Author: Thane Page 14 of 40

The Quahog Republic sat quiet now behind them, lights glowing low, the last echoes of music and laughter still lingering in the salty air. The band was sprawled across the lounge, quiet for once, a collective exhale.

Thane had disappeared into the bunk hallway, needing space to breathe, process, recover from the weight of what had just unfolded. His heart still beat heavy, full.

Gabriel climbed the steps onto the bus last, the old bass still in his hands. He stood at the front for a second, eyes sweeping across his band — his family — before slipping down onto the couch next to Mark, who was flipping idly through show notes on a tablet.

Mark looked up and gave a small grunt.

“That was one hell of a thing.”

Gabriel leaned back, bass across his lap like a sleeping animal.

“Yeah. It really was.”

Mark studied him, that steady, no-nonsense presence he always carried.

“You okay?”

Gabriel nodded slowly.

“It meant a lot. Him seeing me. Playing with him again. I don’t think I realized how much I needed it.”

Mark didn’t say anything at first. Then he set the tablet down and looked out the window, the low light catching in his gray fur.

“Not many people get that. Closure. Or a chance to show the folks who mattered how far they’ve come.”

Gabriel smiled softly.

“He doesn’t know everything. Can’t. But he saw what counts.”

Mark gave a small grunt of approval.

“And he saw you lead. Not just play.”

Gabriel looked down at the worn fretboard under his claws.

“I learned from the best.”

Mark smirked, then after a pause added:

“He’s proud. You can see it in how he watched you. Like the moon rose just for you.”

Gabriel blinked, eyes stinging again.

“Thanks, old wolf.”

Mark grunted again, but this time with a hint of warmth.

“Go get some sleep, pup. Tomorrow’s gonna be loud.”

---

The Next Morning: Viral Inferno

The bus rolled out under a pale gray sky, tires humming over old highway. Diesel was sipping his third coffee and muttering about early morning fog.

Emily sat crisscrossed at the front lounge table, her tablet propped up as her fingers flew across the screen.

“Uh, guys?” she said quietly. “You might wanna see this.”

Cassie leaned over. Jonah was still snoring. Gabriel padded up barepaw, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Thane stood behind the bench, arms folded.

Emily turned the screen.

The Quahog video — the father/son duet, the cheers, Gabriel’s speech — was everywhere. Music blogs, fan accounts, even regional news stations.

But then…

Rolling Stone posted it.
With the headline:

“The Bass Runs Deep: Gabriel’s Surprise Duet With His Father Breaks the Internet”

Over a million views already.
Dozens of celebs had shared it.
One of the top comments simply read:

“I haven’t cried at a bass solo before. This band is built different.”

Emily turned to Gabriel.

“Your dad’s already trending. So are you.”

Gabriel blinked. “Holy sh—”

“Hey,” Mark barked from the kitchenette, not even looking up.
“No swearing before breakfast.”

Thane smirked behind him, ice-blue eyes soft.

Gabriel just laughed. That deep, free kind of laugh that only came after healing.

He plopped into the booth beside Thane and leaned into his side.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who saw him now.”

Thane bumped his forehead lightly.

“Told you.”

The bus kept rolling. The world kept watching.

And the pack? They had more to give.

The bar had emptied out in waves, still buzzing with the afterglow of what had become one of the most talked-about moments on the East Coast. The Dave Larson Band packed up quietly, grins lingering on every face. Gabriel stood near the back exit now, cradling the bass he had played with his father — fingers still idly tracing the strings.

Thane watched from the shadows of the hallway near the bathrooms, arms folded, tail barely flicking. Not jealous. Not bitter. Just… proud. And aching, silently.

He didn’t need the spotlight.
He had Gabriel. That was enough.

---

Jim came out from the back room, guitar case slung over one shoulder, still flushed from the crowd’s love. He found Gabriel near the stage and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You always were better than me, kid,” he said, with a soft chuckle.
“Just glad I got to see it. Glad you never forgot where you came from.”

