Page 6 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

Pyke chuckles, a deep rumble that fills the room. “Humans, like Vakutans, become attached to places and situations as they are. They don’t always see the bigger picture. Silver Creek andMirror Lake mean something to them—memories, traditions, whatever. They’re not just resources to be exploited.”

I snort, my claws flexing at my sides. “Sentimentality. That’s what’s holding them back?”

“It’s not just sentimentality, Guvan. It’s identity. You of all people should understand that.” He gives me a pointed look, and I know he’s referring to the scars I refuse to heal. I ignore the jab.

“So what do you want me to do? Hold their hands and sing campfire songs?”

“I want you to be diplomatic,” Pyke says, his tone firm. “No threats, no intimidation. Just talk to them. Listen. Try to see things from their perspective.”

I let out a low growl, my tail lashing behind me. “I’m a soldier, Pyke, not a politician. I don’t do diplomacy.”

“You’re whatever Veritas needs you to be,” he counters, his voice softening. “And right now, we need you to be Gary Irons, billionaire industrialist, not Guvan, the warrior who’d rather disintegrate the problem than solve it.”

I glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s right, and we both know it. “Fine. I’ll talk to them. But if they start throwing rocks, all bets are off.”

Pyke claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. “So do we all, my old friend. So do we all.”

He turns to leave, pausing at the door to glance back at the mess. “Get this place cleaned up, Guvan. One way or another.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I let out a long, frustrated sigh. I glance around the room, at the chaos I’ve let accumulate, and mutter under my breath, “It would be so much easier if I could just disintegrate the protesters.”

CHAPTER 3

REILY

The garage is a mess of paint, cardboard, and too many bodies. I’m elbow-deep in a pile of protest signs, trying to separate the ones that say“Save Silver Creek!”from the ones that say“No Dam Way!”Clem’s leaning against the workbench, arms crossed like he’s waiting for me to screw this up. Seamus is in the corner, stacking T-shirts like they’re bricks for a fortress. And then there’s Boris and Barfbag, who somehow ended up in charge of marker duty.

“Yo, Reily,” Boris holds up a sign he’s been working on. The words“Gary Iorns is a Jerk”are scrawled in black Sharpie, the ‘I’ in ‘Irons’ clearly missing.

Barfbag snorts, doubling over like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “Dude, you forgot the ‘R’. It’s like, GaryI-orns. What’s an Iorns?”

Boris frowns, squinting at the sign. “It’s, like, a type of jerk. Obviously.”

“Guys,” I snap, handing them another stack of blank cardboard. “Focus. If you’re gonna butcher the spelling, at least make it legible.”

Clem chuckles, pushing his Skoal cap back on his head. “You sure you want those two in charge of anything? Last time I saw them, they were trying to deep-fry a Frisbee at the drive-thru.”

“Hey, that was art,” Boris says, defensive.

“Explosive art,” Barfbag adds, grinning like a hyena.

Seamus tosses a T-shirt at them. “Art doesn’t set off the fire alarms. Keep it together, or I’m sending you two to the back of the protest line.”

The garage door rattles open, and a stream of volunteers pours in. I didn’t expect this many people. The shirts are disappearing faster than I can count them. “Clem, we’re gonna run out of supplies.”

“Already on it,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call in some backups. We’ll get more paint, more shirts. This thing’s bigger than we thought.”

Boris points to a stack of blank shirts. “We could, like, make more. Custom designs. Abstract protest vibes.”

“Abstract my ass,” I mutter, but I hand them the markers anyway. Better they’re here making bad shirts than out causing trouble.

By the time we’re ready, the street outside my house is packed. Five thousand people, maybe more. Signs bob above the crowd like flags, and the hum of voices is louder than I’ve ever heard it. Clem shoves the megaphone into my hands. “You’re up, Reily.”

I freeze. “Me? Why me? You’re the one who’s good at this.”

“Because you’re the one who got us here,” he says, giving me a nudge toward the crowd. “They’re here for you.”

The crowd quiets as I lift the megaphone. My hands are shaking, but I swallow it down. “Listen up, Coldwater! We’re not here to start a fight. We’re here to finish one. Gary Irons thinks he can come in, take what he wants, and leave us with nothing.But we’re not nothing. We’re a town that fought back when the mine closed. We’re still here. And we’re not going anywhere.”

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