Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015
Copyright © Cheryl S. Ntumy 2015
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 authorâs 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 © April 2015 ISBN: 9781474034005
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 â 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 didnât 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. Crowned is her third 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. Sheâs determined to keep them waiting for the rest of her life.
Acknowledgements
I must thank the team at HQ Digital for all their help in bringing Connieâs story to life. I must also thank my family and friends for their support, the readers for inspiring me to keep writing, and as always my sister, for pretty much everything.
Dedication
To everyone, everywhere. The knowledge that there are seven billions souls out there, all dreaming and feeling and thinking and doing, is more inspiration than one mind can hold.
Prologue
March
It begins with a rock. Quartzite, like the twin crystals Rakwena and I have, except this one is raw and unpolished, the white crystal still embedded in grey stone. Itâs difficult to tell how large it is; in the damp, grassy field thereâs nothing to compare it to. Iâd say itâs roughly the size of my head. Something black and heavy comes crashing down on top of it, driving it deeper into the ground. And then I wake up.
Iâm not a fan of weird recurring dreams. The last one I had warned me that the man I called my grandfather was in fact my enemy, but it took me way too long to figure it out. By then the Puppetmaster â telepath, sorcerer, shape shifter and all-round sociopath â had masqueraded as my grandfather for months, taught me to build a full-time psychic barrier, persuaded my boyfriend, Rakwena, to overdose on anti-drifter serum and led me to discover a magic box containing one of my own milk teeth. In other words, the damage was done.
This new dream is far more esoteric. A rock buried in a postcard-friendly scene is not enough to go on. Am I supposed to go on a treasure hunt? Do I look like Indiana Jones?
I sit up in bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. Itâs the third time Iâve had this dream in the week since Dad and I came home to find the Puppetmaster and Ntatemogolo locked in a magical battle. I promised the Puppetmaster three meetings so he would leave my grandfather alone. He still hasnât come to collect, but I know him. Heâs lurking nearby, plotting and biding his time.
I donât know what to make of the dream. I climb out of bed, walk over to my desk and open the wooden chest in the corner. It was a birthday gift from Ntatemogolo, containing three magical tools. One of them is around my ankle â an ancient string of wooden beads passed down through my family for generations. It protects me from deception â but only the supernatural kind. Inside the box are a small jar with a stopper and a brass bell with a gong. The jar sucks up negative energy and the bell clears my mind. I remove the bell, close the box and sit on the edge of my bed.