CHAPTER ELEVEN
A few minutes later, I sat down in one of Nightbolt’s aging red recliners and put my helmet in my lap. The recliner sank slightly under my weight, the springs creaking. I leaned back in the chair and looked at Nightbolt, who sat in the recliner opposite mine, a water bottle from his fridge in his hands. At his feet lay Spike, who was fast asleep, his bandaged leg as still as ever. He did make a small whining sound every now and then, though that seemed to be because of some dream he was having rather than because of the pain from his wound.
But that didn’t matter at the moment. What mattered was Nightbolt’s face. He looked angry at me, angrier than I’d ever seen him before. Even though he was a lot older and frailer than me, I found I didn’t like the way he looked at me. I