Gabriel turned and pulled him into a tight hug. His voice cracked.

“I never will, Dad. You gave me everything.”

Jim nodded, clearing his throat roughly.

“You’re out there doing it right. The music… it’s not just notes. It’s yours. That band of yours… they’re something else.”

He glanced toward the hallway and locked eyes briefly with Thane.

It lasted half a second. A neutral expression. No warmth. No sneer. Just unreadable.

Then he looked back at his son.

“You’re doing good, Gabriel. Real good. I’m proud of you.”
He clapped his son’s back again and gave a lopsided grin.
“And if you ever bring that band back through here, I expect another duet. We’ll show these clamsuckers how it’s done.”

Gabriel laughed and nodded, blinking fast.

“You got it.”

Jim nodded to Thane again on his way out. Still neutral. No words.

---

Once the door clicked behind him, Gabriel just stood there.

Then he slowly turned to Thane.

The smile he gave him was fragile — eyes glassy, mouth trembling with all the emotion he couldn’t say aloud with his father nearby.

Thane stepped forward, wordless, and gently pulled him into a hug — arms firm around Gabriel’s shoulders, his muzzle resting against the top of Gabriel’s head.

Gabriel buried his face into Thane’s chest, claws lightly digging into the back of his shirt, body shaking with silent, joyful tears.

“He saw me,” Gabriel whispered, voice muffled.
“He really saw me tonight.”

“I know,” Thane said, quiet as moonlight.

“And so did the rest of the world.”

Gabriel looked up, eyes shining.

“I wish I could tell him about us. About everything. About how you saved me.”

Thane nuzzled his cheek, careful, protective.

“You don’t have to tell him. He saw the best parts of you… and I’m one of the lucky few who gets the rest.”

That earned a soft laugh. Gabriel leaned against him, their foreheads touching.

“He’s gonna go home and tell everyone how I brought the house down with him.”

“You did,” Thane said simply. “He was the hero. And you made sure he knew it.”

They stood in the quiet bar for a long moment, just holding each other under the dusty string lights. Not hiding — not from each other.

Just… silent. Solid. Real.

The road was quiet. Not in that exhausted-post-show way — more like settled. The band was snoozing, scrolling, sipping coffee… until Thane saw it.

An Instagram story.

Jim, Gabriel’s dad.
Holding his bass on a modest little bar stage. Grinning. Still playing after all these years with the Dave Larson Band. And tonight, they were live at a tiny joint in Falmouth, Massachusetts.

The screen was shaky, filmed by a local — but the emotion in that one smile was crystal clear.

Thane’s breath caught in his throat.

He misses him.

Gabriel, sprawled half-asleep across the back lounge couch, hadn’t seen it yet.

Thane turned up front and tapped Diesel’s arm.

“Change of plans. Falmouth. There’s something I need to do.”

Diesel glanced over, saw the screen. He gave a quiet nod.

“On it, brother.”

---

When the bus rolled into Falmouth several hours later, no one suspected anything. It was just another sleepy coastal town. When Thane stood and announced,

“Dinner. Quahog Dive Bar,”
the crew groaned, stretched, and shuffled off the bus like it was any other roadside meal.

But Thane was quiet. Focused. His claws tapped anxiously on an audio cable clipped to his belt loop.

---

Inside, the Quahog was cozy and loud. Sticky tables. Old nautical ropes. The warm scent of beer and fried clams.

Locals stared. A few whispered. Phones came out.

But Thane’s eyes were locked on the tiny stage in the corner.

And that’s when the door from the back opened.
An older man stepped out, slinging a worn-out bass over his shoulder. He had Gabriel’s jawline. His confidence. His spark.

Jim.

He didn’t see them yet.

---

The band tuned up.

Thane watched Gabriel slide into a booth, still clueless, laughing at something Cassie had said. Jonah poked at a lobster roll.

Then a familiar groove kicked in — slow, bluesy, deep. And Gabriel froze.

