? A kidney?”

Thuli laughs. I’m glad he finds me so amusing. “Have a cup of coffee with me. Just one cup, and you won’t see me for the rest of the day.”

“The rest of the month.”

“I’ll give you the next two working days.”

“The whole of next week.”

He grins. “Let’s do this: spend your tea break with me, and I’ll give you all of next week to yourself. But if you come looking for me, the deal is off.”

“Like that’ll ever happen,” I snort. “Fine. But we’re sitting here, not in your office.”

He nods, looking very pleased with himself. He’s becoming more and more like the Puppetmaster. I should find out whether they might be related. It would explain a lot. We stop at the kitchen to make two cups of coffee, then head back to the reception area and settle in a quiet corner.

I cradle my mug in my hands and blow lightly on the surface of the milky liquid. “OK, you have my attention. What do you want?”

“I told you. I want to be your friend.” He reaches out to place his mug on the small table, pushing aside some magazines, and giving me a good view of his ghastly tattoo.

My gift stirs. I get that odd taste of new metal in my mouth again, as though I’m sucking on a spoon that just came out of the packaging, and then my stomach lurches. The premonition hits so hard it makes my head ache.

The light in the room grows faint and murky, Thuli’s arm is blurred, and the snake tattoo starts to glow blue and wriggle. His voice wafts towards me, sluggish and distorted, then suddenly changes. His words come fast now, slippery, sliding out of his mouth like they’ve been coated in oil. There’s someone in the background with a pencil and paper. Before I can make sense of it I’m back in the reception area, breathing hard.

I stare at the tattoo. It’s not glowing or moving, but I know its secret now. It’s no ordinary tattoo. I look into Thuli’s face. His nostrils are flared, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. He’s staring at me as though he’s just seen me in my underwear. I inch away, repulsed.

He shakes his head and licks his lips. “You saw something. A premonition!”

I’d never have chosen to have a premonition in his presence, but right now I have bigger concerns. “Where did you get it?”

He blinks, apparently confused. “What?”

“The tattoo, Thuli! Who did it?”

“Oh.” He smiles, back to his cocky self. “I was wondering when you’d realise. Impressive, isn’t it?”

I see it now – what’s different about him. He’s giving off a new energy, and most of it comes from his voice. It sounds smooth and supple, a snake slithering through grass. There’s magic in it, running from the tattoo to his larynx, adding power to his words.

I lean forward and grab his arm so I can study the tattoo. On closer inspection I can see that there’s something odd about the ink. It looks like it was applied with a brush rather than a needle, yet the longer I look at the black lines the more I get the sense that they’ve seeped right through to his bones. I turn his arm over, and sure enough I see the faintest trace of an outline on the other side. It vanishes before my eyes, the ink fading until it’s completely gone.

“What did you do?”

He pulls his arm away but doesn’t answer.

“You have no idea what you’re messing with!” I hiss, furious that any gifted would be stupid enough to give a magic tattoo to an ungifted, let alone a freak hunter. “Tell me where you got it!”

Thuli glances at his watch. “Tea time’s over.” He gets up and gives me a sly smile. “See you around, Connie.”

I sit there in the empty reception area, my mind reeling. I can’t believe he finally got what he’s always wanted. Thuli Baleseng, freak hunter and scum of the earth, has a gift.

* * *

I can’t sleep. I’m agitated and restless, and my bed feels by turns too soft or too hard, too hot or too cold. I’m worried about Thuli’s tattoo. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I’m seeing Ntatemogolo in the morning.

I get out of bed and sit at my desk for a while, reading a mystery novel I picked up second-hand at the Main Mall. I only get through a few pages, though; I’m too wound up to concentrate. I close the book, fold my arms on the desktop and rest my head on my arms. My mind is full of clashing sounds and images and I need to find a way to put them all in order.

I raise my head, open the chest and take out the bell. I set it on the desk and ring it softly. Immediately I feel the confusion and anxiety drift away. I remember the person in my premonition – the figure with the pencil and paper. It wasn’t ordinary paper – it was a sketchbook. The person is an artist. He must be the one who drew the tattoo.

I ring the bell again, and the fragmented thoughts in my head start to knit together. He’s not a tattoo artist; that much is clear. The first time I saw the tattoo the skin looked raised and a little swollen, but now I realise that wasn’t because of a needle. It was because of the influx of energy moving through Thuli’s body – energy his body isn’t used to. His tattoo was done with ordinary paint, and the only thing keeping it from washing off is the fact that the artist is gifted.

But who is he, and why would he give Thuli a tattoo infused with psychic energy? Money? It’s possible. Maybe the artist is poor and Thuli offered him a fortune. Or maybe Thuli bullied him into it. Either way, I have to track him down.

