The Wish Thief

By C. D. Verhoff

A cave explorer from a troubled home battles mystical forces in her search for the mother lode. A modern fantasy with holiday spirit. Stays with you long after the last page.

Young Glory plans to strike it rich over winter break. The money wouldn't be just for her though. She hopes to use it to keep her family from self-imploding. Against the odds, she finds a treasure beyond compare in the caves near her home, but gets more than she bargained for when wicked creatures, thought to exist on in fairy tales, try to steal it away. Determined to hold onto the prize, she pits her wits against their otherworldly magic. As the clock clicks down, the stakes go up, in this harrowing adventure for teens and adults.  Recipient of the Readers' Favorite 5-Star Medallion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Misty Moon Media
• Release date: Sep 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386285366

Book preview

Tullah and Earth were different, yet very much alike in appearance and human development. Their inhabitants knew similar hardships, hopes and dreams. Separated by the vastness of time and space, the planetary sisters never met, yet spun toward the same inevitable end, until the day a young rock collector set Tullah on a strange new course.

Chapter 1

A LONG TIME AGO, ON a planet called Tullah, Glory Alley and her best friend, Clash Costola, huddled over a handheld device called a Sliver. Glory had known Clash since the first grade and it was the two of them versus all of Kingston High. At least, it felt that way most days. A photo of a flat-topped mountain shaped like a wine goblet filled the Sliver’s screen. She studied it carefully, barely noticing the roar of the bus engine under her feet, or the rows of winter wheat flickering past the windows, and the mocking laughter of the girls a few seats back. They were making fun of Glory’s hand-me-down sweater, but she was too preoccupied with tomorrow’s spelunking expedition to care.

Clash tapped the screen. The photo of Queen’s Mesa faded away to make room for a map he had drawn with digital black ink. Tracing his finger along a winding dotted line, he stopped at a blue circle.

Here’s the pool we found last time, he informed Glory. Should we head there again?

The pool, she whispered reverently. Remembering its glittering waters made her stomach do cartwheels. If we’re ever going to find the mother lode, that’ll be the place.

Clash’s real name was Donner. He liked to think that the nickname had to do with the way his hair stood up on end as if struck by lightning. In truth, the name was a crack on his mismatched clothing. Yesterday it was a Galactic Heroes T-shirt with a polka dot necktie. Today it was striped pants, a plaid shirt, and the same necktie. Glory didn’t have a nickname, but as an Alley, she was automatically labeled a loser. The people of Cloverdale thought she’d never amount to anything, but they were wrong. With the help of Queen’s Mesa, she’d prove that the Alley name deserved respect.

Her last trip through the mesa had dangled success within reach. She and Clash pushed deeper than they had ever dared before and were rewarded with a virgin cavern. Creamy stalactites had icicled the ceiling. Shallow water lingered over a rocky bed sprinkled with crystals. But wouldn’t you know it, their batteries ran low. They had barely arrived when forced to leave. The pool existed beyond their comfort zone. Steep drop-offs and tight tunnels pushed their spelunking skills to the limit, but the urge to return grew stronger every day.

I agree, said Clash. The pool is our best bet.

Definitely.

Their friendship had been forged by their zeal for the mesa, and she didn’t see it ending anytime soon—or ever, for that matter. Someday, they’d travel across the globe to exotic locations, producing their own reality television show. Glory would dig for rare rocky specimens, while Clash caught all of the excitement on video. Lucky for them that Queen’s Mesa was practically in their own backyard, giving them hands-on experience.

Lighting’s always an issue down there in the caves, Clash said, folding his hand-held computer once, then twice, until its rubbery blue case returned to the shape of a thin wallet. I wonder if I can sneak the tripod lights out of the garage without anybody noticing. He drummed his chin with an index finger. Too bad there’s no reception down there. A live feed would be good practice for when I’m a famous movie producer.

And who’s going to carry the extra equipment all that way? Knowing the answer already, she furrowed her brow. Clash was quick on his feet, whereas feats of strength were Glory’s domain, thanks to years of heavy farm work. I’m not a pack mule, you know.

What’s the matter? Clash taunted. You scared to go back because of that skeleton we found?

Scared? Glory’s back stiffened at the insinuation. I don’t know the meaning of the word. I just think we ought to start in the left tunnel for a change. Besides, those bones weren’t human. It was just an animal.

An animal with a femur this honkin’ big. Clash spread his arms open wide. What if your grandpa knows what he’s talking about? Maybe the red-eyed Hoogula is for real.

If a creature like that really existed, we’d have met it by now.