His eyes widened. He turned. Stared.

The bass player onstage was his father.

Gabriel didn’t move. His breath caught — like something old and sacred had just lit up inside him.

---

Jim looked up.

He saw the booth.
He saw his son.
And his entire body went still.

His hands trembled against the strings.
Then his face split into a smile so wide, it ached.

He blinked, once. Twice.

Then he nodded to the rest of the band and leaned into the next riff — harder, stronger, prouder.

---

Gabriel stood slowly. He didn’t say a word. He just walked through the parted crowd, climbed the two little stairs, and stepped onto the stage beside his father.

Jim was already crying.

Gabriel took the spare bass sitting in the corner. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

And with a whisper to the bandleader —

“Let me play this one with him,”
— they started.

A raw, smoky cover of “Simple Man.”

---

Jim played with the same quiet pride he always had. Gabriel’s fingers mirrored his — not showing off, just being with him. Supporting him. Standing beside the man who once carried him on his shoulders after gigs when he was six.

Phones were out now.
Not just filming. Streaming.
The dive bar lit up across the internet like a flare in the dark.

But in that moment?

They didn’t care.
It was just father and son.

Two basses. One bond.

---

Thane stood with the rest of the band. Silent.

Tears streaked down his fur.
He didn’t wipe them away.

Emily sniffled behind him.
Even Mark looked misty-eyed, muttering,

“That… was damn near holy.”

When the last note faded, Jim set his bass down and pulled Gabriel into a hug so tight it shook the stage riser.

Gabriel whispered something into his dad’s ear.

Jim laughed. Then cried harder.

---

Gabriel stepped up to the mic. Voice shaking.

“This is my dad. Jim. He’s the reason I ever picked up a bass.
He played in bars and dives and always made it feel like the center of the universe.
And tonight, I got to share that universe with him.
So don’t cheer for me. Cheer for him. Cheer for them.
This is where the music really started.”

The bar exploded with cheers.

---

Thane leaned back and just… smiled.
Heart wide open.
His wolf had come home — even if just for a moment.

And every step of that journey… was worth it.

The bus rumbled off the main highway somewhere deep in the pine-choked hills of the Midwest, weaving through a small, fog-laced town with a hand-painted wooden sign at the city limits:

Welcome to Timber Rock – Home of the 87th Annual Lumberjack Days
Axe-citing things are happening!

Gabriel pressed his face to the window, ears perking up.
“Guys… is that a wood-chopping competition?”

Jonah, already in full chaos goblin mode: “Please tell me there’s axe throwing.”

Cassie peeked out from her bunk curtain. “And chainsaws. I want chainsaws.”

Diesel grunted from the driver’s seat. “I’ve never seen so much flannel outside a Canadian bar fight.”

---

The bus rolled slowly through downtown Timber Rock, which was currently decked out like a Hallmark fever dream—bunting made from denim strips, logs everywhere, and hand-carved signs reading things like “Paul Bunyan Would Be Proud!” and “Beard Oil Tent: Left of the Axe Toss.”

Mark leaned on the open window with a tired sigh. “This feels like a trap.”

Thane muttered, “Definitely a trap.”

That’s when a loudspeaker somewhere in the distance echoed:

“Next up in the balance log contest — local champ Butch Haversack! And we still need one more challenger!”

Gabriel turned slowly, eyes lighting up. “Thane.”

He just glared at him. “No.”

Gabriel nudged him. “Thaaaaane.”

---

Fifteen minutes later, Thane was shirtless, standing on a floating log in the middle of a large inflatable pool, surrounded by people holding deep-fried pickles and cheering like he was about to fight a dragon.

Mark, arms folded, muttered, “Why is he shirtless for this thing?”

Emily, recording everything from under a hoodie: “Brand integrity.”

Gabriel had found an axe-throwing booth and was absolutely terrifying the staff by nailing bullseyes… with his eyes closed.

