Glory Alley and the Star Riders (The Glory Alley Series)

by C. Deanna Verhoff

  Slowly, she shuffled toward the house, watching her feet plow through loose gravel. Apprehension rolled through her intestines with a gurgle.

  She stepped onto the front porch. A brand new screen door hung where the dilapidated one had been this morning. What the heck? She rubbed her hands along its cool metal handle. It’d been a long time since anything new came to roost at this address. She stood in place on the front porch giving it a test open and close. Very smooth, but it didn’t quite click all the way into the frame, so she adjusted the air cylinder until it closed properly. Finally, she opened the battered old oak door behind it and stepped through into the foyer.

  The place smelled like mineral wax. The floor of the main hallway was freshly polished. Old wallpaper had been torn down. Patches of paper were still sticking here and there, but nothing a minor scraping and a touch of spackle couldn’t fix. TV was off and no sign of booze anywhere. Dad stood there in the living room wearing an expression of deep concentration.

  First, the screen door—now this? One home improvement was odd enough. Two in one day was practically a miracle.

  “Wow, the new door looks great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’re going to paint, too?” Glory dared to ask.

  “Yep. We all are.” Dad held up paint samples to the light. “What do you think of desert sand?”

  “Good color for hiding dirt.”

  “My youngest daughter, just like her mother, always pragmatic. Desert Sand it is then.”

  Dad’s clothes were covered with old oil stains, but his face was clean-shaven and his eyes bright and clear. Had Miss Crenshaw’s visit scared him sober? Maybe Mean Dad had gone on vacation never to return again? Glory knew better, but couldn’t help to hope. She danced around the questions that had been heavy on her mind.

  “Uh, is Patrice home?”

  “She’s at school.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I drove her there myself.”

  “What’s going to happen to her?” To us, she really wanted to know.

  “I’m handling it so mind your own affairs, Glory. What happened today is not to be spoken of again. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  Glory wanted to say that Patrice was her affair, but nodded dutifully. Setting down her backpack in the hallway, she headed toward the kitchen.

  “Glory.”

  “Yes?” She turned around to face him.

  “I’m sorry about what happened out in the barn.”

  Not knowing what to say, Glory glanced up the stairway and shrugged.

  “I’m trying my best to raise you right, but I make mistakes sometimes.”

  “I know.”

  Glory took a deep breath and asked the question that had been hanging over her head like a storm cloud. “Are the child welfare people monitoring us again?”

  “Uh, yes,” Dad paused a moment, “Yes, they are.”

  Glory’s mouth went dry.

  “Don’t worry. I love you kids and I’m not going to let any nosy social worker take you away from me.”

  But, did he love them enough to stop the drinking and raging? Glory wanted to know. “Desert Sand will look nice, Dad.”

  “Your backpack doesn’t belong there.”

  “Right.” Glory picked it up and started up the steps.

  “Oh, and Glory...”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I get back from town, there will be a paintbrush with your name on it, so don’t wander too far.”

  With a sigh, she continued up the stairs to do homework.

  As the sun set a couple of hours later, the Alleys worked side-by-side painting the living room. Patrice set the music streamer on the floor so everyone could listen while they covered years of neglect with one coat. Dad, Brandon, Patrice, the twins and Glory scraped and painted until late in the evening. Glory worked up a sweat, but the opened windows let in a welcome cool breeze and kept the air fresh.

  Spilled drops of paint on the carpet set Dad off into a string of curse words, but overall the painting session was a calm affair. When every inch of wall was covered in pristine beige, the Alleys looked around to admire their handiwork.

  “It looks so... so clean,” Glory marveled.

  “It’s going to need two coats,” Dad announced. “But not tonight. Time to pick-up.”

  Glory gathered paintbrushes in a coffee container while the twins rolled up the drop cloth and sheets.

  “It’s amazing what a coat of paint can do for a place,” Patrice said for the third time. “When I have my own place, everything will be lily white.”

  “We know,” Brandon said.

  Nana came out from the kitchen wearing a tomato-stained apron around her waist. She glanced around the room. “It’s amazing what a coat of paint can do for a place,” she said.

  Patrice grinned sheepishly.

  An old song came from the music streamer, filling the living room with the sound of stringed instruments. A man’s voice crooned on and on about the moon and his fair lady. Nana stood in the doorway, wiping hands on apron. “I haven’t heard that song in ages,” Her eyes misted.

  Dad faced Nana and tipped a pretend hat her way, offering his hand. When she stood there, looking confused, he took her hand in his and turned to the kids with a flickering of eyebrows. “Watch and learn.”

  Dad waltzed Nana through the living room. Nana protested, but not very much. It took them a minute to get their stride, but soon they glided over the carpet like graceful ice skaters on a frozen pond.

  “Wow, you two are like...good,” Randy said.

  When the music stopped, Nana was panting, but looked pleased. “I almost forgot what a good dancer you are.” She pinched Dad’s cheek. “And such a gentleman when you want to be.”

  “You know, Nana,” Dad said. “Anything good about me I got from you and Grandpa Kracker. If you two hadn’t taken me in as a kid, I don’t know what would have happened.”

