Entwined

I’m sure what I’m feeling is only a fraction of his power, and that scares me.

But not enough to make me walk away.

Connie Bennett is a freak. She has premonitions, crazy wild hair and the boy she’s loved for three years doesn’t know who she is. Suddenly she can hear everyone’s thoughts and she finds herself drawn to a mysterious, scarred boy. Sparks literally fly between them, but could he actually be dangerous?

Then she discovers there’s a gang of zombie-like young girls being controlled by someone. Only Connie can stop him.

Can she cut the Puppetmaster’s strings?

A CONYZA BENNETT BOOK

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Cheryl S. Ntumy 2013

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 © September 2013 ISBN: 9781472044532

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. Entwined is her first 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.

I must thank the following people for making this book possible:

My sister Aku Ntumy, for the joke that became Conyza Bennett, telepath and Gabs girl extraordinaire. Sorry about the title. Maybe I’ll let you win on the next one.

My friend and roomie Sharon Tshipa read the manuscript and offered feedback, and then pointed me in the direction of HQ Digital, so technically I owe her double.

Tlotlo Tsamaase, fellow YA writer, was kind enough to go through the book and offer her insight.

HQ Digital, thank you for giving Connie a voice.

Last but not least, thank to you to writers, publishers and book distributors everywhere. Your very existence inspires each word I write.

To Aku, Connie’s co-creator and the best sister a writer could hope to have.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Glossary

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

I hate Thursdays. They’re such a tease, so close to the weekend and yet so far. Thursdays seem to go out of their way to be as boring and drawn-out as possible, just to punish me for hating them. They are also really lousy luck.

All the bad things that ever happened to me happened on Thursdays. It sounds crazy, but I’m serious. My mother died on a Thursday, eleven years ago when I was five. I broke my leg on a Thursday and got mugged while coming home from school on – yes, a Thursday. So naturally whenever Thursday rolls around I get a little anxious.

On this particular Thursday I’m sitting at the dining table, drinking a massive mug of Milo and feeling like Nancy Drew after one of her run-ins with a chloroform-soaked handkerchief. My body aches and my head is full of mist. It’s barely six a.m., but I’m dressed for school already because I can never sleep through my father’s alarm.

“Dad, I’m sick,” I groan.

“Nice try,” my father replies, rummaging in his pockets for his office keys. “If you were that sick you’d still be in bed.” He gives me a knowing nod.

“Eish. You saw right through me.” Even with heavy clouds swelling in my head, I have the strength for sarcasm.

My gaze drops to the keys lying on the table right in front of him. I contemplate putting him out of his misery, but his panic is rather amusing so I sip my Milo and watch. My dad, Dr. Raymond (Ray) Bennett is a super-nerd – you can tell he’s a scientist just by looking at him. He’s been teaching at the local university, UB, for as long as I can remember. Despite living in Botswana for two decades he’s still pasty white, with mousy brown hair that goes limp in the heat. He’s tall and thin, and today he’s wearing grey trousers and that striped brown shirt I keep trying to throw away. I must take after him, with my long arms and skinny legs, though the freckled caramel skin and wild hair is all me.

“Effing hell,” he mumbles, going through his pockets for the third time. “I could have sworn I had them in these trousers. And I have all that marking to do…”

The “effing” is for my benefit. He promised my mother he’d never use four-letter words in my presence and he’s still true to his word. I sigh, drain my mug and study the ring of chocolate powder in the bottom. “On the table, Dad.”

“Huh?” He looks up, sees the keys, and grins. “Oh. Ha! I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” As always, he seems thrilled by this discovery. “Right – I’m off. Say hi to Malebogo.”

“I will.” My best friend Lebz, aka Malebogo, lives just around the corner.

“Don’t forget to wait for Lydia. And be home by seven.”

“Yes, Dad.” Damn. Looks like I’ll have to cancel all those glitzy social events I had planned.

Suddenly my eyes start to sting in an all too familiar way. Ag, not again… My body tenses and through the fog in my head a vague image appears. Mangled metal, broken glass, sirens wailing and traffic snaking all the way up the road. A wave of horror hits me, then fades. “By the way,” I tell my father, “you might want to avoid the flyover by the bus rank.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

He always does that, as if he doesn’t know what’s coming. I get up and carry my mug to the kitchen. “An accident. It’s bad.” I wash my cup and return to the dining room.

Dad dismisses me with a nervous laugh. “Honestly, Connie – what nonsense. I need to stop by Sam’s place to pick up some papers, so I’ll go via Broadhurst.”