Jonah tried the log toss. He immediately pulled something.

---

But Thane?

Thane won the balance contest.

By not moving.
At all.
He just stood there with perfect wolfy balance, calm and silent, arms crossed, eyes like ice, his clawed feet gripping the spinning log better than any spiked boots ever could… and let Butch Haversack tire himself out trying to knock him off.

By the end, Butch slipped, fell into the water with a curse, and the crowd lost their minds.

The mayor of Timber Rock—a jolly guy with suspenders and a beard that could trap squirrels — grabbed a mic.

“Folks, we have ourselves a true lumberwolf champion!!”

Cassie nearly choked on her root beer. “Oh my god… lumberwolf.”

---

As the sun started to set, Thane was awarded a custom 4XL red flannel shirt embroidered with Timber Rock Legend on the back. He looked down at it like someone had just handed him a baby raccoon. Gabriel immediately begged him to wear it every day.

Emily whispered, “This town is going to build a statue.”

---

They didn’t stay long after. The next city still loomed, and load-in was tomorrow. But as the bus pulled away — windows open, laughter spilling out — the sound of chainsaws revving and polka music played them off.

Inside the bus, Thane sat silently with the red flannel folded neatly on his lap.

Diesel looked over from the wheel. “You gonna wear that thing?”

Thane didn’t look up. “I might.”

Gabriel leaned over and whispered, “Lumberwolf…”

Thane growled.

Everyone else burst out laughing.

The sun was barely up when the tour bus rumbled off the highway and into a gravel lot next to a squat, weather-worn building with a flickering sign that read:

Mabel’s Diner
Coffee. Biscuits. No Drama.

It didn’t look like much. That was the point.

Inside, the lights buzzed faintly, the air smelled of bacon grease and strong black coffee, and a couple of truckers nursed their breakfasts in the back booth. Nobody looked up when the Feral Eclipse crew walked in — nine figures total. Three barepaw werewolves. Six very tired humans.

No churros.
No flash mobs.
No goats.

Just the low scrape of chairs and the soft clink of ceramic mugs.

---

From behind the counter rose Mabel herself — an older woman with a no-nonsense face, a streak of gray in her thick braid, and the presence of someone who’d once broken up a bar fight using only a broom and her voice.

She narrowed her eyes at the incoming crowd, then called to the kitchen without breaking her stare:

“Phones off. That’s not a suggestion.”

The waitstaff, mostly teenagers and sleepy line cooks, nodded without protest.

Mabel turned to the crew, arms folded.

“I know who you are. But you’re customers here. Not a show. You get food, peace, and no cameras. That work for you?”

Thane, still shaking off sleep, gave a low nod. “Very much.”

---

The whole pack settled into two large corner booths they pushed together—Thane, Gabriel, and Mark flanked by their human bandmates Cassie, Maya, Rico, Jonah, Emily, and Diesel, who somehow looked even more road-weary than the wolves.

Coffee was poured.
Plates were stacked with hashbrowns, eggs, thick-cut bacon, biscuits drowning in gravy, and fluffy pancakes. Emily got a veggie skillet that didn’t even look sad. Diesel didn’t say a word but nodded in approval after his first sip.

No one took a photo.
No one asked for an autograph.
No one even whispered.

Just the low hum of a classic country radio and the faint clink of forks.

It was… peace.

---

At one point, Cassie softly said, “This place is magic.”

Rico nodded. “Mabel’s a force of nature.”

Mark didn’t say anything — he just ate his hashbrowns and looked suspiciously relaxed.

Emily leaned on her arm, smiling faintly. “I kinda needed this more than I realized.”

Even Gabriel wasn’t bouncing off the walls. He sat curled into his corner, tail flicking contentedly, sipping his third cup of coffee like it was holy.

---

When the meal was over and everyone started gathering their stuff, Thane lingered behind. He reached into his polo’s inner pocket, pulled out a neat fold of bills, and quietly slid $1,000 under the edge of the check.

