The DMV (Daemon Monitoring Vault)

The San Solace DMV was located in a strip mall between a "Cash 4 Gold" and a karate dojo that was definitely a front for a blood cult.

Jax parked his beat-up El Camino in the handicap spot.

"Is this legal?" Kevin’s voice asked. It was softer, more nasally than Zarkon’s. The accountant had managed to wrestle control of his vocal cords for a moment.

"I’m spiritually handicapped," Jax said, getting out. "My soul is tired."

"You are a parasite on society," Zarkon boomed, taking over the mouth again. He stepped out of the car, tripped on the curb, and flailed. "Curse these loafers! They have no traction!"

"Stop walking like a velociraptor and maybe you won't fall," Jax muttered, pushing open the glass door.

The DMV—Daemon Monitoring Vault—looked exactly like a regular Department of Motor Vehicles, which was the genius of it. It smelled of stale coffee and despair. The waiting area was filled with lower-level demons, ghouls, and a few confused humans who were actually just trying to renew their licenses.

Jax walked up to the reception desk. The woman behind it had hair made of writhing vipers, currently tied back in a sensible bun.

"Ticket," she hissed, not looking up.

"I don't need a ticket, Brenda," Jax said, leaning on the counter. "I need a lookup. Soul-Glue registry. Last 24 hours."

Brenda the Gorgon looked up. Her eyes were behind dark sunglasses to prevent accidental petrification. "Jax Vane. You still owe me a late fee for that Poltergeist filing in '09."

"I told you, the ghost ate the paperwork," Jax said. "Come on, Brenda. I’ve got a Class-5 Archduke stuck in a CPA. It’s embarrassing for everyone."

Zarkon puffed out Kevin’s chest. "I am not embarrassed! I am merely... strategically disadvantaged!"

Brenda looked at Zarkon. One of her snakes hissed at him. Zarkon hissed back.

"He's rude," Brenda noted.

"He's a demon," Jax said. "It comes with the pitchfork. Look, just tell me who bought the hex."

"Take a number," Brenda pointed a manicured claw at the dispenser. "We’re currently serving number 664. You’re 999."

Jax groaned. "Bureaucracy. The one evil I can't shoot."

Zarkon stared at the red LED numbers ticking slowly. "This is... torture. Actual torture. We used to use iron maidens. This is worse. The fluorescent lighting... it hums."

"Tell me about it," Jax said, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.

Zarkon sat next to him, albeit stiffly. "In the Seventh Circle, we have efficiency. If a soul is late for flaying, the torturer is flayed. It keeps the schedule tight."

"Here, if you're late, they just charge you a fee and make you come back Tuesday," Jax said. "It’s insidious."

"Respectable," Zarkon admitted. "I appreciate the cruelty."

They sat in silence for a moment, watching a goblin argue with a security guard about emotional support rats.

"So," Jax said. "Kevin. How’d you get in there?"

"The mortal summoned me," Zarkon scoffed. "Or tried to. He was holding a fidget spinner and weeping over a photo of a woman."

"A fidget spinner?"

"It was the locus object. A cursed totem. He spun it three times and whispered 'I wish I was stronger.' And *poof*. I was yanked from my throne and stuffed into this... meat-sack of allergies."

"The fidget spinner is the glue," Jax realized. "He didn't just summon you; he bound you to his anxiety."

"His anxiety is powerful," Zarkon shuddered. "It is a vast, dark ocean. I fear no sword, but I am terrified of checking his credit score."

"Number 999!" Brenda called out.

Jax scrambled up. "That’s us. Let’s go, Kevin-Zarkon. Time to find out who hates you enough to glue a demon to your soul."