I watch him leave and shake my head. He still can’t get his head around the idea that I have premonitions. I suppose it would freak me out too, if I hadn’t been able to do it all my life. Sometimes I have visions and sometimes it’s just a vague feeling, but it’s only ever in connection with people I know or people near me. Take the one I just had – it wouldn’t have happened at all if Dad didn’t take the flyover to work every morning.

It’s genetic, I suppose, inherited from my maternal grandfather. He’s a full-time historian and author and part-time paranormal consultant. You know, a shaman, traditional healer, exorcist, whatever. My dad’s not so keen on that career path. It’s one of the reasons he and Ntatemogolo hate each other. That and the fact that I bonded with my grandfather instantly even though I didn’t know him until he moved back to Botswana three years ago, after travelling the world.

I go into the sitting room and turn on the TV. I already know nothing good is on – and I don’t need a premonition for that – so I go through our DVDs. Lebz calls just after I settle on watching Red Eye for the twentieth time.

“Hey, Lebz.”

“Ha, I knew you’d be up,” she chirps. “What are you watching? No, let me guess. Mean Girls.”

I smile. “Nope.”

“The Notebook.”

“Uh-uh.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re watching something that doesn’t have Rachel McAdams in it – oh, wait! Red Eye! I always forget that one.”

“And we have a winner!” I drag the phone to the sofa and sit down with my feet curled under me. “You want to come watch it with me?”

“It’s not exciting if you know what happens,” she reminds me. “What are you doing after school? Let’s go hang out somewhere.”

I wait patiently for the rest of the request. “Somewhere” only means one thing to Lebz – wherever her idol Kelly and her friends are. It’s based on sound logic – after all, Lebz’s second favourite thing after Kelly is boys, and wherever Kelly and her D-cups go boys are sure to follow.

Lebz ploughs ahead. “Kelly’s having a braai at the game reserve, and then she and the girls are going to watch a movie.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sure Kelly and charcoal is a healthy combination.”

“Connie! We should go. It’ll be fun.”

Hmmm. Watching Kelly and company entertain slobbering males in the bush sounds almost as good as listening to Kelly and company entertain slobbering males in a dark cinema. “No, thanks.”

“They won’t mind having you there, you know,” she says in a quiet voice.

My jaw drops and I almost hang up, insulted. As if I want to be accepted by a shallow, albeit very pretty group of girls with the privilege of commanding male attention with a swing of their hips. It’s not as if I can’t get guys to notice me if I try. If I really, really try. OK, so maybe not even then, but I don’t need boys to notice me. Teachers notice me occasionally and they’re much more important.

“Thuli might be coming.”

I almost drop the receiver. “What? Are you sure?”

“I heard Lorraine saying that Kelly invited Mothusi, and you know Mothusi won’t go anywhere without Simon, and Simon won’t go anywhere without Thuli…”

I bite my lip, my heart thudding in my chest. Thuli Baleseng is the man of my dreams. He’s in Form Five, a year ahead of me, and one of the smartest students in his group. I love everything about him, from the way he rolls up the sleeves of his pale green school shirt to the dreadlocks that hang over his sleepy eyes.

Lebz sighs. “I don’t know what you see in that boy.”

“He’s a genius,” I whisper.

“He’s a thug,” she retorts. “He smells of cigarettes, he’s antisocial, rude and – ”

“He’s misunderstood,” I snap, irritated by her unwarranted assault on my soul mate. She and Thuli are sort of family friends. That is to say, his parents are friends with her parents, but she tries very hard not to be friends with him.

“OK, whatever. Are you coming to the braai?”

It occurs to me then that Thuli doesn’t particularly like Kelly, or any other girl at the Syringa Institute of Excellence. Rumour has it that he only dates KIA girls –girls from Kagisanyo International Academy, and he hardly hangs out with anyone other than his pals Simon and Mothusi, except the occasional exchange student.

“Oh, you almost had me,” I tell Lebz. “Thuli isn’t going, and neither am I.”

She sighs. “You should come. Your father is rubbing off on you; you need serious intervention before you lose the last bits of youth and blackness you have left,” she pleads. “Like this Rachel McAdams thing. What’s wrong with Beyoncé?”

“We’ve had this conversation.” I pull the phone cord as far as it will go so I can lie on the sofa. “I’m a mulatto and I’m proud.”

“You see?” she cries in dismay. “Who uses words like ‘mulatto’?”