I ring the bell once more for luck, then put it away and return to bed. There’s a good chance Ntatemogolo knows this gifted artist; a lot of gifted come to him for counsel.

I curl up in bed and drift off, my mind clear and quiet. I dream of a forest with rich black soil that smells of living things. I’m barefoot, but it doesn’t bother me. Despite being a child of dust and thorn trees, I am at home in this wilderness.

It feels old, as old as time itself, and somewhere in the midst of all the chirping and bird calls I hear a soft voice like a fading echo. I follow it through the trees, pushing aside leaves large enough to serve as blankets.

There’s someone sitting at the bank of a small, narrow river. She turns to face me. Her eyes exude bright green energy. Everything about her stirs a vague sense of recognition deep inside me. Primal. Yes, that’s it. This dream, like the one of the figure lying in the field, feels primal.

I approach warily. “Who are you?” I ask.

“I’m Connie.”

“You can’t be Connie. I’m Connie.”

“Yes, but I’m Connie Who Knows.”

I wake with a start and stare around my dark bedroom. I’m not alone. The feeling is so strong it propels me forward. I jump out of bed, almost tripping over my shoes, and stumble towards the desk. My heart thuds in my ears as my hand scrabbles for the desk lamp. Light floods the room and I whirl around, expecting to see the intruder. There’s no one there.

* * *

“Your dreams have become quite enigmatic,” Ntatemogolo remarks the next day.

“Is that important?”

He shrugs and takes a long pull on his cigarette. “It is interesting. Important? That is more difficult to say. Who do you think she is? This girl with the green eyes?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said she seemed familiar.”

“But she didn’t look like anyone I know.” I frown. “She looked like a random person, except for those eyes.” I wish I knew what that green light meant. “There’s something else, Ntatemogolo. The freak hunter I told you about. Thuli. Do you remember?”

“Of course.” His features settle into a frown. “Is he causing trouble again?”

I sigh. Thuli doesn’t cause trouble; he is trouble. “He’s working at the same place as me. He’s been bugging me, trying to be friends – but that’s not the problem. The problem is he has a magic tattoo.”

My grandfather blinks. “How is that possible?”

“It’s not a proper tattoo, but it’s painted on his arm. A snake. Yesterday when I was with him I had a premonition. There’s energy in the tattoo, and I think I saw the person who gave it to him.”

Ntatemogolo leans forward. “Tell me more about the premonition.”

I recount it in as much detail as I can. “The tattoo contains gifted energy that changes the way Thuli speaks,” I conclude.

“Changes it how?”

I shake my head. “I can’t explain it. I guess it makes his words more…I don’t know, persuasive? Charming? I can’t really tell. The other day he spoke to the receptionist and she changed her attitude completely. But when he talks to me he just sounds like Thuli.”

“Such a thing would not work on a gifted at your level,” he replies with a dismissive wave of one hand. “It is low-grade trickery, and you have the anklet.”

Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? My gift picked up the strange vibe Thuli was giving off, but the anklet kept me from being susceptible to the changes in his voice. “What do we do about this artist? Do you know any gifted artists?”

“Not yet. I will find him. There is something else we must discuss.” He puts out the cigarette. “You must have heard about the unexplained energy surge that has happened here and in nine other places, and we have discussed the changes in the gifted here – the slight increase in our abilities.”

I get a chill as I realise what he’s about to say. “The growing gifts are happening in other places, too, aren’t they? The same places as the energy surges! Talk about coincidence.”

I see a brief flash of teeth. “What have I told you about coincidences, my girl?”

“They’re something in the supernatural world manifesting in the physical world.” I look at him, willing him to give me an explanation.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I have tried to find out what is causing it, but there is nothing. Gifted in all ten places are investigating. All we can sense is a build-up of energy, but no gifted signature. If it is a ritual of some sort it is very well protected.”

“By a powerful, egomaniacal sorcerer?”

He looks at me sharply. “We must not assume.”

I sigh, frustrated but not surprised. Ntatemogolo always prefers to err on the side of caution.

“We should get back to work,” he murmurs.

My gaze drops to the book on the mat. I haven’t tried to open it since that first time. “Maybe I’ll have a breakthrough,” I remark, cracking my knuckles in preparation.

“I doubt it,” he says cheerfully. “But there’s no harm in trying. Are you ready?”

I take a deep, steadying breath. I focus all my attention on the book, letting my gift dance around it for a minute before trying to break through it. Like a human mind the book is surrounded by a barrier, only this barrier is artificial.

