One little push. That’s all.
Nomvula suddenly finds that her hand is pressed softly against the back of the woman in front of her. So simple. It could almost be an accident. A slip of the mind, just like when she’d accidentally lost control at the township. She didn’t know what she was doing. Mr. Tau hadn’t taught her to use her powers properly, and . . . Nomvula shakes her head. Not an accident. It was no one’s fault but her own. Tears creep into her eyes, remembering how she’d once told Mr. Tau that she wanted to be a helpful god. Maybe . . . maybe it’s not too late for her to be one.
Reluctantly, Nomvula draws her hand back and places it firmly on the rail. The lights dim overhead, and the chatter pauses for a moment as the stage lights flick on, yawning to life. People rush to their seats, breezing past Nomvula and Clever4–1 who stand anchored in place.
She can’t stay here. The crowd smells so sweet, a thousand times as delicious as the scent of baking bread, and the god-creature inside her is too close to the surface. It screeches like an eagle on the hunt as it homes in on its prey . . . hundreds and thousands of lesser gods, sleeping gods. Vulnerable gods. The hunger-pain arches through her stomach and chest, pierces her bones with sharp, pointy stingers. Nomvula clenches her eyes shut and waits for it to pass.
Nomvula, comes Clever4–1’s voice. We must continue. Sydney is coming.
She blinks her eyes back open, and through the pain, her ears tingle. She looks up to see Sydney’s face puckered up like she’d swallowed sour milk. She’s hobbling down the stairs in her heels, slow but intent.
“Why you no good little trickster! I should hang you up by your thumbs for this,” Sydney yells down.
Nomvula grabs Clever4–1’s arm, and they run down the steep steps, as the dark deepens around them. They reach the floor, but a man in a uniform stops them.
“Tickets,” he demands, aiming a flashlight at her chest.
“What?” Nomvula says. “We gave our tickets to the machine, already.”
“I need to see your stubs,” he says. “So I can take you to your seats.”
The clack of Sydney’s heels gets closer, quicker, but then the sound is swallowed up by music, a guitar and drums beating just as fast as Nomvula’s heart. Her head swims, lights blinking and twirling around, sparkling all the colors of the rainbow. It’s so loud. It infects her. Pounds away her thoughts until all that’s left is instinct. Her instinct tells her to run, but Sydney’s hand strikes out, catching Nomvula by the collar.
“You shouldn’t have run off like that,” Sydney yells, but the music gobbles her words right up. “We have to stick to the plan, remember?”
Nomvula struggles, but Sydney’s grip is tight.
“She wants to kill me!” Nomvula shrieks. The man in the uniform tightens his brow, but Sydney smiles at him and shrugs.
“Drama queen,” she yells over the fast drumbeat, then drags Nomvula back up the stairs, kicking and screaming.
“You’re weak. I could crush you, and you know it,” Nomvula says.
“Maybe, but then who would protect you, my darling little terrorist?”
That’s not going to work. Not anymore. “My friends will protect me,” she says, nodding at Clever4–1. “So I don’t need you!”
“Protected by a cheap alpha bot?” Sydney clucks her tongue, then shoves Clever4–1, and it goes clink clanking down the stairs. Its lights flicker and its legs go limp as it collides against the floor below. People gasp, but then Sydney yells out, “It’s just a bot!”
“Not just a bot,” Nomvula screams. Those bees buzz inside her chest. Faster, smaller, hotter, and angrier. She slits her eyes and aims her glowing palm at Sydney. “You hurt my friend!”
Sydney stops and stares for a long moment, then her lip raises like a wolf’s grin. She grabs Nomvula’s hand and balls it up in her own fist, burning Nomvula’s skin like angry sunshine. She pulls Nomvula into a tight hug, speaks into her ear. “You underestimate me, sister.” The ire is thick on her breath. Fresh. The scent of blood lingers. “It won’t be much longer, now. Imagine how much fear this place can hold. It’ll be brimming to the rafters by the time I’m done. I might even let you live long enough to see their faces as I reveal myself to them, in all my glory, as their god.” Sydney primps her hair with her free hand, then glides it down over the curves of her skin-tight, sparkly dress. Her eyes flicker up at the larger-than-life projection of a woman taking the stage, wearing the exact same outfit as Sydney.
Nomvula feels the heat bubbling from Sydney’s skin, sees her eyes glow bright yellow like flames. She screeches what could only be an ancient curse in an even more ancient tongue, but it’s lost completely as the woman onstage belts out a note so high, so loud, so surprisingly pure, that Sydney’s grip loosens enough for Nomvula to break free.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says a man’s voice over the loudspeakers. “Introducing, Felicity Lyons!”
The crowd stands and applauds, the note still going strong. Nomvula scrambles down the stairs, scoops up Clever4–1, and pushes her way past the man in uniform, disappearing into the swollen mass of people shaking their bodies to the beat.
Are you all right? Nomvula asks the Clever hugged tightly in her arms. A long crack runs across its dome.
Three seconds pass, which is an eternity in machine time. Nomvula’s mind wanders all over the place, wondering if its parts had been damaged, or its spark extinguished. She gets frantic, searching for any sign of her friend within all that metal and wire. Finally, Clever4–1’s voice returns, weak, but there.
Nomvula, it says. I would like to hear the concert now.
Nomvula smiles, hugs Clever4–1 even tighter, then straightens up its pretty jacket.
We will, she says. And nobody will stop them.
Chapter 33
Muzi
“Elkin, please,” Muzi says, checking over his shoulder for security guards, or worse, actual SAPS officers. He’s not sure how Elkin talked him into coming up here, in the rafters of the arena, looking for trouble and doing a damn good job of finding it. “Don’t you think you’re taking this too far?”
“Didn’t you see the way she looked at me? Like I was complete scum. Worse than scum. The stuff that scum shits out after it feeds on week-old Chinese takeout!” Elkin shakes his head and mumbles to himself as his dexterous fingers pull and plug wires in and out of their sockets, swapping them every which way within the stage-lighting access panel.
“How was she supposed to look? You asked her to sign your filthy bong.”
“It’s not like I didn’t rinse it out!”