Page 18 of Gardening and Gargoyles

“Ian Fenclan is on his way over. I told him I had a guest by the name of Duncan Mackintosh who’d just arrived fromScotland, needed a kilt, and had some questions about the Fenclans of the Hebrides and Highlands, and he got awfully excited. I think you might be right. Um. Orcs aren’t dangerous, are they?”

“All beings are dangerous—but I doubt he is if he is from the clan I heard of. Peaceful landsmen, proud warriors—but only as needed, ye ken?”

“I what?”

“Do you know mind?”

“Mind what?”

I frown. “No, it’s a way of asking if ye understand.”

“Apparently, I don’t, but that just makes us even. Um. Want some ice cream while we wait? And there are magazines and books in the living room. It might be better to go with print media after yesterday’s television incident.”

“But I like the television—although the ladies are dressed in far too little and the automobiles are far too fast.”

“Oh, buddy. Just you wait. Wanna go for a ride in a Mercedes later?”

I look at Lady June, mystified. “Is that an automobile?”

“One of the fanciest.”

I smile slowly, not just at the prospect of being in one of those loud machines that makes my blood pound in my ears, but at the way Lady June easily shares whatever she has with me, despite what I am, and despite her recent sorrow. “You truly are a great and noble lady, Lady June of Clan Russo-Mitchell.” I bow low to her, wings folded back like a cape.

Lady June is silent for a second, but there’s a startled joy in her eyes that is precious. Just a flicker, but I catch it before it vanishes.

Chapter Four: Friends

Ian Fenclan is built along the same lines as Duncan, but he’s green, bearded, his silver-streaked hair is in a braid, and his wide mouth has tusks. He’s accompanied by someone who looks like she stepped out of an Arthurian legend, a willowy woman in a pale cream dress, flowing silver-blonde hair, with a basket cradled over one arm.

“My wife, Farrah, wanted to come and meet the lodgers. You must be June?”

“I’m June, yes. Thank you for coming.” I hesitantly put my hand out, feeling as though I’m sticking it into a lion’s mouth when I wait for this massive, imposing figure to shake it.

But Mr. Fenclan grasps it warmly, gives it a pump, and then turns to guide his wife to me, putting his arm around her with such possessive pride that it makes me think they’re just newlyweds.

“We were just coming back from having supper with our son and daughter-in-law. Our children own The Pine Loft Coffee Shop in town. They sent you some muffins.” She smiles and holds out the basket.

Kids old enough to own a business.

Not newlyweds.

“Where’s your guest, lass?” Mr. Fenclan asks, and I don’t know what Daniel was talking about. His voice is gravelly but easy to understand, and after Duncan’s straight outta Scotland brogue, my ears are used to it.

“He’s just coming.”

As if on cue, Duncan walks out of the house and across the porch.

In the moonlight and shadows, I realize how fucking terrifying he seems.

Mr. Fenclan gasps. “What’s this?” he half-whispers.

“I am Duncan, of Clan Mackintosh. Are you of Clan Fenclan?”

“By thunder, yes!”

And then it’s a monster ex-pat reunion, with hands clasped and loud voices flying. Duncan and Ian pound each other on the shoulder, speaking a mile a minute. Their accents grow thicker by the second, and I’m pretty sure some of the things they’re saying aren’t in English.

Farrah comes over to me. “We didn’t realize you were conversant with the paranormal,” she says in her soothing, soft voice.