Crowned

He’s right. I know what happens when a drifter cell is incomplete. The drifters get aggressive, temperamental and unpredictable. Now that Rakwena has finally found his place, it would be wrong to tear him away. I’m afraid his brothers would fall apart again. I’m afraid he’d fall apart, too.

There’s something else I’m afraid of, and it’s such a selfish fear that I’d never admit it to my friends. I try to brush it away, but it keeps slithering back into my head. I’m afraid that even if I tell Rakwena how scared I am, he won’t come back. I know he cares about me, but I’m afraid if it comes down to it the bond he shares with his brothers will trump the bond he shares with me. He’s home, and I’m not sure one measly telepath is enough to bring him back.

“Connie?” Lebz peers at me. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” I put on my best smile. “What do you guys want to do today? Movie?”

Kelly remains out of earshot. She must have put on twelve coats of lipstick by now. Lebz has that look on her face that tells me she wants to say something I’m not going to appreciate, and Wiki has that look that tells me he’s going to intervene before she puts her foot in her mouth.

“Let’s go out, maybe get some ice cream or something,” he suggests, just as Lebz opens her mouth to speak.

There’s something wonderful about knowing people so well that you can almost predict their every move – without having to read their minds. “Great idea. You go get Kelly, and I’ll get my bag.” I leap to my feet, relieved by the change of topic, and head to my room.

The crystal on my desk is dim. Whatever Rakwena’s doing, he’s not thinking of me. I feel a painful pang in my chest. No – I’m not going to pine. I’m going to go out with my friends and enjoy myself. I grab my bag, put on a pair of sneakers and try not to wince at the sight of my sun-starved legs in the mirror. Today I’m not a telepath hung up on a half-drifter who won’t call. I’m just a regular girl. Almost.

* * *

I get off work two hours early on Monday. At first I plan to go straight home; my curfew is still seven p.m., though I’m eighteen and should be allowed to come home at a sensible hour like the other grown-ups.

When I reach the bus rank I change my mind and take a combi to Bontleng to see my grandfather. Ntatemogolo isn’t great at responding to phone calls and messages. My approach is to drop in unannounced and hope for the best. Today it seems I’m just in time; he’s stepping out of his beat-up Toyota Venture when I walk up his street.

He looks at me in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“They let us go early.” I follow him through the small gate and up to the front door.

He grunts. He doesn’t think much of my job. He unlocks the door and we step into his house. As always we head straight for the consultation room, the small, dark room where Ntatemogolo does all his unorthodox work. My heart sinks as we sit on the reed mat in the middle of the floor. I pick up an air of disappointment – he has bad news.

“I’m afraid I have bad news, my girl.”

Yep, I know what this is about. During his most recent extended trip he found a girl drifter up north in D’Kar. She’s first generation – her parents were not drifters. Unfortunately they both died years ago, so we only have her word and her grandmother’s that they were ordinary, ungifted people.

As things stand no one has a solid theory about how drifters came to be. Physically they’re like gifted humans, except they’re super-attractive, super-smart and produce a finite amount of psychic energy, far less than other people. They need to conquer – to absorb energy from others – in order to survive.

Because they exhibit traits similar to both the incubus of gifted lore and the still alive and kicking thokolosi, some people believe they’re a hybrid of the two. The drifters themselves reject that theory, but have nothing to substitute it with. Not yet, anyway.

Ntatemogolo thinks that drifters, far from being magical creatures, are humans that evolved to address a specific problem – excess negative psychic energy. His research indicates that the earliest drifters were discovered in or near places reeling from trauma that damaged the communal psyche. He believes drifters were born to fix this imbalance by absorbing the excess energy so the traumatised communities could function properly again.

To prove it, he had to find at least one first-generation drifter. He found Maria. His search kept him away long enough for the Puppetmaster to swoop in and steal his identity. During Ntatemogolo’s first meeting with Maria she wouldn’t reveal much. He told her he’d like to come back and planned to bring me along. She agreed, but now whenever he calls it’s “not a good time”.

“Maria still refuses to see us?”

Ntatemogolo nods. He sits cross-legged on the mat across from me and pulls out a cigarette pack and his trusty lighter.