Some say the tunnels go on forever, so I wouldn’t be too sure, Clash said. We can’t deny that something big died down there, which means something even bigger killed it. He spread his bony arms even wider. This honkin’ big!

I think it was a bear or something that got lost down there and died of natural causes.

Hoogula or not, those bones need to see the daylight, where we can charge people to look at ‘em.

I like that idea, Glory said. But, first I want to return to that pool.

The screech of brakes signaled that the bus was about to stop. It pulled in front of a long gravel lane. Her family’s old farmhouse waited at the end, looking gray and forlorn. Glory gathered her backpack and stood. See ya tomorrow.

Thirteen hundred hours—sharp. And don’t forget to bring extra batteries this time.

Glory stepped off the bus. Gravel crunched under her feet as she walked up the lane. A huge red barn stood off in the distance from the two-story farmhouse. The property had been owned by her mother’s side of the family for five generations—and it showed. Curled and torn shingles barely clung to the home’s sagging roof. Peeling white paint exposed splintering, mold-encrusted wood siding. She hop-scotched across the missing floor boards of the front porch, stopping in front of the screen door, which hung crooked on its broken hinges.

Mom’s dream had been to restore the house to its former glory. Dad had never been able to refuse her anything, but when Mom left this world, Dad had stopped caring and the home improvements stopped. Now everything was dying from the lack of her. Glory went inside, feeling gloomy because when her mother was alive everything smelled of bread and ginger. Today it reeked of booze and urine. But wait, she paused to sniff the air, do I smell popcorn?

Hungry, she quickly took off her hikers and tiptoed across the hardwood foyer in her socks. Off to the right, on a faded flowery sofa, her father slept in gray sweats stained with layers of motor oil. His mood could shift from good to bad in a blink, so she hoped he would stay passed out until morning.

Except for his snoring, and the choir music drifting down the hallway, the house was unusually quiet. Nana and Grandpa Hacker had moved in with the Alleys two years ago. Glory had gotten used to having them around, but they’d left this morning to celebrate the holiday weekend with Aunt Martha in the city. So where was everybody else? Glory didn’t dwell on it for long and headed straight for the popcorn.

The music got louder as she entered the kitchen. Her perpetually crabby older sister, sixteen-year-old Patrice, was there with the youngest of the six Alley siblings, George. Patrice must have come home early, Glory surmised, to begin the Harvest Day preparations. In a batter-splattered flannel shirt, frizzled strawberry blonde hair standing every which way, her sister looked small, standing behind the island peeling apples. The simple decor reminded Glory of the way home used to be—nothing fancy, but orderly and reliable. Glory sighed, knowing those days were gone forever.

An old Winter Solstice song, commemorating the arrival of mythical Father Winter, came from the music streamer. On this night, on this most wonderful of nights, children’s wishes all come true. On this night, on this most wonderful of nights, hearts and spirits are renewed. Three-year-old George sat perched on a stool, humming along with the tune, while trying to string white puffs of popcorn at the same time. Face streaked with jam, he was wearing a diaper and nothing else. Glory knew from experience that little brother defied all attempts to clothe him. He had a stubborn streak, but she liked that about him. His messy hair was in need of a trim and looked like delicate threads of gold when it caught the light. Glory paused in the doorway quietly singing his name.

Georg-eee . . .

He jerked to attention. Gwo-wee? A smile of recognition spread across his face. Forgetting the task at hand, George stabbed his finger with the needle. Ow! He held out his injury for help. Gwo-wee!

Glory carried him to the sink, washing the dot of blood under the faucet. He cried, offering his wounded finger. Kiss.

Glory kissed it. Better?

He nodded, giving thanks with a runny-nosed peck on her cheek.

Glory let him go and scowled at Patrice. What’s the matter with you—giving a little kid a needle?

I told him a thousand times to leave it be, Patrice replied. Serves the brat right. Big sister proceeded to slap his little hand as it dug into the bowl of cookie dough. Quit that.

More tears formed in George’s eyes and he clung to Glory. Gwo-wee home, he said, as if the words were soothing ointment.

Patrice handed her the peeler. Make yourself useful, she said before turning her attention to the bowl of dough. Why is it that I get stuck doing everything around here? She broke off a chunk and began rolling it between her palms. Did you scrub the toilets?

Glory refused to acknowledge the question, focusing on Patrice’s new necklace instead. A large white pendant infused with a rainbow of colors hung from a golden chain. Whoa, Glory said reaching for the stone. Is that a milk opal?

Like I could buy opals with babysitting money. Big sister rolled her eyes as if Glory was the stupidest girl in the world, then deftly slid the necklace beneath her shirt. By the way, it’s your turn to clean the coop.

