Inkarna Read online

  Biting the inside of my cheek in the hope to somehow lessen my discomfort, I get out of the car and walk back to the house. It occurs to me then that I should have asked Marlise for her telephone number. Mrs Kennedy could give it to me but, for some reason, I don’t want to ask her. I don’t want to take anything from them. I am a thief. I am not their son.

  Marlise waits for me to enter the front gate before she starts the car. It’s when I’m standing before the front door that I realise I don’t have a key.

  “Damn.”

  There’s nothing to do save knock, like the beggar I am, and pray someone will open for me. Three times I knock before footsteps thud dully within, and the door swings open to reveal Uncle Rodgers’s florid face. He glares with rheumy eyes and his hatred for me can be compared to a shimmering heat haze. It seems somehow incongruous that he is Ashton’s flesh and bone, that we share some sort of genetic heritage. There is very little resemblance. Ashton may as well be a changeling.

  “May I come in?” I ask when he doesn’t move out of the way.

  His lip curls as if he’d say something less than savoury and struggles to hold himself back. He does shift to one side to allow me to enter. Although my stomach rumbles ominously, I can’t bring myself to go to the kitchen to fix myself something to eat. The sense of being unwelcome and unwanted is so palpable in this house that I slink upstairs to my room and lock the door behind me before collapsing on the bed. Two biscuits the whole day is hardly going to keep this body going. The headache digs its claws in deep and it is better to lie back and let the pain surge through me. A bitter taste lodges on the back of my tongue.

  No money. No job. No chapter house as sanctuary. No friends save an obsessive erstwhile girlfriend who no doubt hero-worships me for what I represent, not for who I am… “Damn, Lizzie, what the fuck?”

  Now I’m starting to swear like a man, too, some part of Ashton no doubt impinging on my manner. Like a mould, the Kha begins to shape the Akh. Yet I can’t help the bitter smile that twists to my lips. I stare at the ceiling, at the myriad cracks in the plaster and the progress a spider makes toward one of the corners. The migraine sends its tentacles down my spine, making me curl onto my side with a pillow squashed over my face.

  * * * *

  In an abandoned city, mist swirls between tumbled pillars, and forgotten gods crumble into dust. My feet crunch on the debris of a lost civilisation, each step loud to my ears. My pulse is a drum, marking time. I’m looking for something, a treasure that is very important, but I don’t know what it is or why it’s so dear to me. All that is clear is the compulsion laid across my soul. I must find this thing and time is running out.

  I hear it then, a low moaning here among the ruins. When it starts, I’m tempted to believe it’s the wind, but it grows louder, closing in, and I almost discern voices, calling my name, my Ren.

  “Nefret-Nefretkheperiii…”

  It’s not just one voice but a rag-tag threnody, promising pain, hinting at sharp teeth and claws just itching to sink into flesh. I run, my feet catch on something and I trip—

  * * * *

  And fall… I jerk awake. It’s dusk outside and a man and a woman are arguing loudly downstairs. Groaning, I pull myself upright. That migraine is still there, at the edges of my awareness. Damn. I wait for a few seconds to regain my bearings, to allow my pulse to settle. My stomach grumbles. To hell with feeling like vermin, this Kha is starving and I need to face whatever conflict is taking place downstairs and get something—anything—to eat. I’ll worry about the dreams later.

  Halfway down the stairs I pause, gripping the railing. Those two are still at it: Mrs Kennedy and Uncle Rodgers.

  “Well, I can’t have him in this house!” bellows Uncle Rodgers. “Look at him, no better than a drug addict.”

  “He’s not like that anymore. Please, Stanley. He’s a changed man. He almost died. He needs our support. Surely you can see that. Where else can he go? He’s my son.”

  “I agreed that you and Mark could stay. That is the least I can do. I’m giving you until the end of the week to make a plan with that. And that’s final.”

