Stavanger Bay Where the moon is made of gold,

Sunboy could preach to that. Forming a pack was a hard business, like sneaking booze during the prohibition or taking care of someone else's baby. Either way, you always ended up cleaning someone's vomit.

His brow quirked up. Enemies? Who could hate him? "Only the cyclops." He'd forgotten about his brush with the Saints until now. "Oh, and some really freaky blood cult guys that nearly killed me. No idea what their problem is. Who did you manage to make mad?"

Sunhawk shared everything he could with Umbra, the two of them walking down the beach like bosom-buddies.