On the back of the receipt, he scrawled in his tidy print:

Thanks for the peace and quiet. — T

He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t make a show of it.

But as he turned to leave, he saw Mabel pick up the slip, glance at it, and give the faintest nod — no smile, no words, just an unspoken understanding between wolves and waitresses.

---

As the bus pulled out, Emily leaned back in her seat and whispered, “That might’ve been the best stop yet.”

Thane didn’t reply.
But his tail flicked once.
And that was answer enough.

The Feral Eclipse tour bus was parked behind the rickety main stage, now silent except for the distant clatter of churro wrappers rustling in the breeze and someone drunkenly singing the national anthem near the dunk tank.

Inside the dim glow of the bus lounge, the air was thick with exhaustion and cinnamon.

Mark had already disappeared into his bunk, muttering something about “churros and poor life decisions.”
Cassie and Maya were flopped on the couch, eyes half-lidded, slowly devouring the world’s soggiest fairground nachos.
Gabriel sat cross-legged on the carpet, bass on his lap, absentmindedly cleaning the churro sugar off his fretboard.

That’s when the bus door clicked open.

Thane, sitting closest, looked up immediately — ears twitching, nostrils flaring.

He caught the scent before the figure even stepped inside.

Vandal Saints. Bret’s scent. But… different. Quieter. Less rage, more… nerves.

It was Lance — the Saints’ bassist.

Soft-spoken, slightly hunched, and carrying himself like a guy who’d been shouted at a lot in the last 24 hours.

He took one step into the entry vestibule… and stopped.

Because Thane was already there.

Standing.
Staring.
Blocking the way.

One brow raised.

Lance froze like a rabbit who’d just realized it walked into the wrong den.

“I — uh. I’m not here to start anything.”

Thane didn’t blink.

Lance cleared his throat. “I just… wanted to talk to Gabriel. If that’s okay.”

A long pause.

Then Thane gave a slow nod — not approval, exactly, but not denial. A kind of conditional tolerance.

He stepped aside with a low grunt. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Lance swallowed hard and stepped through to the lounge.

Gabriel looked up, blinking. “…Woah. Didn’t expect to see you.”

Lance scratched the back of his neck, awkward. “Yeah. I know. I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to get lost. I just… I wanted to say sorry. For Bret. For, like, everything.”

Gabriel blinked, then gave a small smile. “Man, he’s a whole hurricane. Not your fault.”

Lance nodded, still shifting awkwardly. “Thanks. I just… I mean, I’ve been watching your playing. You’ve got this fluidity, this… groove. Even when things are insane, it’s like the notes don’t care. You anchor the sound.”

Gabriel grinned, ears perking up. “You notice that? That’s… yeah. Thanks, man. Means a lot coming from another bassist.”

Lance hesitated. “Also… I gotta ask. What’s it like? Being a werewolf, I mean. Does it change how you hear music? Or feel it?”

Gabriel’s grin softened. He looked over to Thane, who had quietly stepped closer again.

Thane answered first, voice quiet but firm. “You feel it deeper. Not just sound, but pressure. Tension. Pulse. It gets inside you.”

Gabriel nodded. “It’s like… every note you play, every vibration in your spine — it’s part of your body. Like music’s not something you make, it’s something you are.”

Lance just stared at both of them for a long beat, then exhaled slowly. “Man. I thought I loved bass before.”

Gabriel chuckled. “You still can. You don’t need fur for that part.”

Thane grunted softly. “But it helps.”

That earned a small laugh from Lance, nervous but genuine.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pick with the Saints logo on it, and offered it to Gabriel. “It’s cheap merch plastic. But… thanks. For not ripping my throat out.”

Gabriel took it. “No promises next time.”

Lance laughed again — then backed toward the door, nodding at Thane. “Thanks for letting me through the wall.”

Thane gave him a faint, almost-smirk. “The goat still owes us rent.”

---

Lance left quietly, vanishing into the shadows of the midway.

