Crowned

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 (#ulink_61a81c0e-e1b3-57e1-b7af-4ef671c91d92)

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.