But I did it last week. Why can’t the twins take a turn when they get back?

The twins, Randall and Daniel, were a grade ahead of Glory. They had been sent away earlier in the year to opportunity school, a program for students with chronic behavior problems. Apparently, they had learned their lesson and were ready to return to regular school.

Dad says they’re going to be digging fence holes all week, so quit your whining.

Er, what’s that? Glory inquired as she spied a partially eaten muffin on the countertop. She pointed. Yours?

Nope.

Good. Glory snatched up the muffin and shoved the whole thing in her mouth.

Disgusting, Patrice said with a curled lip. You’ll never snag a guy if you eat that way in public.

Like you’re the expert, Miss Never-Had-A-Date. Glory’s voice was muffled by the muffin. Besides, I’d rather look for jewels than snag a guy.

You’re missing the point, silly. If you snag the right guy, you won’t have to look for jewels; he’ll just give them to you. But, it would help if you lost a little weight first. You could be pretty if you tried.

I want to be a geologist, Glory reminded. Don’t need looks for that.

But you need money to become a geologist, and lots of it.

Don’t worry. Glory pointed an index finger into the air. I have a plan.

Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to work, unless you learn to play the game: beauty attracts money, money attracts beauty, and poor unattractive people never get ahead.

Are there any more muffins? Glory’s eyes scoured the kitchen until resting on a blueberry delight hidden behind the flour bag. She snatched it up and took a huge bite, savoring its wonderful sweet moistness against her tongue. She started peeling apples and talking with a full mouth at the same time. Remember how Mom used to talk about opening a bakery?

Listen up, Patrice said, taking her annoyance out on the cookie dough with a big spoon. Once you get a reputation in this town, it’s impossible to shed. Time to stop acting like a backward hick before it’s too late. And, ew, eat with your mouth closed.

If people don’t like the way I act . . . Glory paused to flick muffin crumbs off her chest. Or eat, that’s their problem.

You’re hopeless, Patrice shook her head in exasperation. Speaking of problems, she leaned over the counter to whisper, Brandon’s in the woods chopping down a tree.

Why? Glory whispered back.

Don’t be stupid—Winter Solstice Day is only a few weeks away.

But Dad said . . .

The tree is free, so maybe he won't get mad.

Nice Dad today? Glory asked hopefully, trying to determine if her father was drunk or sober.

No, Patrice shook her head. It’s the Mean One.

Glory set down the peeler and made for the back door.

Where do you think you’re going?

When Dad wakes up and sees a tree in the house, I don’t want to be here.

Get your butt back over here and keep on peeling.

You’re so bossy, Glory said, sitting back down. And rude.

When you have six cups worth, add the rest of the ingredients. She pointed to a rectangle of paper lying on the counter—their mother’s handwritten recipe card. The instructions are right there.

Glory read over the card and reluctantly kept working on the apples. A few minutes later, a very bored George curled up in the corner to take a nap in a white woolen blanket. The phone rang on the wall. Patrice answered, while sliding a cookie sheet into the oven with a free hand. Glory tried to figure out who she might be talking to, but her sister was speaking too softly to eavesdrop. Patrice ordered Glory to finish the pie filling, then left the kitchen with the phone.

Oh, well. It was nice having the kitchen to herself for a change. Following the recipe, she added the cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves to the apples and stirred them in. The aroma reminded her of Mother. The first Harvest Day without her, Glory had taken a bottle of allspice to Queen’s Mesa. Once there, she had sat alone in a rocky tunnel, sniffing it like an addict huffing paint thinner. Occasionally, she still had the urge. The allspice remained in her backpack, but like everything else in her life, it had lost its flavor. But at least things had gotten better since her grandparents moved in.

Nana and Grandpa’s arrival had been a huge relief. A few years ago, after child protective services threatened to split up the family, they had moved into the house. Even though Nana was half-blind, and Grandpa had memory problems, they kept the house running smoothly. The way that they ditched Glory and her siblings to celebrate the holiday somewhere else really stung. What was that about anyway? Maybe it had to do with the way Nana had looked lately . . . extra old and tired. There were long stretches of time where she didn’t cook at all. With Nana slowing down, her eyesight failing, and Patrice’s plans to move out of the house, Glory worried about being the lone girl holding the bag. The mere thought of it made her head hurt.

The oven buzzed. Glory peeked inside. The center of the cookies looked pale and doughy, but the edges were crispy brown. Better ask Patrice what to do. She found her on Nana and Grandpa’s bed, still gabbing on the telephone, voice oozing with phony sweetness. Big sister was so engrossed in the conversation, she didn’t notice Glory in the doorway.

