“I still can’t believe they kicked me out,” June grumbled. She plopped the sagging cardboard box onto the kitchen counter and wiped sweat from her forehead with a grimy hand. “Ugh. I think that one was covered in spiderwebs.”
Peter frowned over the pile of mismatched mugs he’d rescued from the last rapidly failing box. “You weren’t in the apartment long enough to collect that level of debris, let alone this many boxes.” He reached a long arm over to tug the worn flap open. “And you can’t complain too much. The apartment complex did give you three separate warnings about swordfighting in the patio.”
“It was just practice against the pells,” she protested, pulling back the other flap. “I told them, I’m on the hook to teach it next term.”
“And they told you they didn’t care, a mhuirnín,” Peter reminded her. “Lucky you inherited this place, with a lovely fenced backyard. And this box is not yours.”
“What?” She stuck her face into the box and promptly sneezed. “Ew. Sorry. You’re right. What is all this junk?”
He scooped the mugs up and deposited them into the stainless steel sink. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”
June unloaded as fast as Peter could clear. “Dusty old book – ooo, I’ll have to check this out later, it’s on siege strategies – a janbiyyeh, lovely.” She brandished the distinctive curved knife across the kitchen island. “Look at that detailing, beautiful.”
He rescued the last chipped mug and reached into the box. “An odd carved rock – oh, blast, shield, shield, shield!”
Silver and gold light bubbled into the brick and copper-toned townhouse kitchen. The rock clattered to the countertop.
June cleared her dry throat as she approached, hands outstretched in warding. “Looks like a fertility statue in shape, the usual exaggerated hourglass figure but in a crouched position. Limestone, I think. Distinctive carvings across the stomach and back, stubby arms outstretched or perhaps broken off.”
“Distinct feelings of malevolence and anger radiating from the object of unknown origin,” Peter added.
She nodded, wondering if it was too late to save the townhouse or if she’d lose her second home in just a few months. “Cursed. Definitely cursed.”
Peter rubbed his stubbled chin and sighed. “Only we could unpack a box during what should be a simple move and find a cursed object inside.”
“Worse,” she added, with the pit of her stomach doing its usual unhappy flip. She suppressed the nausea with a swallow. “The box is still half-full.”
***
An early one this week from Padre, inspired by unpacking, while nother Mike takes on the practice war. Check out more, over at MOTE!
