Page 7 of Tusks And Conditions

A long, wet, thoroughly disgusting tongue emerges from somewhere in that mess of teeth and drags across my entire face, leaving a trail of something viscous and faintly glowing in its wake.

"Meatball," Jagger says from somewhere above me. "Down."

The creature—Meatball, apparently—makes a sound that I can only describe as a disappointed gurgle and reluctantly climbs off my chest. Its thick tentacles finding purchase on my expensive area rug as it pulls itself toward Jagger with the eager energy of a dog greeting its owner after a long day.

I lie on my floor, covered in alien saliva, staring at my ceiling, and wonder if the supernatural prison might actually be the better option.

CHAPTER 4

JAGGER

I'm already moving before Meatball finishes his lunge, my hand closing around the scruff of his neck mid-air and redirecting his trajectory away from Sabine's face. The motion is smooth, practiced, the result of years spent wrangling this particular creature out of trouble, and Meatball lets out that distinctive gurgling whine of protest as I set him firmly on the ground beside me. His tentacles curl in disappointment, all seven eyes swiveling between me and the woman still sprawled on her carpet, clearly torn between obedience and his overwhelming desire to cover every new person he meets in affectionate slime.

"Stay," I command, putting the full weight of my authority into the word.

Meatball's many legs fold beneath him as he settles into a reluctant sitting position, his bioluminescent eyes dimming slightly in what I've come to recognize as his version of a pout.

I turn my attention to Sabine, who hasn't moved from her position on the floor, her eyes fixed on the ceiling with the thousand-yard stare of someone whose grip on reality has been severely tested. The glowing residue of Meatball's saliva trails across her face in streaks that catch the lamplight, and her carefully maintained bob has gone completely sideways, strands of dark hair sticking up at angles that would probably horrify her if she could see them.

"It's just a Snarbo. Completely harmless. They're native to the Shimmer Wastes, bred originally as companion animals for miners who spent months underground. Their saliva has mild antiseptic properties, actually. Very useful for treating small wounds."

Sabine's eyes slowly track from the ceiling to my face, and the look she gives me could strip paint off walls. "A Snarbo."

"His name is Meatball. I found him as a pup about three years ago, abandoned in a dumpster behind a supernatural pet shop that was being shut down for selling illegal familiars." I reach over to scratch behind what might be Meatball's ear, and he makes that gurgling purr again, his tentacles relaxing into loose coils of contentment. "He's very friendly. Just... enthusiastic about meeting new people."

"Enthusiastic." Sabine sits up slowly, one hand rising to touch the glowing residue on her cheek. Her expression shifts from shock to disgust as the substance squishes between her fingers, leaving trails of faint purple luminescence on her skin. "Your pet just tackled me to the ground and licked my entire face with what appears to be radioactive drool, and you're describing him as enthusiastic?"

"The glow fades after about an hour. Maybe two."

She looks at me. Then she gazes at Meatball, who has begun inching toward her with the slow, hopeful determination of not giving up on the possibility of more face-licking. His tentacles twitch with barely contained excitement, and his many eyes have taken on that pleading quality that I've never been able to resist, no matter how many times he's gotten me into trouble.

"There was nothing in the DMI paperwork about pets. Nothing about Snarbos or Meatballs or creatures with too many eyes that tackle people and cover them in glowing saliva."

"Technically, Meatball is classified as a licensed emotional support animal under Section 47-C of the Supernatural Creatures Cohabitation Act." I offer her my hand to help her up, and after a long moment of hesitation, she takes it, her fingers small and cool against my palm. I pull her to her feet with minimal effort, steadying her when she wobbles slightly, and try not to think about how perfectly her hand fits in mine. "He's fully registered, vaccinated, and trained to respond to basic commands. Usually."

"Usually?"

"He gets excited around new people. It's a Snarbo thing." I release her hand reluctantly, already missing the contact, and gesture toward Meatball, who has frozen mid-inch at my attention. "Watch. Meatball, shake."

Meatball extends one of his many appendages toward Sabine, a tentacle that ends in something vaguely hand-like, and waits with the patient dignity who knows he's being shown off. His eyes blink in sequence, starting from the cluster and rippling downward, which I've always found oddly endearing but which seems to have the opposite effect on Sabine, based on the way her eye twitches.

"I'm not shaking that."

"It's very clean. Snarbos are fastidious groomers."

"I'm still not shaking it."

Meatball's tentacle droops, and he makes that disappointed gurgling sound again, his whole body seeming to deflate with rejection. I reach down to pat his head reassuringly, and his eyes brighten slightly, though he continues to glare at Sabine with the wounded look of being denied the friendship he so desperately craves.

"Fine. I'm going to take a shower and try to remove the alien slime from my face, and then we're going to have a very long conversation about additional rules regarding pets and surprise creature attacks and the general expectation that my living room not be turned into a supernatural petting zoo."

She turns on her heel and stalks toward what I assume is the bathroom, her posture rigid with offended dignity even as streaks of bioluminescent drool continue to glow faintly on her cheeks. Meatball watches her go with intense focus and who has already decided she's his new favorite person, his tentacles twitching with the barely restrained urge to follow.

"Stay," I remind him.

He settles back down with a gusty sigh that seems impossible for a creature his size, his many eyes tracking Sabine until she disappears around the corner and the bathroom door clicks shut with rather more force than strictly necessary.

I spend the next several hours trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible, which is challenging given that my shoulders are wider than her hallway and my head nearly brushes the ceiling when I stand up straight. I find a corner of the living room where I can sit without blocking any pathways, my back against the wall and Meatball curled at my feet, and I pull out one of the fantasy novels from my duffel bag to pass the time while Sabine processes the reality of her new living situation.