Inside the bus, the mood settled again — comfortable, quiet.
Gabriel twirled the pick between his claws and muttered,

“See? Not all Saints suck.”

Thane didn’t reply. But he didn’t argue either.

As the sun dipped below the Ferris wheel and floodlights flickered on around the cracked midway, the Feral Eclipse stage glowed with anticipation.

The crowd?
Unhinged.
Sugared up.
Wearing glow-in-the-dark werewolf ears and waving foam churros like battle standards.

Thane checked his board one last time, claws tapping across faders like he was prepping to summon a storm—and in a way, he was.

“Check check. Sub’s hot. Vocals tight.”

Gabriel popped up mid-line check, grinning. “I smell cinnamon and destiny.”

Thane: “I smell regret.”

---

The lights dropped. The crowd ROARED.

The band launched into their opening number, “Sound and Claw,” and the place detonated.

Within thirty seconds, the first churro flew.

Then another.
Then dozens.

Churros to the beat.
Churros in the air.
Churros bouncing off the drum riser and sticking to Jonah’s kick head.

Cassie ducked one mid-verse and kept singing. Jonah caught one in his teeth like a champ. Maya batted one with the neck of her guitar.

Gabriel?
Arms wide, basking in the airborne cinnamon like it was divine confetti.

“YESSSSS! RAIN SWEET, MORTALS!!”

Meanwhile, Thane…

Thane stood at the board like a wolf possessed, fur speckled with sugar, a single cinnamon stick lodged behind his ear like an unwanted accessory.

Someone threw a sticky churro directly into one of his outboard processors.

He growled so low it shorted out two line-level signals.

---

Then came the Goat.

Right at the breakdown of “Fangs in Bloom,” when Gabriel stepped to the front of the stage for his big solo—

Princess Nugget.

Still wearing her scarf, lipstick barely intact, and Bret’s band tee cut into a weird crop top, the goat burst from stage left.

Fans SCREAMED.
Lights flared.
And the goat charged like a cinnamon-scented battering ram.

WHAM!!
She slammed headfirst into Gabriel’s bass amp, mid-solo.

“HEY!” Gabriel yelped, stumbling.

Thane moved like lightning.

From the sound pit to center stage in seconds, eyes blazing, ears back, claws out.

“NOPE!”

He grabbed the goat mid-headbutt, hoisted her into the air like a rebellious toddler with horns and eyeliner, turned on a heel, and yeeted her — gently but firmly — off the side of the stage into a perfectly placed hay bale.

The crowd lost it.
Screams. Cheers. Goat chants.

“THANE! THANE! THANE!”

---

Gabriel blinked, bass still in hand, tail swishing in awe.
“…Dude. That was majestic.”

Cassie leaned into her mic with a grin. “That’s why we keep him.”

And then the band slammed into the final chorus—faster, louder, wilder than ever.

---

By the end of the set, everyone was drenched in sweat and churro goo.

The stage looked like a pastry war zone.
The fans?
Happier than a werewolf in a meat locker.

One more fairground forever burned into legend.

The Feral Eclipse tour bus rumbled into the Neon Pines County Fairgrounds, raising a dust cloud so thick it nearly swallowed a face-painted corn dog vendor. The air reeked of hay, diesel, and powdered sugar, and the parking crew—a pair of teenagers in matching American flag overalls—were too busy TikToking to offer guidance.

As the bus eased to a stop, the crew could already see the day going sideways.

In the lot just ahead sat the less-than-glorious Vandal Saints van, duct tape on one door, speakers stacked haphazardly around it, and a hand-painted banner strung up with the phrase “Rock Hard, Die Loud.”

Suddenly, from the van’s side door — a goat burst out.

It was wearing a scarf, bedazzled horns, and someone’s lipstick. It galloped into the chaos like a four-legged fever dream, dragging a belt and half a glittery crop top behind it.

The band stared.

Cassie blinked. “Was that a…?”

Jonah: “Yup.”