When I read the Puppetmaster’s magic box I could see the words of the spell that protected it. All I had to do was unravel them, like pulling stitches from a piece of fabric. This is different. Ntatemogolo has put up a barrier to conceal the words in the book, and then a barrier to conceal the concealment. So far all I’ve done is walk my gift round the barrier, searching for a weak point that doesn’t seem to exist.

“Take your time,” he tells me. “Focus.”

Focus. There must be a crack. There’s always a crack. I just have to keep looking.

Or you could break it open.

What? Where did that thought come from? Break it open, indeed. Who am I, the Incredible Hulk? Despite my scepticism, the thought persists. I try to brush it aside. My gift is growing, but it’s not that strong. I can’t break barriers – I need a crack. I focus my gift, drawing all the filaments together into one point, centred on a spot in the barrier.

No. Target the entire barrier.

The voice echoes inside me. It’s the strangest sensation. It sounds like me, but calmer, steadier. I listen, waiting to hear it again, but all is quiet in my head. This must be related to my growing gift. I take a deep breath. I’ve never thought of targeting a barrier all at once. The logical thing to do is find a weak point. Then again, logic hasn’t got me anywhere so far. I shift tack, letting my gift spread across the barrier until the entire glowing ring is encircled by my energy. I breathe in and out, in and out…and then strike, squeezing hard.

I keep up the pressure, though I see no sign of the barrier weakening. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze… The barrier shatters in my mind’s eye, revealing the concealment. I sneak inside where I can see the stitches holding it together. I pick them apart one by one. I lift up the book and open it. Words appear on the pages, faint at first, then bold and clear in black ink. I laugh, thrilled by my success.

I flip the book over so the open pages face my grandfather. “Ta da!”

His jaw drops. He stares at me, speechless, and licks his lips. “How?”

“Thinking outside the box,” I reply with a smug grin. “See, all this time I was looking for a crack. That’s my usual technique – look for the crack and force my way through it. This time I spread my energy across the whole barrier instead of one point, and it was much more effective. Like a bomb rather than a bullet.”

“Graphic, but fitting,” he says wryly. He’s quiet for a while, then says, “Let’s try another one.”

I feel almost invincible. I thought only Rakwena’s energy could make me feel that way. It’s good to know that I can be awesome all by myself.

* * *

I leave Ntatemogolo’s house giddy with triumph. I passed every test he set me. I’m eager to tell my friends, but my SMS won’t go through. I have to wait till I get home to call them and arrange a Skype chat for tonight. I’m surprised to find Dad home when I get in; he usually stays in the office till late, working on the Salinger project.

“Your friend came by to deliver a gift,” he says as I head for the fridge.

“Which friend?” I reach for a bottle of water and pour myself a tall glass, then walk back to the living room.

Dad’s sitting at the computer table in the corner, tapping away. “Emily. I didn’t want to ask if she was that Emily, but she did have a sort of strange, jaded look about her.”

“She’s that Emily.” Why would she be here in broad daylight? Why would she come to the door and talk to my father like a normal person rather than sneak around at night like the creepy foot soldier she is?

“God, should I have kept her here? Called the police? Isn’t she presumed dead?”

I gulp down my water. “No, no, and yes. The police wouldn’t believe you, Dad.”

“But…her parents…”

“I know. It’s one of those situations you have to let go.”

He scowls. “You seem to have a lot of those in your world.”

I can see where this road is leading, so I take a quick detour. “What did she bring? Is it an envelope?”

Dad shakes his head and points to the dining table. I turn, and wonder how I missed it. A rust-orange gift box with a yellow ribbon sits in the middle of the table, looking cheerful and innocuous. A present from the Puppetmaster? Why?

I walk over to pick it up. “Did she leave a message?”

“She just said to give it to you. It’s not ticking, but I’m not sure that means much.”

I lift the lid. Inside is an exquisite wooden jewellery box with small flowers carved into it in painstaking detail. I gasp in wonder.

Dad leaps to his feet. “What? Should I get the fire extinguisher? Salt? Garlic?”

I laugh. “It’s just a jewellery box. No danger.”

He comes forward to take a closer look. I hand him the box, then turn back to the packaging, searching for a note. There isn’t one. What does this mean? I haven’t done anything for the Puppetmaster. At least I hope not.

“This is a puzzle box,” says Dad, turning it over before handing it back to me.

“A what?” I study it, fascinated.

“You know, a box with a secret mechanism. My gran used to collect them. You have to figure out how it works before you can open it.”

I smile, understanding. It’s a test, like Ntatemogolo’s book. The Puppetmaster has made it clear how important my progress is to him – maybe he’s hoping to speed it up by giving me another magical code to crack.