  “Please, Stanley! I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  Despite my hunger, I’m not going into the kitchen. That would be about as wise as walking into a lion’s den. Who am I kidding? I’m in the lion’s den. Part of me wants to barge into the room where Uncle Rodgers is haranguing Ash’s mother and smash his face in. My right hand curls into a fist, but that’s not going to improve my situation. Ashton would solve a situation by employing brute force but I hold back because I fear my present physique is too confrontational. With the lingering headache still a ghost at my temples, I’m too reluctant to try any of the tricks Lizzie took for granted, such as using her daimonic powers to hold Stanley against a wall until he became more amenable.

  It’s quite laughable. The old lady could do so much more with her mind though her Kha was feeble. The man, on the other hand… I uncurl my fist and take a deep breath. I have to remind myself I’m taller than most of the people around me and will be stronger, too, in time.

  The walls are becoming too close in this house. From the lounge the television blares some sports match at such a high volume the speakers distort. Mr Kennedy is most likely watching the rugby far too intently, no doubt in an attempt to block out the ruckus in the kitchen. Why isn’t he defending his wife? He has the look of someone who’s been dealt far too many heavy blows.

  Should I ask him for cash then go out and grab a bite to eat?

  But that’s something a teenager would do, not a grown man, and he is not my father any more than I am his son. I can’t be beholden to these people. I must get out of this mess on my own. Before I can make any further decisions, a door slams and Ashton’s uncle storms down the passage. The glare he reserves for me as he brushes past on the staircase is so foul, so murderous, I have to turn my face away.

  “Useless piece of shit,” he mutters, low but loud enough for me to hear it and know it’s meant for me.

  Something within me snaps, and with a low growl I rush up after the man. Despite my weakened state, I grab him by his jersey and thrust him against the wall, almost succeeding in sending us both tumbling down the stairs.

  He squeals, his anger and resentment dissipating to naked fear when I make eye contact and shove him again and again so that the back of his head knocks against the plaster.

  “Don’t you talk to me like that! You don’t even know me! You don’t know what I’m capable of. Do you think I want to be here, under your roof, taking charity from a spineless sod who’d rather rail at his younger sister than face the problem head on?” A venomous black anger boils within me, coiling up my spine. My hands tingle, energies roiling through my sinews, my vision tunnelling on this pathetic man’s features.

  Stanley whimpers. I drop the frightened man and he crumples at my feet, scrabbling like a crab down the stairs in his attempt to get away from me.

  Something ugly stirs inside me, and an ancient muscle memory of Lizzie’s takes hold, impinging itself over Ashton’s form. It’s as if I’m pushing open a door or toppling a pillar. Daimonic powers whip from me, knocking the older man hard so that he tumbles the rest of the way down the stairs to fall in a pile against an imbuia armoire.

  For a blood-freezing moment I think I’ve killed him, but then he stirs, twitches. His eyes widen as he stares up at me, horror stamped on his features.

  What have I done? I had no control over that blast. It rode me, unleashing itself on a man who had no natural defences against an Inkarna attack. This is not the way of Ma’at.

  The skin on my hands prickle and when I glance at them, the dancing motes are unmistakable. Daimonic energy, visible to the eye for those who know what they’re looking at.

  I need to get out of this house—now—before I end up murdering someone. The headache returns with crippling force and I have to grip the balustrade to stop myself from collapsing.

  My rational
self calmly suggests going upstairs to get my jacket first, and a scarf. My limbs are leaden, but I make it to my room to scratch through more of Ashton’s things. I squint through the wiggling shapes worming across my vision and find a worn leather wallet with a few silver pieces, nothing more, and an ID document. These I shove into my jeans pocket. Not that I know how to use it, I pocket a butterfly knife. That’s when I find the silver pendant—Anubis or Anpu Upuaut as I know the Neter.

  Is this what drew me to the man in the first place? Some tentative esoteric connection Ashton established out of complete ignorance? As it is, he had a pair of jackal-headed figures tattooed on his back, one on either side of a flaming udjuat eye. I send a wordless thanks to the Neter for Aston’s unschooled interest in ancient Egypt, and I pocket the pendant. Anpu Upuaut, the patron of travellers and a proto-St Christopher, is clearly looking out for me if I’ve made it this far to escape the clutches of the Sea of Nun. These small hints at the Neter’s interest in my situation are just too uncanny.