I don’t understand why this girl is going back on her word. Doesn’t she understand how important this is? Drifters are considered dangerous by the few who know they exist. The clans keep to themselves because the danger goes both ways. Conquests are an exercise in balance – if a drifter loses control he can hurt both the person he’s conquering and himself. But if Ntatemogolo’s right and drifters are meant to help communities rather than hurt them, all of that will change. If the drifters are cautious they can live peacefully among ungifted without ever being found out.

Maria’s community has mixed feelings about her. They fear her because unlike other drifters she stands out – blue eyes, dark skin – but they also have no problem making use of her abilities. Of course, they don’t realise she has abilities. All they know is that she has “a way with people”. When she’s around there’s less conflict.

Maria’s different in another way; she’s attached to her non-drifter community. Ntatemogolo thinks this is because she’s first-generation. She was born to help those people, so it’s natural for her to love them. This bond weakens with time and is eventually eclipsed by the bond between members of a cell. For ordinary drifters leaving places is easy. For her it’s not.

I take a deep breath. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe she doesn’t want to meet another stranger. What if you tell her you’ll go alone?”

“It has nothing to do with you,” my grandfather assures me. “She doesn’t trust me. We have no choice but to wait until she is willing to co-operate.”

“That could take for ever!”

He shrugs. “In the meantime I will pursue other avenues.”

“There are other avenues?”

“There might be another first-generation drifter on the continent. But you didn’t come here to discuss the drifters, did you?”

“No, I came to discuss Henry Marshall. I think his kidnapper could be gifted.”

Ntatemogolo frowns in the dim light. “I don’t know Marshall well, but I have reason to believe he is gifted.”

Now that’s an interesting twist to the tale. Marshall doesn’t fit the profile at all. He’s a prominent member of the community with a high-profile job. It’s difficult to hide a gift; for someone in the public eye it’s almost impossible.

“Are you sure, Ntatemogolo?”

“As sure as I can be without confirmation.”

“Then why didn’t he protect himself? Whatever his gift, it should have allowed him to sense danger coming, or defend himself from it.”

He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray at the edge of the mat. “You are assuming it was a kidnapping. There is a chance he fled for some reason.”

“I don’t think so.” Something is bugging me. It’s an odd nagging feeling, like I’m missing something important. My thoughts roll back to the dreams I had and the wrenching pain I felt. I don’t think what happened to Marshall was a random incident. I think it’s part of something bigger.

I hesitate before speaking. “I had two strange dreams the day he disappeared.”

Ntatemogolo looks at me sharply. “What kind of dreams?”

“The one I told you about before, the recurring one with the rock, and another in the same setting. There was a girl with green eyes. She said the gifted are dying. Then there was this red thing, like a sword or a laser or something, and it cut me open, and the pain was…” I swallow hard, my pulse racing at the memory. “When I woke up I was sick. I had this terrible feeling, like something bad was about to happen.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he snaps, leaning forward.

“I tried calling you the next day – you didn’t answer, and when I checked the news all I found was the Marshall thing, so… I don’t know. It’s like I know something, but I don’t know what I know.” I hesitate, feeling foolish. I wish I could speak with more conviction but all I have is a hunch, not even a premonition.

“Go on, my girl. Tell me what you are thinking.”

I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. “Well, you say Marshall is gifted, and the girl in my dream said the gifted are dying, and that night he disappeared, and there was the other dream with the rock…” I stop and take a breath. “Maybe I’m supposed to prevent more gifted from disappearing.”

“Ah,” Ntatemogolo murmurs, and I know what he’s going to say next. “Don’t place that burden on your shoulders, my girl. It is not your job to save the world.”

He’s said this before. My premonitions come when they want – before an event, during it or long after it’s happened. I have premonitions of some things but not of others. A lot of the time they alert me to things over which I have no control. I used to get so frustrated. What’s the point of seeing something if you can’t do anything about it?

But that’s the nature of gifts. I’m not going to see every threat before it happens, throw on a spandex suit and run off to save somebody. Still, sometimes I get the feeling I’m meant to be useful to the world in a bigger way than I’ve been. Is that arrogant? I don’t know. All I know is that I feel like crap when someone gets hurt and I couldn’t stop it.

“I don’t want to save the world,” I tell my grandfather. “Just Henry Marshall.”