“Isn’t it something to have a creature as our new mayor?”
It had been six months since her broken jaw, yet it still clicked every time she opened her mouth. She didn’t care about that, though, and was just thankful to have kept all her teeth.
Alistair touched the small of her back and rubbed slow circles as he spoke, a new habit of his that Westie adored.
“Something indeed,” he said. “It’s too bad what happened to the old one.”
A smile grazed Westie’s lips. “Sure is. Bandits can be mean ol’ suckers, can’t they? I do wonder who will change his diapers while he’s convalescing.”
Costin went on to finish his speech about the machine, about mankind and creaturekind coming together, and how Nigel’s invention was a symbol of hope and tolerance. He told the people it was a step closer to a united America, where humans and creatures might one day live in a world without the need of wards.
Westie thought he was full of shit, but it was a nice speech nonetheless. When Costin finished speaking, he stepped back and let Bena take center stage. She took a nugget of gold the size of a marble and placed it inside the machine’s amplifying compartment, then began to speak the words of the Wintu incantation.
Westie squeezed Alistair’s hand. It was Emma’s first time out.
When Bena was finished, she stepped back. Westie held her breath. At first nothing happened, and worried murmurs skittered across the crowd, but then the trees around them started to turn blue, the color starting from the base and rising up to fill the leaves. Westie looked up when the sky took on an opalescent skin as the magic dome materialized over the town. Laughter and applause broke out all around her, and finally, for the first time in a long time, Westie could breathe again.
Acknowledgments
First I want to thank my agent, John M. Cusick. I couldn’t have asked for a better champion for my book. I also want to thank my editor, Kristin Rens, and assistant editor, Kelsey Murphy, two very smart and insightful women. I’ve learned so much from working with both of you, and it’s been an absolute pleasure. I also want to thank Caroline Sun, Nellie Kurtzman, Renée Cafiero, Alison Donalty, and Jenna Stempel for my beautiful cover and Nim Ben-Reuven for the lovely hand-painted title. Next is Jerry Gannon and my dauntless mother, who’s always supportive even when I’m a nightmare to be around; my daughter, Haydn, who skipped fireworks with friends to talk characters; and my son, Xander, who only complained a little when I turned his closet into my writing space. You two delightful turds own my heart. Next I want to thank my best friend, Alena Clark, my first reader and my loudest foul-mouthed cheerleader. My critique partner, Heather Roetto, and her husband, Nick Roetto, for moral and technical support. Our weekly gatherings keep me sane. Also, Sam Snoek-Brown and Bonnie Cox for our early discussions about craft. This long journey began with you. Last but not least, I want to thank Xanax. Because stress.
About the Author
MICHELLE MODESTO is a writer, hockey fanatic, art lover, and terrible cook—and her social skills aren’t that great either. This is her debut novel. She lives in Northern California in a double-wide mobile asylum with two mastiffs who don’t listen to her and two teenagers who also don’t listen to her. You can visit Michelle online at www.michellemodesto.com.
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