I consider pointing out that the limited vocabulary of our peers is not a virtue, but I’m not sure she’ll appreciate it. Lebz is a smart girl, but you’ll never catch her showing it. “Go to the braai, Lebz. I’ll only hold you back from your destiny.”

“Drama queen,” she sneers, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “Don’t think you’re off the hook. You have to get a life, one way or the other. I’ll be there soon.”

I roll my eyes and replace the receiver. I understand how desperate everyone is for a little excitement. Gaborone is small and dull. Don’t get me wrong – we don’t have shootings on every street corner, but we also only have a couple of cinemas and a handful of copycat malls. There is nothing to do here, so people get creative. Loitering is popular. Braais, house parties and underage drinking are big, too. I prefer to stay out of trouble. The problem with being sort-of psychic is, well, foresight.

I’m halfway through the movie when Lebz turns up. She’s one of those cute, curvy girls who like to flaunt what they’ve got, so her grey school skirt is as short as she can get away with. As usual her white socks are pulled up to her knees, even though she’ll have to fold them every time a teacher walks by. She’s done something new with her hair – red streaks weaving through jagged cornrows.

“Your hair looks good,” I venture, though I’m not quite sure I’m being honest.

“You’re so bad at this,” she laughs. “I know you hate it, but it’s not for you.” She pats her head, then sneaks a peek at my bushy ponytail. “We can’t all be content with coloured-girl afros.”

We hang around until Auntie Lydia, our housekeeper, arrives. She’s been with Dad and me since my mother died. She’s compact, very dark in complexion and extremely efficient. She bustles into the house like a whirlwind in floral print.

“Hello, girls,” she says in her Zimbabwean accent, planting maternal kisses on our cheeks. Then she glances at her cell phone, lets out a cry of dismay and shoves us towards the door with surprising strength for someone so petite. “Out, out! I was supposed to start work ten minutes ago!”

Lebz and I head down the streets of Phase Eight towards Syringa, swept up in a sea of crisp green shirts and grey trousers. Other kids greet Lebz, glance at me briefly and then turn away. We take a right turn and there it is – Syringa.

High black gates, a brick wall topped with barbed wire and a lawn so green and fragrant you’d think you just stepped into The Sound of Music. The campus is dotted with stone benches with leaf patterns carved into the sides. There is carefully tended sand, flowerbeds and neat brick walkways. There is even a fountain in the middle of the campus, just in front of the admin building. Every one of the five large buildings is made of red brick. Glass doors slide open to welcome you into pristine corridors polished to within an inch of their lives. We have state-of-the-art facilities, or at least as state-of-the-art as we can get in Botswana.

All this costs enough to make my dad grind his teeth at the start of every term, but he’s convinced I’m getting a first-class education. Getting to go to Syringa means I don’t get a lot of other things, but that’s cool. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

As Lebz and I enter the school grounds, a skinny boy with thick glasses and a neat baby afro steps out of a car idling by the roadside and catches up to us. He has the faintest suggestion of sideburns, full lips that are usually pursed in concentration and huge eyes. His long fingers are clasped around a thick book, and he walks with the short, quick strides of someone with lots to do and no time to do it.

“Hey, Wiki,” Lebz and I say in unison as he falls into step with us.

“Morning, ladies,” he replies in his soft voice. His real name is Elijah, but everyone calls him Wiki – as in Wikipedia – because he remembers everything he has ever read. He’s from Côte d’Ivoire, which is somewhere up there on the map next to… um… Nigeria?

The three of us have known each other almost since birth. My dad, Lebz’s mother and Wiki’s father are all in the business of education, and they became friends way back when teaching was the ultimate profession and surfing was done on the ocean. I suppose our friendship happened by default and then we grew on each other. Lebz is the only one of us who actually has other friends.

As we step onto the campus, Lebz runs off to say hello to Kelly, who is just climbing out of her stepfather’s Kompressor. I roll my eyes and pretend not to notice Kelly’s flawless dark skin, long, thick hair and hourglass figure. She’s told everyone who will listen that the second she turns eighteen, she’s going to be a Page 7 girl – one of the half-dressed beauties featured in local tabloid The Word. Good practice for when she becomes a Playboy centrefold – her most promising career option.

I tap my feet impatiently as Wiki and I wait for Lebz, then let my gaze wander around, taking in my peers. It’s a sea of typical adolescent faces. Wiki’s going on about some documentary he watched last night, but I switch off as soon as my gaze rests on Thuli, a diamond amongst the agate, leaning against the wall of a classroom.