The timer went off. Glory didn’t think twice about interrupting her sister’s phone call. But I can’t decide if they’re done or not.

Patrice spun around wearing a guilty, but furious expression. How long have you been standing there, dipping into my private conversation?

Uh, only a second.

Sorry, I can’t talk now, she said cupping her mouth over the phone. Don’t forget to call me later. Patrice hung up and narrowed her eyes accusingly at Glory.

What? Glory asked, feeling more defensive by the second, even though she had done nothing wrong.

You know what.

I honestly don’t.

Whatever.

That was a guy on the phone, wasn’t it?

None of your business, Patrice snapped.

Cookies are at stake here. Now, Glory was the one getting annoyed. Can you just take a look at ‘em, please?

Patrice grumbled, but hurried to the kitchen to pull cookies out of the oven, while Glory watched over her shoulder. The pan was barely out when the back door swung inward. In came eighteen-year-old Brandon, the oldest Alley sibling, who was not quite as muscular as their father, but just as tall. He had blond spiky hair and hard blue eyes. Silver body piercings adorned Brandon’s ears, eyebrow, and tongue. Swirly tattoos of barbed wire, skulls, and nearly naked women decorated his pale skin. Brandon backed into the kitchen, dragging a five-foot-tall pine tree with him, looking pleased with himself.

That’s a bad idea, Glory said. Dad’s gonna have a hissy.

Ignoring her warning, Brandon propped the tree up in a corner and took a loud sniff. Smells just like I remember, he said wistfully.

The room fell quiet. This had been Mom’s favorite time of year. Every room required a sprig of spruce somewhere. Those were happy times, better times. Glory found herself saying, Well, since it’s already here, we might as well decorate it.

Right, Brandon said, eyes still glued to the tree. I think there’s a box of stuff downstairs.

After a minute, he pulled himself away to disappear down the basement stairs, emerging a short time later with boxes of lights and ornaments. As much as Glory feared upsetting Dad, she began to relax. Patrice, Brandon, and Glory filled the tree with holiday lovelies, while George stirred from his nap to suck his thumb and watch the activities with interest.

This is fun, she told George, while circling popcorn garland around the tree.

Are you going to plug it in or do I have to do everything? Patrice complained, making her way to the outlet.

The tree began to glow. Glory and her siblings stood around to admire their handiwork. George’s blue eyes sparkled as he took it all in.

Ohhhh! he exclaimed with a clap. BOOO-tifuw!

He pulled off his diaper to spin around in circles, singing happy indecipherable words.

I swear that kid’s retarded, Brandon growled. Somebody make him shut up before he wakes up Dad.

He's never seen a Father Winter’s tree before, Glory retorted. Whaddaya expect?

Brandon slugged Glory in the arm.

Ow! Glory’s hand immediately went to her throbbing bicep. What’d ya do that for?

I just felt like it. Brandon slugged her again in the same place.

You better knock it off! Glory said angrily, knocking him away with an elbow.

And what are you going to do about it if I don’t?

Maybe I'll tell Dad about the funny cigarettes you've been smoking in the barn.

Brandon pushed her against the door, pressing a forearm into her neck.

If you do that, it'll be the last thing you do.

Brandon liked to threaten, and usually meant it when it came to the fifteen-year-old twins, Randy and Danny, but he seldom followed through with his sisters. He probably wouldn’t do anything more than pin her arm behind her back or deliver a painful noogie.

Ooh, I'm shaking, she mocked.

You will be after I tell Dad that you’re still going up to Queen's Mesa—yeah, that's right, I saw your stash up in the loft, and after I’m through giving you a pounding, Dad will finish you off. So you better think twice before . . .

What the blazes is going on! A slurred voice came from the doorway.

The siblings froze at the sight of Mean Dad. Light brown stubble mixed with patches of gray covered his chin, contrasting with the uncombed blond hair. Bloodshot eyes, white parched lips, and a voice like gravel, Glory knew to expect the worst.

Brandon, Dad snarled, what have I told you about bullying your sisters. I'm the only one in this house that gets to pass out the poundings.

Glory’s throat tightened as she watched Mean Dad stare down big brother.

Try me, tough guy, Dad said, showing Brandon a closed fist, while he grabbed him by the shirt collar with the other.

Glory cringed inside, expecting her father’s right hook against Brandon’s face at any second. While Patrice was saddled with the responsibility of running the house, big brother was in the unfortunate position of being their father’s personal punching bag. Glory suddenly regretted antagonizing him the way she did. Brandon tried to back away, but Dad pulled him uncomfortably close.

