Page 37 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

“Just trying to figure out how to stop the dam project,” I say, leaning back on the porch railing.

Mrs. Henderson sets her watering can down and plants her hands on her hips. “Well, count me in. That lake’s been there since I was a girl, and I’ll be damned if some billionaire’s gonna turn it into a reservoir.”

Before I can respond, Mr. Patel from across the street pokes his head over the fence. “Did I hear something about the dam? Because if so, I’ve got opinions.”

“Join the club,” Seabus grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his stubbly chin. By now, a few more neighbors are drifting over—Dauber from the pharmacy, Clem with his Skoal cap pulled low, and even the McLaughlins with their three-legged dog.

It’s turning into a full-blown block party when Boris and Barfbag roll up on their bikes, their heavy metal T-shirts flapping in the breeze. They skid to a stop and hop off, grinning like fools.

“What’s up, losers?” Boris says, tossing his helmet onto the grass. “Did we miss the revolution?”

“Almost,” I say, shaking my head. “We’re brainstorming how to get ten thousand signatures to stop the dam.”

“Ten thousand?” Barfbag’s eyes go wide. “That’s, like, a lot of signatures. Can’t we just, I dunno, start a mosh pit at city hall?”

“Brilliant plan,” Seabus mutters. “Except for the part where it’s completely stupid.”

I decide it’s time to play host. “I’ll grab some refreshments,” I say, heading inside. The kitchen smells amazing—sweet and warm, like baked cookies. And there’s my mom, standing at the counter, scooping oatmeal raisin dough onto a baking sheet.

“Mom?” I freeze in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

She looks up, her face glowing with energy I haven’t seen in months. “That vitamin tonic did a good job,” she says, her voice light and cheerful. “All of a sudden, I just felt like getting up anddoingsomething again. It feels good. Do you know if any of your friends have nut allergies? You know I like to put walnuts in my cookies.”

I don’t even try to hide my grin. “I’ll go check,” I say, wrapping her in a tight hug. She feels solid, alive, like she’s finally back to herself. I whisper a silent thank-you to Guvan before heading back outside with a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of cookies.

Mom follows me out, and the crowd cheers when they see her. “Mary!” Mrs. Henderson exclaims, rushing over to hug her. “You look fantastic!”

“I feel fantastic,” Mom says, beaming. She sets the cookies down on the porch railing, and Boris and Barfbag are on them like vultures.

“Careful, boys,” Clem says, snagging a cookie for himself. “Mary’s cookies are a religious experience.”

“No kidding,” Barfbag mumbles around a mouthful, crumbs tumbling down his shirt. “These are, like, the best thing ever.”

I pour glasses of lemonade and hand them out, watching as the group falls into easy conversation. For the first time in a long time, it feels like we might actually have a shot at this.

Clem leans against the porch railing, scratching the back of his neck like he’s trying to dig out a thought. “Too bad we don’t have some big-shot celebrity in Coldwater,” he says, voice low and gruff. “Someone who could get on social media and spread the word. That’d make this whole signature thing a hell of a lot easier.”

Barfbag, perched on the steps with a cookie in each hand, snorts. “Yeah, like if Taylor Swift justhappenedto live here and was, like, ‘Save Mirror Lake, dudes!’”

“Don’t think Taylor Swift’s gonna move to Coldwater anytime soon,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What we need is a way to get a ton of people together in one place. Something fun, something that’ll put them in a good mood. Then we hit ’em with the petition while they’re all feeling warm and fuzzy.”

Boris, who’s been quiet up until now, suddenly snaps his fingers. “Music festival,” he blurts out, like he’s just discovered fire. “People love music, right? We could totally get everyone to show up for that. But—” he grins, braces glinting in the sunlight, “—it has to be nothing but death metal bands. Like,alldeath metal. No exceptions.”

“Hell no on the death metal band thing,” I say immediately, crossing my arms over my chest. “Not everyone wants their eardrums blown out by Boris and Barfbag’s ‘sick riffs,’ okay? But the music festival idea? That’s actually not bad. We could get a big name or two. Some of those music stars are really into conservation.”

“Like who?” Seabus asks, his arms folded over his chest, skeptical as always.

“I don’t know, like... Jason Aldean? Miranda Lambert? Someone like that,” I say, waving a hand like it’s obvious. “We just need someone who can pull a crowd.”

“And where the hell are we gonna find the money to pay for all these big names?” Clem asks, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “Because last I checked, none of us are exactly rolling in it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, though I have no idea how. “First things first—we need acts. A lot of them. At least enough to make it feel like an actual festival and not just me and my guitar.”

Mom, who’s been quietly sipping lemonade, perks up. “Well, you’ve already got one performer,” she says, smiling at me like she’s just handed me a winning lottery ticket. “You.”

“Oh hell no,” I say immediately, holding up my hands like I’m fending off an attack. “Absolutely not. I’m not getting up on a stage. No way.”

“Why not?” Boris says, grinning like a jackal. “You’re always singing around the house. You’re, like, actually good.”

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