Crowned by Cheryl S. Ntumy Page B

comes up from that old, primal place inside me, the place that recognises the strange dreams I’ve been having. I’ve always been able to sniff things out – that’s what my gift is all about – but this is different. Something’s changed. It’s more than my gift growing. Once again I get the eerie feeling that I’m not alone.
    I don’t know what to make of this sensation. It’s not like having an intruder in the house or even in my head. It’s as much physical as supernatural. It’s as though something is stirring inside, and it has important things to tell me.
    What it tells me now is that the Puppetmaster cares about me, but he cares about something else more. I can’t trust him, even when he speaks the truth. I have to be extra careful. If I don’t watch my step with him, I’ll fall.
    I turn to look at the puzzle box. Maybe I’ve already fallen.

Chapter Four
    My first conscious thought when I wake up is that I should have had a more sensible dinner. My stomach is cramping and my head feels woozy. I feel my gift buzz behind my eyes and shut them against the pain. I’m having another premonition. I can hardly believe it – so soon after the last one! Then I can’t think any more – I’m distracted by my stinging eyes and contracting muscles. My head jerks upwards, and for a fraction of a second my whole body freezes. I keep my eyes closed and the images flow in, like shaky, unclear clips from a home video.
    I hear footsteps before the image comes into focus – the sharp click-click of heels on tar. I see solid calves, stylish brown shoes. There’s a shadow in the corner of my eye, deformed and threatening. The woman stops. She turns to run, then she’s falling through the earth. I hear the air rushing past her, her ragged, frightened breath and something else, like a voice from far away. As she’s falling, someone passes her. He’s falling upwards, returning to the place she just left. She catches a glimpse of a face. Henry Marshall.
    I open my eyes. My breathing is still coming in gasps. Though the images weren’t in focus, the sounds were clear and crisp. That’s new. I shake my head slowly and take a deep breath to steady myself. Henry Marshall is coming home, and someone else is about to take his place.
    I stay still for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Call the police? No, of course not. What would I say? “Hi, I had a premonition that an unknown woman is going to vanish from an unknown place at an unknown time. Could you take care of it?” I don’t think so.
    Premonitions are tricky. Popular fiction would have us believe that it all gets mapped out in a medium’s mind, the details fall into place and hey, presto – the crime is solved. In reality premonitions are often fragmented and frustrating, influenced by everything from the medium’s emotions and perceptions to those of the people close to her. In other words, my blind spots can easily get in the way of my second sight.
    For all I know, the woman is being spirited away at this very moment. I send my gift back into my memory, searching the premonition for any lingering threads. A place would be enough…but there’s nothing. All I have to go on is what I’ve been given. A woman, a shadow, a deep, dark hole, and Henry Marshall’s face.
    I drag myself out of bed, squinting at the sunlight sneaking in between my curtains. Dad’s just coming out of the bathroom, dressed to go out.
    “You look awful,” he remarks.
    “Thanks.”
    “Why don’t you go back to bed?” He puts his hand on the top of my head and tilts it back so I’m looking at him. “You look like you could use more rest.”
    “I can’t. I’m supposed to see Ntatemogolo this morning.” I stifle a yawn.
    “You should tell him to stop by later; we need to discuss the Salinger project. Or maybe just invite him over for dinner.”
    I blink. A few months ago those words would never have left his mouth. A few months ago he’d rather have starved than