Stretched By the Gargoyle (Mating the Elements)

Chapter One

Arielle

I sip my tea and stare between the two pairs of yoga pants. The black pair is classic and hugs my curves nicely, but the pink pair is brighter and easier to spot from two levels below. Plus, it has a swooped design in the back that shows off my booty.

One more sip and I set the mug down, deciding on the pink leggings.

Logically, I know one more morning out on the balcony won't catch the gargoyle’s eye regardless of what I wear.

It hasn't so far, and I've lived in this castle-turned-apartment complex for three years. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna give up.

Whiskers is already outside, hogging half the balcony with her long cat sploot. I scratch her ears, then unroll my yoga mat. Whiskers pounces inside with a testy hiss.

Balcony is a strong word for the small structure of branches, but I love it.

I love the outdoors and the vibrant nature here.

As a human with an affinity for water magic living in the earth territory Lande, I’ve always felt I could breathe better with plants around.

The rich soil of Soile—the capital city of Lande—hums to the water inside me, and together, the ground and I nurture life.

It’s a beautiful circle, and I’m proud to be a part of it.

Especially for the garden below. I casually peer over the railing.

Like much of the architecture in Lande, the balcony is made of strong, still-living nature.

The wooden structure twists and coils into floral patterns, decorating the complex with ornate balconies for each apartment.

It trails down the side of the building, still connected to the tree that bore it.

When I first moved here, I tuned into the water pulsing through the branches and tracked it to the source: an enormous, strong, proud oak tree in the far reach of the castle gardens.

That’s when I met the gardener for the first time.

Heart beating as though I’m up to no good, I watch the gargoyle tend his plants.

The man of my heart . . . who probably doesn’t remember I exist. Our interaction was awkward, to say the least. He caught me off guard, hugging that big dumb oak tree!

Mortified, I tried to explain myself but choked out a weird string of reverent words about the thick trunk in my arms.

What I actually said was something like, “I-I appreciate having something so thick in my hands. No! It’s just so beautifully girthy and thick. I mean, proud. I-I have to go.”

I flush with a fresh wave of embarrassment at the memory. I back away from the edge. The last thing I need is for him to catch my beet-red face and believe I’m an imminent threat to his garden’s biggest trunk.

Whiskers wanders back outside, stretching hard and digging sharp claws into the mat. I start my stretches, unwilling to let my mat become a cat’s scratch toy. Just in case.

On my ninth iteration of the sun salutation, I hear a rustling from below.

He’s here. My heart beats rapidly. Knowing that he might glance up and see me in a suggestive position, might fantasize about what he would do if there were room for him on my balcony.

And, as always, those hypothetical fantasies turn into very real fantasies of my own.

At least I’m two levels above. He shouldn’t be able to see the growing wet spot between my legs from so far away.

But . . . if somehow he did . . . maybe he would relieve me.

In the end, he doesn’t come to my rescue. I roll up my mat and chance another peek, only to meet his eye. Heart in my throat, I do my best normal person impersonation and wave.

He stares at me, expression unreadable.

I duck inside and palm my forehead. “Stupid, stupid!”

He knows! He caught me staring and now there’s no doubt he knows about my creepy obsession.

Well, my secret is out. There’s is no changing that absolute fact. To cope with my devastation, I head to the kitchen. Shoulders sagged, I pull out the worn leather-bound cookbook my Landen grandmother gifted me before she died.

Back home in the water territory of Hydran, the air is becoming more toxic as the livable waters shrink, flushing out sirens and other underwater species.

Mystics claim the pollution, which seemed to come out of nowhere, was caused by another plane of existence altogether.

I’m not sure if I believe in something straight out of a sci-fi novel, but it really doesn’t matter.

The pollution showed up randomly and has taken the lives of many, including my beloved grandmother.

The hefty cookbook, all scrawled in familiar loopy script with dried spills staining the parchment a dark brown, is my most treasured possession.

I’m not particularly good at cooking or baking, but I love to smell the scents of my grandmother’s kitchen.

I've been working my way through the cookbook for two years.

I only have a few pages to go before I reach the desserts at the end—some of which I've already tested.

∞∞∞

The next morning, I hesitate before donning my black yoga pants. Gathering my mat and my courage, I bravely emerge on my balcony, ready to face the humiliation of meeting the gargoyle’s eyes. If he bothers to look my way again, that is.

He’s not outside when I set up, nor do I see him throughout my routine. I linger, doing random stretches and pretending not to be searching the garden. He doesn’t show.

When I have nothing left to pretend to be doing and the clock says I must leave to get to work on time, I feel a lump in my chest. Have I ever not seen him for even a brief moment in the morning? If so, I don’t recall.

All day at the laundromat, I can’t shake the worry, as ridiculous as it is. He’s a grown man—an ancient gargoyle, a species that was created by masons centuries ago, no new ones being born or made since the age of the elementals—and he can take care of himself.

Even so, when I return to my apartment I take the long route through the gardens. The water levels of the flowerbeds are lower than usual. He hasn't come home all day.

Drop it, Arielle, he’s fine. I nurse the plants with my water magic. Though I’m not a green thumb and don’t know exactly what the levels should be, I do my best.

As I sleep, my nightmares are more annoying than usual.