Page 54 of Tusks And Conditions

"Grug can."

Fair point.

He leans against the doorframe. Behind him, the garden stretches in neat, aggressive rows. Every vegetable planted with military precision. The man who once tracked a wendigo through a sewer for six days now wages a personal vendetta against cabbage worms. Last week I found him at dawn, crouched between the kale rows, whispering threats at a slug.

The Snarbo lounges on the porch in a patch of sunlight, all eyes half-closed, fat and content from the scraps Jagger feeds it when he thinks I'm not looking.

"What are you reading?"

He holds up a paperback the thickness of a cinder block. The cover features a muscular elf wielding a glimmering sword.

"Any good?"

"The elf makes terrible tactical decisions."

"You say that about every book."

"Every book has terrible tactics."

I brush the crumbs from my fingers. The iron mating band on my thumb is warm. Always warm. Two years of warmth now, steady as a second heartbeat.

He crosses the office in two strides. Leans down. Kisses my head. His hand rests on the back of my neck, and the calluses that once came from weapons now come from garden shears and bread dough.

"Your four o'clock is here." He straightens. "Vampire. Smells like bleach and quarters."

"That's the laundromat."

"Weird business for a vampire."

"Steady cash flow, low overhead, excellent write-off potential."

He shakes his head, smiling with his whole face, tusks and all. He takes the empty cutting board and walks back toward the house, the kitchen light reaching out to welcome him home.

I open a new file and pull out a fresh pen.

"Send him in."