Tusks Under Binding Conditions

1. Sabine

SABINE

The coffee stain spreads across my cream silk blouse like a Rorschach test designed by someone who really hates me.

I watch it bloom in the fluorescent light of the Department of Magical Integration waiting room, the brown splotch taking on the distinct shape of what I can only describe as a middle finger, and I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something.

Probably that I should have stayed in bed this morning.

Probably that venturing outside my carefully organized apartment on a Mercury retrograde was the height of hubris.

But no, I had to be responsible. I had to file my Mundane-Supernatural Cohabitation Exemption renewal on time because the deadline was today and being late to anything makes my skin itch in ways that no amount of expensive moisturizer can fix.

A low growl rumbles from somewhere to my left, and I make the mistake of glancing over to find a werewolf in mid-transformation, his business suit straining at the seams as coarse brown fur sprouts along his forearms. He catches me staring and has the audacity to wink, one eye still human blue while the other has gone full golden predator, and I whip my head back to my paperwork so fast that something in my neck makes a concerning popping sound.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I just need to survive the next forty-five minutes, get my exemption renewed, and return to the blissful monotony of my corner cubicle at Henderson & Associates where the most supernatural thing I encounter is James from payroll's inexplicable ability to consume an entire birthday cake by himself.

My sensible beige pumps, the ones I paid sixty-three dollars for because the reviews promised "all-day comfort" and "professional elegance," are now sporting matching scuffs across both toes from where I tripped over a goblin's extended tail in the security line.

The goblin hadn't even apologized, just cackled something about "clumsy meat-walkers" before scuttling off toward the Curse Removal department, his scales leaving a faint trail of iridescent slime on the already questionable linoleum.

I'd tried to wipe the marks off with my thumb, but all that accomplished was transferring some kind of glittery residue onto my fingers that hasn't washed off despite three aggressive trips to the restroom sink.

It sparkles mockingly every time I turn the page of my forms.

The fluorescent lights above me flicker with the arrhythmic persistence of a dying heartbeat, casting the entire waiting room in alternating waves of sickly yellow and migraine-inducing brightness.

Someone, somewhere in this building, is burning sage, and the smoke mingles unpleasantly with the underlying scent of industrial cleaner and what I can only assume is troll musk.

A pixie zips past my head, close enough that I can feel the displaced air ruffle my carefully smoothed bob, and deposits a fine layer of what looks like golden dandruff across my shoulder before disappearing into an air vent.

I brush at it frantically, but the particles seem to burrow deeper into the fabric with each swipe, and I have to physically stop myself from screaming into the void that is the DMI customer service experience.

"Number 847," a bored call from the counter, crackling through speakers that should have been replaced sometime in the previous century.

I check my ticket. 846. Close enough to feel the sweet relief of almost-freedom, far enough to ensure maximum psychological torture.

The woman who stands in response to the call is at least seven feet tall with skin the color of storm clouds and electricity literally crackling between her fingertips as she gathers her paperwork.

She moves with the kind of fluid grace that suggests she could destroy everyone in this room without breaking a sweat, and yet she still has to stand in the same miserable line as the rest of us, filling out the same tedious forms, waiting for the same overworked clerks to process her supernatural existence into neat bureaucratic categories.

There's something almost comforting about that.

Democracy in action. We're all equally inconvenienced by red tape.

My phone buzzes in my purse, and I fish it out to find three increasingly frantic texts from my sister, each one featuring more emojis than the last. ""DID U GET THE EXEMPTION YET" followed by "MOM WANTS TO KNOW IF UR brINGING A DATE TO THE HARVEST FESTIVAL" followed by a string of question marks, eggplant emojis, and what I think is supposed to be a supernatural creature but looks more like a purple blob having a seizure.

I type back "Working on it" and "Tell Mom I'm bringing my outstanding tax returns as my plus one" before silencing the device and shoving it back into the depths of my bag where it belongs.