Gabriel: “Why was it wearing blush?”

Seconds later, Bret — Vandal Saints’ infamous lead singer — exploded out of the van, shirtless, mascara running, pants on backwards, and a giant lipstick smear on one cheek. He was chasing after the goat in a full meltdown.

“PRINCESS NUGGET! GET BACK HERE!”

Then he looked up — and saw the Feral Eclipse bus.

And everything stopped.

Bret dropped to his knees in the gravel, arms raised like he was in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“NOOO! NOT AGAIN! WHY? WHY IS IT ALWAYS YOU?”

The pack exchanged looks. Cassie raised a brow. Thane snorted. Diesel just shook his head like he’d seen this entire bit play out too many times.

Maya clapped her hands and strode forward, voice dripping with amused sarcasm:

“Hey Bret, real quick — what was up with that goat? Messy scarf, lipstick, horns… You trying to recreate one of those Tijuana donkey shows… or did you just lose a very bizarre poker bet?”

Bret’s jaw snapped shut. His mascara-streaked face flushed darker than his lipstick. The goat bleated in perfect timing from afar, starting back toward the van.

“Shut up!” Bret screamed.
“I didn’t — It’s none of your business!”

He glared around, chest heaving… then turned on his heel and stomped back to the van.

The goat followed, of course.

As Bret stormed his way inside, the goat trotted in after him like it owned the place. The Saints’ roadie just groaned and closed the door with a sigh.

Emily snapped a photo of the van — goat’s snout pressed to the back window — as fuel for tomorrow’s tour update.

The post-show lounge at Blackthorne Hall had been hastily converted into a “meet and greet” space—if you could call a room with crumbling tapestries, cobwebs, and a candelabra chandelier “greetable.” The band had barely cooled down. Most still smelled like fog fluid and adrenaline.

A velvet rope had been put up in front of the stone dais where the band sat with water bottles, sharpies, and a thousand-yard stare of post-gig exhaustion.

At first, it was just the usual:

• Swooning goths telling Cassie she was their patron saint of eyeliner
• A man in chainmail asking Jonah to sign a loaf of sourdough
• A woman dressed as a mourning Victorian widow sobbing to Maya about the raw emotional symbolism of “Funeral Bloom”

And then… things got weird-er.

Emily was standing near the entrance, clipboard in hand, keeping the flow of fans moving.

That’s when she walked in.

A woman dressed in head-to-toe crushed velvet with a taxidermy crow strapped to her shoulder and a leatherbound book clasped to her chest like a holy relic. Her mask was bone-white and shaped like a skull, but the real weird was in her eyes. Unblinking. Fixated.

She didn’t go for Gabriel. Didn’t even flinch at Thane.

She zeroed in on Rico.

“Your chords… they ripple across the soulstream,” she intoned, stepping closer, voice like someone had taught an audiobook AI how to do necromancy. “I saw you in my dreams… before I was born.”

Rico blinked. “Uh… cool?”

She opened the leather book. Inside were hand-drawn sketches — hundreds of them — of Rico. Playing, sitting, eating a burrito, one with him in a spacesuit on Mars. Some of them… looked traced. Others didn’t.

Rico’s eyes went wide. “…Okay that’s a lot of me.”

Emily stepped in quickly, voice calm. “Hey there! Let’s keep moving — let’s not crowd the band —”

The fan tilted her head in a perfectly synchronized crow-like twitch. “You don’t understand. He’s my chord twin.”

Emily looked like she was starting to lose her cool, and Rico was definitely on the verge of bolting.

That’s when Thane stepped in.

No warning. No sound.

Just the solid, unmistakable thud of clawed feet on stone and his looming presence right behind her.

She turned slowly.

And froze.

His eyes — icy and sharp — locked with hers. One brow lifted. He didn’t growl. Didn’t say a word.

But the message was crystal clear.

Back. Off. Now.

The crow-lady looked at him, then back at Rico, then silently turned… and vanished into the crowd like smoke.