  Mercifully the house is silent, the television switched off, when I make my way downstairs. I pause at the foot of the stairs, stretching my senses, but apart from an angry buzz of static on the edge of my awareness, it’s as if every living thing in this dwelling has slipped into hiding, mice waiting for the cat to depart.

  But it’s more like a phantom that I slip into the twilight, walking quickly down the road to get as far away from the drama as possible. Each step sends a jarring blaze of agony through my frame. I honestly feel as though my head will explode. Although I don’t want to have to depend on Marlise for anything, she’s about the only option available to me right now. I’m not sure who else Ashton could turn to and, even if I knew a name or two, the devil only knows on what sort of terms the man parted company with those in question.

  It takes me about half an hour to walk to Claremont station, and it’s fully dark by then. Waiting for the next train doesn’t seem like an option so I keep walking, more from the need of having something to keep me occupied. A restless energy, now awakened, tangles within my gut, occasionally joining in tandem with my splitting headache. I have eaten next to nothing all day. This Kha I inhabit needs something more substantial than fresh air. Being lightheaded and filled with an unpredictable daimonic force is not a good place to be. It’s like a bomb waiting to go off with no way to tell when the fateful moment arrives. About the only blessing right now is knowing I have some of my innate resources at my disposal, unpredictable though they may be.

  Not that I’d spontaneously combust, but strangeness, for a lack of more convenient term, tends to follow Inkarna, or so I’d been told in Per Ankh. Lizzie’s life was stable compared to what I am going through now as Ashton.

  The breathing exercises help somewhat, as does the walking, banking that edginess, slipping me into a half-meditative state. The pain in my head abates to a manageable undercurrent. I complete the calculations according to the train stations: Claremont, Harfield, Kenilworth, Wynberg, Wittebome then Plumstead. That’s quite a walk, but it’s better than cowering in a dark room waiting for other people to decide my fate. I don’t want to take my chances of riding without a ticket like I did earlier today. Besides, goodness knows what sort of scum I’ll encounter on the train.

  The night sky is overcast, the clouds low and concealing Table Mountain’s eastern slopes. Small pinpricks of drizzle fall on my exposed skin and I adjust the scarf around my neck. I don’t have far to fall before I’m on the streets. It’s winter and, in my weakened state, I’ll probably get pneumonia and die.

  What if Leonora died without training another initiate? This would be a dark day for House Adamastor indeed. What happened to all the books? These thoughts chase each other around in my head. What happened to the House’s trust fund? There’s no way I can seek that information without having some sort of legal representation.

  It strikes me then. The chapter house may be gone but Finlayson and Ericson, the attorneys, should still have a branch somewhere in Cape Town. So stupid of me not to have considered this before. All the more reason to get hold of Marlise, find a phone book, though if the House is collapsed, how the hell can I prove I’m a client? While I’m at it, I may as well see how many Van Vuurens are listed. I have to start somewhere.

  A nasty little voice reminds me about another aspect of my new existence I’ve been avoiding. I will have to find work and earn a decent living wage if I’m to have a support base. What sort of qualifications did Ashton have? Somehow I can’t imagine myself taking to the stage with a band again. That thought, as ridiculous as it seems, elicits a snort of derision.

  Though the evening is chill with a nasty wind, I encounter more than one prostitute plying her trade when I walk through Kenilworth. By now my body has fallen into the rhythm of regular movement and that ember within me is tightly banked. Although I’m on the go, I’m still freezing. These luckless women stand about in nothing more than hot pants and crop tops that reveal more than they conceal. Their jackets, such as they are, do very little in the way of keeping them warm.

  They watch me walk past. One or two hiss something at me. I don’t quite catch what it is, but right now I don’t care. I know I look like death warmed over.

