Ex-Communication by Peter Clines (love story books to read .txt) 📕

ring against the door. Hector’s grandfather had shuffled down the driveway and found a friend. A tall ex with a plaid shirt and a limp. They’d bumped shoulders and were turning together in a creepy slow dance. They didn’t notice her or the sound of jingling keys.

And how is that, she wondered. There was a certain logic to them filtering her out, but shouldn’t they see and hear other things she had contact with? Were the exes seeing an empty suit of clothes walking around, or a set of keys floating in the air, or did the filter have range?

The first key she tried on the second ring fit the door. She glanced at her watches again. Fifteen minutes trying to get into the garage. If she didn’t find the box soon, it’d be dark by the time she got back to the Mount. She pushed the door open.

The garage was a lot like hers back home, an example of controlled chaos. A huge Lincoln filled most of the space. There was a trio of bikes parked—stacked, really—against the back wall. Metal shelves held some canned food, jars of nails and screws, a plastic toolbox, and a few more paperback books. It looked like Piers Anthony and Alan Dean Foster had been banished from the loft. An upright piano stood under a drop cloth and some empty flowerpots. An old painting—a guy with a mustache and a sash—hung on one wall next to a pair of rakes and a folding ladder.

Madelyn pulled everything off the piano and opened the lid. She pressed her hands against the Lincoln’s windows and looked in the backseat. She got down on all fours and looked under the car. It wasn’t until she climbed back to her feet that she bothered to look up.

Just like her own mom and dad, Hector’s grandfather had saved space by putting stuff up in the garage’s rafters. He’d even wrestled a sheet of plywood up there to use as a huge shelf. She could see suitcases, old boxes, and what looked like a big stuffed bear.

Stretched between two of the beams, right over the big door, was something wrapped in a black trash bag. It was about three feet long.

It took her a minute to get the ladder off the wall, and another two to get it in front of the Lincoln. As she was trying to set it down, one of the legs swung up and broke the Lincoln’s tail light. Nobody would ever know, but she still felt bad. She kicked out the ladder’s legs and climbed up to the top. It wobbled a little, but she’d never been scared of heights.

A few tugs and the plastic bag came loose. The box was dark wood, just like Hector had said, with narrow iron hinges. It looked old. She slid one side free and let the whole thing settle into her arms. It took a moment to get her balance and then she worked her way back down the ladder without using her hands.

The box reminded her of a coffin, even though she’d only been to one funeral in her whole life. There was a crest engraved in the lid with a few words in Spanish—she’d studied French in school. There was a latch made from the same black iron as the hinges. The padlock on the latch, however, was steel and new.

Madelyn looked around the garage for a minute and found the plastic toolbox. There was a flathead screwdriver right on the top tray and a hammer underneath that. She pushed the screwdriver through the padlock’s hasp and whacked it with the hammer. The screwdriver slipped loose and spun across the garage. She chased after it, repositioned, and pounded a few more times. The padlock didn’t budge, but the latch tore free from the wood. It made her pause for a moment, then she beat on the screwdriver a few more times until the box cracked and the latch ripped away.

She heard a thump behind her and spun around. Grandfather de la Vega and the other ex were pressed against the garage door, their heads framed in the large windows. Well, the top of grandfather’s head. The wood muffled their clicking jaws. Another ex, a skinny woman in a dress, stumbled up the driveway behind them.

Less than an hour until sundown. She needed to get moving. She threw open the box and tossed aside an old black sheet that had been folded over the contents. And there was the sword.

After seeing the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie she’d convinced her parents to let her take fencing lessons. It’d been a huge letdown. Junior-level fencing wasn’t as action-packed as the movies made it out to be, and competition-legal foils just didn’t measure up to the gorgeous sword Orlando Bloom had made for Commodore Norrington or the one Inigo Montoya’s father had made for the six-fingered man.

This sword did, though. She didn’t know anything about weapons but she could tell this was a piece of art. There weren’t any fancy jewels or gold or anything, but it was still beautiful. The blade was thin and covered with hundreds of curls and scrolls that reminded her of her dad’s paisley ties. Above the handle—the hilt, she remembered—was a circle of metal, curved down to guard the hand. It was cut and engraved to look like an elaborate flower. A thick rod of metal stretched side to side beneath the circle, and a matching one curved down to make the knuckle guard.

She wrapped her fingers around the hilt and lifted it out of the box. It was a little heavier than she’d expected, but it balanced in her hand really well. There were a few faint nicks on the blade, but they’d been ground down and polished out. The sword had been used a lot, but somebody had taken care of it. The edge was still sharp.

“Corpse Girl for the win,” she said with a smile.

Another thump convinced her to