Emily let out a breath she’d been holding like it was her last.

Rico leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Bro… that was terrifying. But like… thank you.”

Emily turned to Thane. Her voice quiet, careful.

“I… I’m sorry,” she said. “Again. That could’ve gone sideways, and I shouldn’t have waited that long to ask for help.”

Thane stared at her.

Long.

Measured.

And then — just as her shoulders tensed — he gave a single, small nod. The kind that carried all the weight of a second chance.

Message received.
Forgiven.
Just don’t ever cross that line again.

Emily exhaled again, visibly relieved, and drifted off to wrangle the rest of the crowd before anything else could go full crow-mystic.

Rico still looked stunned. “Dude. I think she had my soul in that book.”

Gabriel passed by and clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the wolfpack, man.”

The lights in the Blood Ballroom dimmed to nothing.

Then came the sound—
Not music.
Not yet.
Just the soft, haunting drip drip drip of water echoing through ancient pipes. Thunder low in the distance. The eerie chime of a warped music box.

The masquerade crowd buzzed with anticipation, faces hidden behind lace masks and antlers, leather bird-beaks and porcelain skulls. Cloaks rustled. Someone clutched a plush raven. Another held up a candle. Some fans were fully weeping before the show even started.

And then —

BOOM.

The entire stage lit up in a blood-red flash, and Feral Eclipse erupted out of the shadows like beasts born from the dark itself.

Gabriel launched forward first—bass slung low, tail snapping, teeth flashing. The crowd SCREAMED as he tore into the opening riff of “Moonlit Mercy”, his signature melodic snarl rippling through the rafters.

Cassie stormed in behind him, voice like velvet and thunder, black feathers in her hair, mic in one hand and a skull-handled cane in the other, owning every inch of that ancient stone stage.

Rico, Jonah, and Maya slammed into their parts like clockwork chaos—flashing lights illuminating their silhouettes in streaks of red, purple, and ghost-white strobe.

And behind it all… Thane, standing like a storm in stillness at the sound console tucked into the shadows. His claws danced across sliders and pads, summoning lightning through the speakers—every drop of delay, every thump of bass, his to command.

The music built. Grew teeth. Fangs.

In the crowd, fans were losing their minds — swooning, moshing in velvet, fake fainting onto chaise lounges. Someone was actually howling in time with the bridge.

Midway through “Black Chapel Howl,” Gabriel leapt to the coffin by the side of the stage, throwing his head back and unleashing a deafening bass solo that sent tremors through the floor. Fog machines hissed, and the lighting strobed like lightning cracking across a graveyard.

And yes — YES — someone in a top hat and Dracula cape actually fainted into Lord Alaric, who was once again screaming Latin at the chandeliers.

At the climax of “Cathedral Claws,” Cassie raised her mic, howling into the darkness —

“I see you, midnight beasts!
I hear your hunger rise!
Then LET. IT. FEAST!!”

And the entire crowd howled back.

Thousands of fans.
Every single one of them.

A perfect storm of leather, eyeliner, and love.

---

After the final chord:

The stage went dark again.

But the crowd didn’t stop screaming. They didn’t even breathe.

The band gathered center stage, all panting, glistening, electrified with post-set adrenaline. Gabriel’s chest heaved, bass strap hanging off one shoulder. Cassie’s lipstick was smeared. Jonah had cracked a drumstick mid-song and looked like he’d been in a bar fight with a banshee.

---

Backstage, five minutes later:

Mark handed Gabriel a water bottle and muttered, “You missed a string on the second verse.”

Gabriel just laughed. “You noticed?”

“Barely,” Thane said from across the room. “I had it EQ’d out by the time it hit the house.”

Jonah collapsed onto a couch with a groan. “I think I pulled something during that double kick drop. Possibly a soul.”

Cassie, still glowing with sweat and glitter, just grinned. “We turned a masquerade into a mosh pit. That’s gotta be a first.”