My stomach churns as I try to catch his eye. I don’t think he even knows I exist. He knows Lebz because everyone knows Lebz, and he knows Wiki, whose brain is as legendary as Kelly’s house parties. The fact that the three of us are joined at the hip means nothing. I’m one of those people everyone’s eyes seem to pass over. It’s understandable – I’m not as pretty as Lebz, and although I’m a decent student, I’m not that help-you-with-assignments kind of smart.

I’m always wondering what I’d say to Thuli if we ever got the chance to speak. Maybe I’d stammer and make a fool of myself. Maybe I’d just smile and hold my tongue. In my fantasies, I’m confident and sassy. My hair is perfect, my boobs are bigger, my teeth are straight, and my school trousers do incredible things for my butt. And if that isn’t enough, I wow him with my wit and charm.

It’s a hot summer day and he’s hanging around near the gate as usual, looking for an opportunity to sneak out. I walk right up to him, past Kelly and company who shrivel up and disappear into the dust. Thuli looks at me and his mouth hangs open, because I’m that hot. I hold out my hand. I toss my head. I smile and say, “Hi. I’m Conyza Bennett. I see dead people.”

And he falls to his knees and proposes.

I know, I know. But it’s a fantasy, remember?

My headache gets worse somewhere between Maths and English. It creeps up on me in that annoying way that headaches do, until my temples throb and it hurts each time my eyes move in their sockets. By the time break rolls around, I’m in death throes.

“Lebz,” I groan, dragging myself over to our usual bench. “Where are all those sachets of Grandpa you’re always carrying around?”

“Finished,” she replies apologetically.

She seems distracted. I don’t know how she can be distracted when her best friend is dying. I plonk myself between her and Wiki and turn to him for sympathy and painkillers.

“It’s not a good idea to pop pills all the time,” he points out, opening his lunchbox to reveal the usual brown bread polony sandwich. He must be the only kid in school who isn’t embarrassed to eat a packed polony lunch in public. “Most headaches subside by themselves. Just rest for a few minutes.”

“This is no ordinary headache.” I wince and close my eyes. I think I’m seeing stars. I lean over and rest my head on Wiki’s shoulder, and the next thing I know Lebz is shaking me awake.

“Is it time up already?” I sit up and rub my eyes.

“No.” She hands me a warm fatcake wrapped in a white plastic bag, a half-full can of juice and a pristine white Aspirin. “Maybe you’ll feel better after you have something to eat.” She’s not even looking at me.

“What’s the matter with you?” I snatch the tablet, drain the can and then reach for the fatcake. “Did Kelly change her nail polish or something?”

“I think our friend over there is making her nervous,” says Wiki. “He’s been watching us for the last ten minutes.”

I follow his gaze to a patch of sandy ground near one block of classrooms. A boy is standing there, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. Everyone calls him Black Lizard because of the tattoo on his forearm. He’s in Thuli’s form, but he’s not much of a people person. He’s always skulking around, blending into the background.

“Oh, him.” I tear a piece out of my fatcake. “What’s his name again?”

“Rakwena,” Wiki supplies, returning his attention to his book. Wiki is one of those people who make a point of knowing people’s names. The rest of us aren’t nearly so courteous.

“Ri-ight.” My eyes narrow and I try to focus through the pain.

Lizard has all the makings of a heartthrob – flawless dark skin, tall, lean physique, broad shoulders. His hair is always cut close to the scalp as if he does it every day, and he has big, thoughtful eyes under thick brows. Sure, he’s not exactly the friendliest guy on earth, and he does have that creepy tattoo, but the real reason he’s not top of the list of Syringa studs is the scar. It runs diagonally down the left side of his face, from his temple to his chin. A little more to the right and it would have slit his lips. Brazen students call him Scarface, but most of us are too scared to look at the scar, let alone mention it. Nobody talks to him. He makes everyone so uncomfortable that we prefer to pretend he’s not there.

Even though he’s aware that I’ve seen him, he doesn’t look away. He’s weird like that. Brooding, but not in that romantic way that makes girls swoon. I don’t know why he’s looking at us – he never takes any interest in other people. It’s freaking me out.

“What the hell is he looking at?” I snap. “Lebz, are you wearing that neon bra that shows through your shirt?”

Lebz gives me a funny look. “I think he’s looking at you.”

I laugh, and my head reminds me that I’m in excruciating pain. “Why would he be looking at me?” I close my eyes and rub my temples. “Oh, hell – that tablet isn’t kicking in. I need something stronger. Anaesthesia, maybe.”