  “Your father was a mean, son-of-a-bee.” Nana’s voice tightened and her lips thinned whenever she spoke of Grandpa Norman Alley. The mere memory of him seemed to make her angry. “The only good thing that ever came from that man was you and Martha.”

  Dad’s father had always been a sensitive subject. Dad was only ten when things finally got so bad at home that the Krackers invited him and his sister, Aunt Martha, to stay with them. Glory didn’t want to ruin the mood, so she steered the conversation elsewhere.

  “Where did you learn to move like that, Dad?”

  “Your mom loved to dance, so I let her drag me to lessons.”

  “Not bad,” Brandon said, “—for senior citizens. But watch how the cool people do it.”

  “Hit it, somebody.”

  Randy pressed a button on the streamer and a new song began with a light drumbeat.

  Patrice joined Brandon in the middle of the living room. They faced each other and leaned forward until they were ear to ear. The strings joined the drums and the two of them began to move their necks like pecking chickens.

  “You call that dancing?” Dad mocked. “It’s plain silly.”

  The beat strengthened and the footwork began. Hand motions went with it. It wasn’t fancy, but Patrice and Brandon synchronized as if they’d practiced it a hundred times.

  “Pretty impressive.” Glory admitted out loud.

  “It’s the rage at all the clubs,” Randy said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anybody can do it.”

  The music stopped.

  “Again!” George clapped from the doorway. “Again!”

  Patrice pressed the button again and all the kids began to gyrate across the floor.

  After a minute, Dad shut it off. “Enough horseplay,” he growled. “The living room won’t clean itself.”

  “Aww,” they moaned.

  “When you’re done,” Nana said, “There’s hot beef sandwiches warming in the oven.”

  That set everyone in motion. The room was cleared in less than ten min
utes and the Alleys went to bed with full stomachs, but Glory couldn’t sleep because Patrice was in the other bed crying. It had been such a wonderful night, so she was at a loss as to why.

  Glory hated seeing her like that, but didn’t know what to say or do. “Uh, do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No. There’s nothing anybody can do.”

  “Are you mad because you’re not allowed to see Ted Filmore anymore?”

  “He’s part of it, but not really.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re too young to understand.” With that, Patrice picked up her pillow and left the room still crying.

  “Patrice,” Glory sat up in bed, calling after her. “Please, don’t leave.”

  “I’m not going far,” she replied. “I just need to be alone, that’s all.”

  “I mean—don' when you turn eighteen.”

  “No promises.”

  Chapter 8

  Glory woke to the sound of Brandon’s snoring vibrating the bedroom. How he’d found Patrice’s vacant bed so quickly—that’s what she wanted to know. A full moon glowed through the window, casting the room in dim light. Glory snuggled in under her quilt, but sleep refused to come. The events of the evening swam in her head.

  Dad, rumor had it, had gone an entire day without taking a drink. And wasn’t it fun when he danced with Nana? And entertaining when Brandon and Patrice followed suit? That’s how families were supposed to be. It’s how the Alleys used to be, when Mom was alive. Dare she expect more good things to come?

  She took her flashlight and rock collectors guide from the nightstand and headed to the closet. With the doors closed, she wouldn’t disturb Brandon. The combined stench of dirty sneakers and unwashed clothes was almost too much to bear. She kept the folding doors cracked open for ventilation and nestled into a pile of wadded-up sheets.

  Wedged into the corner, she read until her lids grew heavy. Comfortable and tired, she shut off the flashlight and let sleep take over.

  The sound of conversation jolted her awake.

  The voices were brittle and familiar.

  The bums were in the house!

  Glory’s mouth formed a silent scream.

  One of them said, “This be the dwelling place.”

  A second voice replied. “We’ve checked this structure up and down. None of the inhabitants herein be whom we seek.”

  Glory wanted to run through the house and wake up all the Alleys, but confronting the squirrel-chomping intruders was sure to be extremely dangerous. Eyes shut tight, she tried to breathe as quietly as possible.

  “Now what do we do?” one of the men said.

  “We search this house one more time for the thieving Tullahn or the Elboni. Whichever reveals itself first determines what we do next.”

  “Aye,” the other replied.

  “Aye,” a third voice repeated.

  Glory’s heart thumped in her ears as she inched to the crack in the door and peeked through. One, two, three shadowy figures stood around her empty bed. They were portly and about the same height as herself. They were the bums who attacked her in the barn all right. Their bodies were egg-shaped. They wore baggy trousers, which were tucked into the top of rugged-looking black boots. The edges of their strange wriggling beards caught the glow of the moonlight cascading through the window.

  The men didn’t look like anybody from Tullah she’d ever seen.

  Life on other planets hadn’t been proven, but she had always been excited about the idea. Tonight the thought was about as pleasant as a chicken bone caught in the throat.

  “Perchance this be the thief’s bed,” one said, flipping over Glory’s sheets and looking under them.

  Shivers racked her body.

  “Ye don’t think the thief be roaming this dwelling?” asked the second intruder.

