‘Can you Hear them?’ Harriet’s face was pale but for twin spots of feverish colour on her cheekbones.
Lawrence nodded, unable to speak.
Hearing. That was what they called it at the facility known as the Farm. Though that was a misleading title as Lawrence’s experiences weren’t just about sound, they deluged every sense. Back when he was less experienced, he’d come close to disaster, the Heard possessing him, blocking out his reality, giving him their own. The Farm had taught him control – of himself, of the Hearing, of the Heard.
This place, though. There was more here than they’d been told in the briefing. Something older, something dark, it flickered on the edge of his vision, casting the blue sky grey, bleaching the grass, turning the sun to the colour of old bone. A thunderhead of pressure built behind his eyes
‘They’re here,’ he whispered.