“Them werewolves is a buncha A-holes!”

From his position in the middle of the bar, Coit Dugger — named, as he was so fond of telling us, after the road where he had been conceived, far on the other side of the Rift — held up a tanker of what passed for the local beer and called for a toast. At least, that’s what he would’ve called it.

Unfortunately for him, he was smack dab in the middle of a werewolf bar.

All around him, ears in various stages of pointy-ness perked up as their owners’ heads swiveled toward my partner.

Well, hell.