The bus crested the last hill outside the city limits of Wayfield, Kansas, a midsized town nestled deep in the Bible Belt — where the steeples outnumbered gas stations and every billboard was either about salvation or pest control.
Emily peeked out the front window and immediately muttered, “Oh no.”
There they were.
Pickets.
Hand-painted signs lined the street in front of the venue like a judgmental art fair.
🪧 TURN BACK TO GOD, NOT GUITARS!
🪧 SATAN DOESN’T NEED A SOUND TECH (Thane snorted)
🪧 NO WOLVES IN OUR SHEEPFOLD!
🪧 BLASPHEMY IN BASS FORM!
Diesel slowed the bus, side-eyeing the crowd with a low whistle. “Woo boy. I ain’t seen this much fire and brimstone since my third divorce.”
Rico leaned across the front lounge, munching a snack bar. “Look at that one. ‘WEREWOLVES CAUSE WARTS.’ The alliteration is cute though.”
Cassie added, “Does that mean if you lick a werewolf you grow a tail? Because if so, I’ve got questions.”
Gabriel peeked out and winced. “Ooof. That one guy’s literally holding a wooden cross and shouting about ‘demonic basslines.’” He turned to Thane. “Does my tone say demonic to you?”
Thane, deadpan: “Only when you slap too hard and knock out Jonah’s in-ears.”
Jonah raised both hands defensively. “One time! One!”
Maya muttered, “They’re big mad we brought our own religion… stage presence and thick thighs.”
Mark, from the kitchenette, grunted without looking up. “Give ‘em ten minutes. They’ll confuse us with a furry renaissance fair and start blaming anime.”
Inside the venue:
They were greeted by their contact, a grinning, sunburnt venue manager named Janet with rhinestone boots and absolutely no patience.
“You guys sure stirred up the locals,” she said, handing Emily a stack of pre-signed waivers. “Pastor Markham’s congregation sent, like, eighteen angry emails, a petition, and one really aggressive fruit basket.”
Cassie blinked. “…Aggressive how?”
“Bananas had Bible verses carved into them,” Janet replied. “Anyway, the venue didn’t cave. City didn’t either. Pastor even tried to get the cops to shut you down.”
Gabriel frowned. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah,” she said, smirking. “Backfired hard. Turns out the chief of police has a son who’s your biggest fan.” She pulled out her phone and showed a photo: a grinning teenager in full face paint, clutching a handmade Thane is My Alpha sign at a past show.
Thane blinked. “…Why do they always pick me?”
Mark: “You’re big and scary. It’s aspirational.”
Jonah, grinning: “Also, you once growled at a stagehand so hard he cried and said thank you.”
Gabriel burst out laughing. “Okay but seriously — do we need security or…?”
Janet waved it off. “The cops already cleared it. Chief said if anyone lays hands on your gear, he’ll personally arrest them, turn on the flashing lights, and let his kid meet you all backstage.”
Cassie smirked. “Do we get to sign his cuffs?”
Thane sighed. “If this kid asks to be my emotional support alpha, I swear —”
Gabriel: “Well, you started that brand, my wolf.”
Thane turned to him, eyes narrowed. “I will staple your tail to the subwoofer.”
Gabriel grinned and licked the air dramatically in response.
Outside, the protestors had started chanting “NO HOWLING ZONES!” and waving signs at every passing car.
Inside the venue, Feral Eclipse soundchecked with extra filthy bass tones, echoing off the rafters like a spiritual earthquake.
Gabriel plucked a deep, rumbling note and smirked. “Think that’s enough to summon a demon?”
Mark, at the console with Thane, grunted. “If it is, it better carry its own amp.”