  The Kenilworth I remember used to be quite upmarket with its art deco apartment blocks. The place is now decidedly down at heel, but Wynberg, which in its day was quite the spot to get shopping done, is even worse. Dozens of Chinese stores line the streets. Many of these have protective trellis covering the windowpanes, adding to the place’s decidedly unfriendly façade. The homeless are numerous, huddling in their assortment of makeshift shelters on doorsteps, muttering and scratching and swearing at each other. As I pass them, I catch a whiff of sour grapes. Cheap late harvest, no doubt.

  These people shouldn’t scare me. I am, after all, bigger than they are, but I remember that doddery Kha of Lizzie’s, where one hard shove from an unexpected quarter could have sent her sprawling. I can’t help it. My palms are slick and my heart hammers.

  One vagrant woman doesn’t bother to get up. She simply pulls her pants down, shifts her buttocks slightly to the side of her shelter, and urinates there, in the street, as I step past. Though I’m disgusted by what I don’t want to see, I can’t help but be aware of her actions.

  “Ek pis nou,” she mutters before dabbing at her crotch with a crumpled tissue she wads then tosses onto the sidewalk before she straightens her clothing.

  Too taken aback to say or do anything, I quicken my pace, revulsion bitter in the back of my throat. How is it that this city has gone to hell? While it wasn’t unheard of to see the odd vagrant about most neighbourhoods back in the 1960s, the streets here in Wynberg swarm with them. I recall some Blessed memories of refugees seeking sanctuary in South Africa due to troubles farther north in the continent, but these people appear to be locals. They speak their jumbled Afrikaans patois, their features bearing the stamp of a Khoisan heritage blighted by years of alcohol abuse and exposure to the elements. Lips are thick, milky eyes lost in folds of wrinkled skin.

  More streetwalkers lurk in corners, dark-skinned women who don’t quite meet my gaze. Although many are pretty, their expressions are hard and I quicken my pace. The sooner I get through this area, the better. I’m the one who’s the outsider here.

  It’s more a prickling at the back of my neck, the sense of being watched, that warns me I’m being followed. A cursory glance over my shoulder reveals two coloured youths falling in step about five metres behind me, their focus very much on me; their arms too loose by their sides. Trouble.

  One of them conceals something in his hand. I’m so busy keeping an eye on them that I walk straight into a man approaching from the front. We collide hard, and we both stumble.

  “Ooof! I’m sorry!” I hold my hands before me to show I don’t mean him any harm.

  He’s skinny, all elbows and knees, and he glares at me through slit eyes. That’s when I note the metallic flash of a blade in his hand. “Gee my jou
geld.” When he grins he shows a gap where his front teeth used to be. Scum.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money. I don’t want trouble.” I back up into a lamp post.

  “Wit poes, wat soek jy hie’?”

  His friends reach us, the shorter one of the pair circling round to flank me while the other lends support to my toothless friend.

  “Gee die geld.”

  “I don’t have any money! Why don’t you all just fuck off and leave me alone!” Darkness takes hold of me, flaring from within the deepest recesses of my psyche. I want to hurt this unfortunate trio. I lash out with my right arm, even as the other knife-wielding scum takes a stab at me. It doesn’t occur to me that I should fear anything.

  How can I describe the outpouring of daimonic energy? It’s like taking a breath, reaching into the core of matter around one, borrowing from the humming wires, from the ground, from every available source, so the world goes a little dim for a few heartbeats. The path I opened earlier during my confrontation with Ashton’s uncle has forced a breach in whatever blocked me until now. My body becomes a conduit for this force and, with a soft implosion, I release. My assailants drop, the glass of the nearest shop front filling with millions of hairline fractures radiating outward from a band of impact at about chest height.

  A car alarm starts wailing across the road. A woman screams. That dull throb begins again behind my temples, the small zigzags of visual disturbances wriggling across my field of vision in my left eye. My mouth has gone dry and I swallow reflexively, my arms numb, my legs not quite willing to support me.

  Now’s about a good a time as any to get the hell out of here, before I need to pass out from the migraine that will no doubt flatten me soon. Something tickles my left nostril. When I raise the back of my hand to wipe, the skin is stained with dark liquid, blood. Just perfect, I have a nose bleed on top of everything.