You picking on little girls again, eh?

Brandon silently pleaded with her not to say anything.

Glory stepped forward, shaking her head from side to side. No, Sir. We were just playing. Honest.

Glory and her brother exchanged dubious glances as temporary allies.

Dad was about to reply until his gaze fell on the tree. He seemed to forget about the squabble and let go of Brandon to feel the pine needles between his fingers. The Alley siblings braced themselves, knowing anything could happen. A smile formed on Dad’s lips. Wanting to smile too, the corner of Glory’s mouth twitched. Patrice and Glory both flinched when Dad pulled off the tin foil star, wadded it into a ball and bounced it off of Brandon’s head.

Who wasted this foil?

No one dared to answer. Glory’s father yanked the string of lights out of the wall and fought it like a jungle man wrestling a giant snake. Cursing wildly, with the cord wrapped around him, he yelled some more. A plug is a gul dang credit-sucker, but you little ingrates don’t give a flying fig! Mean Dad knocked the tree over and then stomped the branches into kindling. I said no flippin’ Solstice decorations!

He marched to the refrigerator, fists clenched at his sides, cussing up a storm. The door made a sticky sound when it opened. Mean Dad tilted his head to the side to survey the contents within. The fridge was unusually full, stocked with the Harvest Day dishes Patrice and Nana had slaved over for the last two days.

You like to waste—I'll show ya waste. He threw the casserole dish at the wall. The bowl shattered. A shower of corn rained down. The children cringed, covering their faces, but didn’t move for fear of incurring more of their father’s wrath.

What's this slop? He took one look at the carefully prepared stuffing. Bird food.

Glory would never believe the bowl slipped from his grasp by accident. When it hit the floor, stuffing slid over George's feet. Little brother knelt down picking up handfuls to shove them into his eager mouth.

You think that's good, Little Pig? Father kicked a mound of stuffing at George. Well, have some more!

The bread stuck to George’s face and hair in wet clumps. Scared, George said in a tiny voice. He backed away, sucking his thumb, his other hand trembling as he grasped for Glory. Pulling him protectively against her waist, she enveloped him in the tails of her flannel shirt.

Though the fact was never spoken aloud, everyone knew that Dad resented George more than all of the other children. Little brother’s birth didn’t kill their mother, but a Staph infection contracted after the delivery did, though sometimes Dad blamed the government. As a kid, Glory didn’t understand exactly what a Staph infection was, or why the government would want to kill her mother. The only thing she knew for certain was that her father had brought Mom to the hospital, but came back with only George, and he had been in a bad mood ever since.

Dad crouched low to yell in George’s face. Put some clothes on, boy, I’m tired of looking at ya!

Little brother buried his head in her leg and whimpered.

Shouldn’t the kid be potty trained by now? Dad looked to Patrice, who held up her palms, looking scared and helpless. Dad returned his attention to the contents of the fridge, leaning his weight on a shelf, hardly noticing when it tipped.

Three pies, homemade ones, the kind that took hours of peeling fruit and rolling out crusts, landed upside down on the floor. Glory’s stomach sunk for Patrice, who looked as if she’d just seen a puppy run over by a hay mower. Dad found what he was looking for and pressed the bottle of cold vodka to his cheek. After a deep swig, he scanned the room like a boxer waiting to be challenged.

This kitchen better be clean when I come back or I'll whip the lot of you.

She listened to him stumble to the family room. The television clicked on and the ball game blared. If they were lucky, he’d fall asleep soon and the terror would end. At least until he woke up again.

He'll be passed out in an hour, Brandon said knowingly, sending a disgusted sneer toward the living room.

Good, Glory agreed. Then we can have the Harvest Day feast without him.

But Patrice started to cry. Not sad tears, but angry ones, the kind that sent fiery red lines down tender cheeks.

I hate him, she screamed, and as soon as I’m eighteen, I’m going to move away from here and never come back!

Don’t say that! Glory pleaded. Please, Patrice, you don’t even have a job, and nobody’s gonna hire you without a diploma.

Last night, Nana spent hours—arthritic hands and all—helping me make all of this—and now look at it! And Grandpa used his pension check to pay for everything. Dad had no right. No right!

Don’t worry about Ditzy Nana and Grandpa Pee, Brandon said, not hiding his resentment, they obviously aren’t worried about us—going to Aunt Martha’s where we’re not invited, leaving us with dear ‘ole Pappy. I think I’ll follow their example and split.

Not until you help clean up Dad’s mess! Rage coursed through Glory’s body. "And