Page 16 of Gardening and Gargoyles
Lady June smiles suddenly, a real, true broad smile. “What have you eaten since 1895, buddy?”
I cannot explain the trickle of sudden delight her smile and the odd nickname bring, but it races up my tail and lands between my wings with a snap. “I haven’t gone to hunt yet, my lady, but I will as soon as I have your leave.”
“Boy, no.”
I try not to glare, but I know my voice is quite gruff when I reply, “It can be hard to tell with our kind, but I am well past my boyhood.”
“I mean, Duncan, thank you, but that’s unnecessary. Look, we’re going to have a North of Scotland, South of Philly language barrier for a few days, but that’s okay. We’ll get through this. We’re survivors. Give me a second to put on real clothes, and then we’re going to have dirty nachos.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to have some clean fish, my lady? There must be a stream nearby?”
“Just go wait in the kitchen and open the big cold box with two doors. We’ve got food. Enough to feed an army, or one heartbroken girl and one hungry gargoyle.” She gives me another one of those sparkling smiles, and I find myself mystified that any human could betray such a dazzling beauty—even unadorned and fresh from sleep, she is eye-catching, courteous, witty, and brave.
Everything a man could ask for in a mate, and yet someone was ill-intentioned enough to betray her!
Humans are fools.
“And speaking of clothes—you’rethe one who needs a trip to the mall, my guy. Your kilt has seen a lot better days.”
I look down and observe that my kilt is in tatters. “The stone must have chipped away, and it was not mended.”
“Well, I don’t know if there’s a mall around that sells kilts, and I seriously don’t know what size you’d take in jeans, but— Oh! Oh, Mr. Fenclan, the guy who rents this lodge, is Scottish. Maybe he’ll have a spare kilt.”
“Fenclan,” I say slowly. “Of the Highlands and Hebrides Fenclans?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” Lady June shrugs. “But I heard he was Scottish.”
“Is he an Orc, my lady?”
Lady June sways now, and her grip on her towel slips slightly, revealing a long line of slender thigh. “Are Orcs real? I’m still not sureanyof this is real.” Lady June clutches her head.
The towel gives up its heroic attempts to surround her and begins to fall to the floor. I rush to grab it, although my size and hers make that problematic. My arms shoot out and slam the towel back across her chest—and knock her to the bed, as well. “The garment was falling,” I say, retreating.
“Ow.” Lady June rubs the skin above her towel, wincing a little. “Welp, that convinces me. That’s gonna leave a bruise.”
I wince as well. “My apologies, my lady.”
“No sweat,” she squeaks.
GARGOYLES ARE REAL. If the light bruises I have on my chest from Duncan’s overzealous overprotectiveness are anything to go by, he’s not a figment of my heartbroken brain.
So Orcs might be real, too, since the other imaginary-but-not-actually-imaginary creature in my kitchen knows about them.
As I pull on an outfit and brush out my hair, I give myself a stare in the bedroom mirror. I guess this is my life now.
No boyfriend. No apartment. A sucky job.
And a giant gray dude with wings, horns, and a tail, hovering over me like I can barely walk unassisted.
Well... It could be worse. At least he gives a relieved nod of approval when I come to the kitchen in a slinky pink sundress.
I make dirty nachos, which means piles of ground beef, onion, cilantro, tomatoes, and cheese.Somuch cheese. Topped off by a squeeze of lime on delicious, salty chips, and two Coronas.
“The food is clean,” I explain, “but you feel dirty eating them because they’re so delicious and loaded with calories. Uh. No? You feel sinful consuming them,” I explain.
“Ah, I see.” Duncan nods gravely.
I have to try not to laugh when Duncan’s tail wags like a huge puppy while he stands just beyond arm’s reach, sniffing hungrily and curiously at every ingredient I cook. I’m going to guess that cuisine in the Highlands of Scotland wasn’t as varied back in the late 1800s as it is in modern America.