My mother has been making increasingly unsubtle comments about my single status ever since the Integration Act passed and suddenly human-supernatural relationships became not only legal but fashionable, and I keep trying to explain that just because I could theoretically date a vampire doesn't mean I want to, but she refuses to process any information that contradicts her grandchildren-before-she-dies agenda.

"Number 848."

Wait. I look down at my ticket again. 846. That can't be right. I could have sworn—

"Number 848," the speaker repeats, more irritated this time, and I know with dawning horror that I've missed my number entirely, too lost in my own spiraling thoughts to hear it called.

I leap from my chair with all the dignity of a startled cat, paperwork scattering across my lap and onto the floor in a cascade of bureaucratic disaster, and practically sprint toward the counter while simultaneously trying to gather the escaped forms and not twist my already-scuffed pumps on the suspiciously sticky floor.

The clerk behind the bulletproof glass—because apparently even government employees need protection from supernatural tantrums—watches my approach with the dead-eyed exhaustion of someone who has seen this exact scenario play out four thousand times and has stopped finding it entertaining.

"I'm 846," I gasp, slapping my ticket against the glass with one hand while the other clutches my crumpled paperwork to my coffee-stained shirt. "I'm so sorry, I didn't hear—"

"Next window."

The clerk points with a pen that looks like it's been chewed by something with very sharp teeth, directing me to the station at the far end of the counter where a different clerk sits hunched over a massive leather-bound tome that seems to be smoking slightly at the edges.

I gather what remains of my composure, straighten my blouse in a futile attempt to make myself look like a functioning adult, and make my way to window seven with the kind of measured steps that suggest I definitely meant to be late and disheveled, this was all part of my plan.

The clerk at window seven doesn't look up as I approach.

Her hair is the exact shade of purple that my mother would call a cry for help, and her nails are filed into points that could probably qualify as concealed weapons in most jurisdictions.

A small nameplate on her desk reads MARGOT in letters that seem to shift and writhe if I read it too long, so I decide not to stare at them too long and instead focus on arranging my paperwork into something resembling order on the narrow counter ledge.

"Exemption renewal?" Margot asks, still not looking up from her smoking tome.

"Yes, please. Sabine Lin. I have all my forms completed, all supporting documentation, three forms of ID, and—"

She holds out one clawed hand, and I place my stack of papers into it with the reverence usually reserved for religious offerings.

Margot flips through them with supernatural speed, her eyes scanning each page in the time it takes me to blink, her pointed nails leaving tiny indentations in the margins.

I watch her face for any sign of problems, any indication that I've forgotten something crucial, but her expression remains utterly neutral, almost bored, as she reaches the final page and pulls out a massive stamp the size of my fist.

"Everything looks—" she pauses.

That pause stretches into a silence that feels like it contains the entire weight of my future. Her frown deepens as she flips back to a page in the stack. She holds it up to the light as her brow furrows.

"Is something wrong?"

Margot doesn't answer. Instead, she reaches beneath her counter and produces a small black device that looks like a metal detector mated with a flashlight, waving it over my paperwork with slow, deliberate passes.

The device emits a soft beeping sound that increases in frequency as it passes over a specific page—Form 8B, the one asking about incidental magical exposure that I'd filled out in the waiting room while trying to ignore the werewolf's transformation sounds.

The beeping reaches a fever pitch, and then the device in Margot's hand lets out a shriek loud enough to make me jump backward into the person behind me.

Who, as it turns out, is not a person at all.

I collide with what feels like a wall of solid muscle wrapped in leather, my shoulder blades pressing against a body that radiates heat like a furnace, and I spin around with an apology already forming on my lips only to find myself staring directly at a massive expanse of slate-grey skin decorated with intricate black tattoos that seem to pulse with their own inner light.

My gaze travels upward, past shoulders broad enough to require their own zip code, past a neck thick with corded muscle, past a jaw that could crack walnuts without effort, until I finally reach a face that belongs in either my nightmares or my deepest, most secret fantasies, I'm not entirely sure which.