A rush of air hits me from the right, then another from my left. They tickle over my body, probing into the loose edges of my jacket. When they find an entrance, they race under my clothes, like a swarm of invisible mosquitos.
What are they?
Before I can figure it out, the tickles become nibbles, then bites. I swat at them, striking my arms, legs and torso until they recede.
Behind me, a whisper. I spin to confront it.
“Who’s there?” My weak voice wavers more than I’d like.
Hushed voices float across the field, churning into one another and mingling with the wind so that I can’t make out specific words.
Something, or someone, watches me from the grass. My quickening pulse thunders in my ears. “I can hear you. I know you’re there.”
A tall, young man steps into the path in front of me. My breath hitches. Even in my confused state, I can see he’s gorgeous. Chiseled jaw, piercing blue eyes, light brown hair. The kind of guy Kyra would make all kinds of inappropriate comments about.
He throws up his hand, like telling me to stop. I freeze.
“Bethina’s waiting for you,” he says, the words razor sharp. For being beautiful, there’s something ugly about the way he regards me.
A sliver of pale yellow streaks through the grass. Dull blue appears to my left. A glint of green pulls my attention to the space behind the man.
All around us, dozens of people crouch low in the swaying grass. Watching me.
The man, dressed head-to-toe in muted red, squares his shoulders as if to challenge me.
The hair on my neck pricks up and I take a step back. “I know.”
My eyes find his wrist. Like mine, it’s bare. So, he’s not a State-identified Sensitive. But who, or what, is he? And does he have something to do with the invisible mosquitos?
The man glares at me before retreating back into the grass. He whistles a few snappy notes of a song I vaguely recognize, and vanishes.
I swing my head from side to side – surely he didn’t disappear?