Maeve
Damian was not what I was expecting. He was an older man, tall and lean. He was probably not much older than my own father, but was significantly gray, his eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a kind old schoolteacher than the super-villain of my nightmares, but based on Troy’s body language I realized there was much more to the man than I could gather based on a single glance.
Damian was standing, rocking on heels, and watching us. Pete was lying on the ground nearby, unconscious, and another unfamiliar man of a size that rivaled Robbie was leaning against one of the dead trees, his arms crossed over his chest.
“What are we waiting for?” Damian said in a casual, almost friendly voice.
Troy didn’t move; he was still as a statue, his focus on Damian.
“How are