  “If so, we’ll know soon,” said the third.

  The second intruder held something long and thin in his hand. He waved it in the air and said, “Nanru.”

  Instantly, the object in his hand burst with light. Glory shielded her eyes until they adjusted. Silvery, pointed on one end, and flat on the other, the light maker looked like a thin spike. It glowed from end to end with a green light, and then suddenly flared into a bright white glow, giving her a better look at the intruders.

  Except for the black capes, and thick black boots, the men’s clothes reminded her of something old-time gangsters might wear: velvety gray fedora with a shiny black hatband, silky gray trousers with black pinstripes, black suit jackets, and glittery green button down vests underneath. They might be wearing ties, but she couldn’t tell for sure due to the long beards. Glory watched the one holding the glowing spike closely. Like the others, his skin was the color of watermelon juice and his cheeks drooped like the muzzle of a bulldog.

  A second intruder stood beside Brandon’s bed. “He’s a big one,” he said to one of his companions. “Maybe ye ought to give him a second sprinkle of the sleeping dust.”

  “I gave him plenty already,” responded the third.

  “Need I remind ye of the time back on Delardo?”

  “Are ye saying I don’t know what I be doing?” the third intruder said, sounding testy.

  “Aye.”

  The second bum pushed the third one and a shoving match ensued.

  “Stop it,” said the one holding the needle of light. “We’re on a mission.”

  The bums stopped fighting. The second one picked up Glory’s old jack-in-the-box and turned the winder. Music tinkled until the lid popped opened and a clown sprung out.

  The bum dropped the toy, fell backwards, and tripped over his own feet. His mates held their ample bellies, whistling and snorting with laughter. The first one pulled himself to his feet, mumbling about the silly people of Tullah.

  Suddenly, Brandon sat up in bed with his eyes half open.

  The three bums startled.

  Slowly big brother’s eyes widened. He stared at the intruders and they stared back at him. Brandon screamed with gusto. The bums grabbed onto each other and screamed too. A crash came from down the hall.

  “What’s the matter?” Patrice called out. The sound of bare feet slapped down the hallway. “I’m coming!”

  A second set of footsteps thumped up the stairs in a hurry.

  “Dad! Dad!” Glory burst from the closet. The intruders recoiled, stumbling over themselves.

  “Quick!” yelled the one with the light. “Use the Paraplume!”

  The third bum took a large white feather from his hatband and drew an oval in the air. “Issatti!” he shouted. Inside of the perimeter, a dazzling green light shimmered like a tiny sea kissed with sunlight. The first bum jumped through it and was swallowed up like a swimmer diving into deep water. The second man did the same, taking his light with him, just as Glory flicked on the light switch.

  The one with the feather paused in front of the magic oval. He held up his palm and blew. Sapphire droplets scattered over Brandon’s face, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and his head collapsed back onto his pillow.

  Tucking the feather into his hatband, the remaining bum looked directly at Glory. “We’ll be back, thief.” Stunned, she watched him dive into the oval, which faded away just as the bedroom door swung open.

  Dad barged into the room, gun in hand, with Patrice on his heel.

  “What the blazes is going on in here?”

  “Dad!”

  She rushed over and flung her arms around his waist, gulping air.

  “The bums were in the house! They come and go through holes they draw in the air with a feather. They went through the house, searching for someone, or something, the Elboni they said.”

  “Elboni?” Patrice wrinkled her face in disbelief. “You mean the Wybbil’s lucky stone?”

  “You know about it?” Glory said with surprise.

  “The legend of the Elboni, sure I’ve heard of it, but you ought to know b
etter than to believe in stuff like that.”

  Dad pulled Glory to arm’s length, pale eyes stern. “Calm down, girl. Has Grandpa been filling your head with his tales of Wybbils and Whatnots?”

  “Wybbils?” Glory gulped. “You mean the bums are Wybbils? It’s even worse than I thought!”

  “NO!” Dad said sharply. “There aren’t any bums! And definitely no Wybbils! I’m gonna have a talk with Grandpa Kracker first thing in the morning. He used to fill your mother’s head with nonsense too.”

  “Grandpa didn’t say anything. I saw them with my own two eyes. I don’t know if they’re Wybbils or not, but whoever they are, they stole my shoes in the barn. And they were in the house just now—in this very room!”

  Dad glanced around the room. “And where are they now?”

  Glory pointed toward the wall.

  “You mean they went outside?”

  “No. Well, yes. No. Maybe.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” Patrice said. She and Dad took their time getting to the window. They tested the lock, noting out loud how it was still locked, secured from the inside. “I’m sure that was Brandon screaming, but the other voice was really strange.”

  “I heard it, too,” said Dad. “It must have been Glory.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Shhh,” Dad admonished and took a seat on the edge of Brandon’s bed, shaking him by the shoulder. But Brandon wouldn’t rouse.

  Glory tried to make them understand. “The same ones who stole my shoes in the barn, they blew sleeping elixir in his face a-a-and...”

  “Quiet,” Dad said. “Brandon’s fine. He had a nightmare and probably screamed in his sleep—that’s all.”