Author: Thane Page 15 of 20

The next venue was a converted theater in a small town that proudly declared itself “The Gateway to Somewhere Slightly More Interesting.” Gabriel parked the van behind the building and immediately got a bad feeling.

The loading dock ramp was cracked and slanted like a skate park for reckless grandmothers. The side door had a handwritten sign that read:
“PLEASE KNOCK. DO NOT ANGER MARGE.”

Mark stared at the door. “Is… Marge the building manager or some sort of eldritch being?”

Maya stepped out of the van, stretching her back with a groan. “If I get tetanus from this gig, I’m invoicing someone.”

Gabriel, meanwhile, had spotted a small, metal sign bolted to the fence. It read:
“Silent After 9 PM – Retirement Community Next Door. Offenders Will Be Prosecuted.”

“Oh no,” Gabriel whispered, eyes widening with glee. “Thane… we’re about to play “Burn the Packlight” with 60,000 watts of subwoofers… next to grandmas.”

Thane slowly turned toward him, coiled audio cable already in one clawed hand. “Do not provoke the elderly.”

Inside, the venue was an actual gem—an old opera house with updated sound and gorgeous lighting potential. But the moment they plugged in, a venue rep came sprinting down the aisle with arms flailing.

“NO SOUND TEST YET! The wall shared with the senior yoga center is vibrating!”

Jonah, who had just started hitting the snare, grinned sheepishly. “Oops.”

Rico—tuning a tom nearby—looked around. “So… are we canceling the pyro?”

Thane whipped around. “We never had pyro, Rico.”

“Right. Totally theoretical question.”

While Thane argued with the venue manager about decibel limits and the precise definition of “minimal bass,” Gabriel disappeared. Ten minutes later, he returned with a new T-shirt that read “I Scared Marge” in bold letters.

“What did you do?” Thane asked.

“She yelled at me for existing too loud,” Gabriel replied, sipping coffee.

Mark had climbed into the rafters to hang lights, muttering about OSHA violations and the tragic misuse of truss clamps. Maya was duct-taping a setlist to her pedalboard and laughing every time someone said “Marge.”

Then… the door opened.

An elderly man in a beige cardigan stepped in, holding a small hearing aid in one hand and a flyer for the show in the other.

“You the loud wolf band?”

Everyone froze.

“Yes, sir,” Thane said cautiously.

The man smiled. “My name’s Fred. I’m ninety-three. Can I get a shirt that says ‘Feral Grandpa’?”

Gabriel’s grin went nova. “Sir, I will make you one right now.”

The hotel lobby smelled faintly of cinnamon rolls, chlorine, and something that might’ve been disappointment. Thane stood near the front desk, arms crossed, wearing the universal face of a man who’d slept on a van bench, wrangled half a lighting rig into a trailer at 2 AM, and still hadn’t had his diet Mountain Dew.

Gabriel, by contrast, was happily curled into a lobby armchair like it was his personal throne. He had a triple-shot iced coffee in one clawed hand, his phone in the other, and his tail swishing with pure morning glee. Mark stood nearby, flipping through a weathered paperback titled Lighting the Apocalypse: A Memoir.

Then came the lobby fans.

The front desk clerk peeked over the counter. “Umm, Mr. Thane? There’s… someone here to see you guys?”

Thane’s ears flicked. “Us?”

The lobby doors slid open, and in came three people in full-blown, homemade werewolf costumes. Like… dollar-store fur, glued-on claws, and enough makeup to choke a MAC store.

“Oh, no,” Mark muttered, already regretting waking up.

Gabriel lit up. “YES. I love commitment.”

One of the fans approached with a gift bag held reverently in both hands. “We’ve been following Feral Eclipse since the underground demos! You saved my life during my second divorce! This is for you.”

Thane accepted the bag warily, like it might be ticking.

Inside was a hand-drawn comic titled “Thane’s Thicc Claw Chronicles”—an epic saga of him slashing through evil with heroic thighs and glowing paws.

Mark read over his shoulder and nearly dropped his book. “I—Is that me in a maid outfit?”

The fan beamed. “Yes! You’re the voice of reason in chapter seven!”

Gabriel, sipping his coffee, held back laughter. Barely. “Please tell me there’s a musical number.”

Another fan leaned in. “Gabriel, I knitted you a cozy for your bass guitar. It’s got paw prints and your face. It’s reversible.”

“Bless your chaotic soul,” Gabriel grinned, accepting it like a golden idol.

The third fan, who’d been silently staring at Mark this whole time, finally blurted, “You’re my favorite. You look like you’d destroy me with one look. That’s so hot.”

Mark blinked. “Thanks. I guess?”

The desk clerk was now actively trying to not die of laughter. Gabriel finally stood, looping an arm around Thane.

“Hey, big guy,” he whispered, “you ok?”

Thane looked dazed. “I need a drink. A strong one. Preferably without glitter in it.”

From across the lobby, the fans began excitedly taking selfies—with Gabriel cheerfully posing, Mark halfway behind a ficus, and Thane visibly questioning every decision that had led him here.

Gabriel winked at the camera.

“Feral Eclipse, baby. Changing lives—and maybe your search history.”

Post-brunch. A couple of band members still look traumatized from “Raging Moon Toast.” The crew has wandered downstairs, some bleary-eyed, some still riding the adrenaline from the night before. Gabriel’s sipping his fourth coffee. Thane’s carrying a coil of audio cable for no reason. Mark looks like he’s regretting everything. Again.

A hotel clerk at the front desk waves them down. “Uh… excuse me? Are you guys… Feral Eclipse?”

Maya sighs. “Yeah, what gave it away? The claws? The caffeine aura? The faint smell of fog machine?”

The clerk looks unsure whether to laugh or run. “There’s… a package for you. Actually, a few. They’ve been coming in all morning.”

Jonah steps forward, curious. “Fan stuff?”

“Maybe?” the clerk says, wheeling out a luggage cart stacked with colorful boxes, envelopes, and at least three weirdly shaped gift bags.

Gabriel grins. “OH HELL YES. PRESENTS.”

Rico raises a brow. “Or pipe bombs.”

Maya mutters, “Honestly, both are on-brand for our fanbase.”

Thane opens the first envelope, reading aloud:

“To the alpha with the icy stare and the thighs of destiny—
Enclosed is a handmade thong made of ethically sourced faux wolf fur. I hope it finds you well. – ‘LunarLover93’.”

He deadpans. “I hate this planet.”

Mark opens a box and immediately slams it shut again. “Nope. That’s taxidermy. Nope nope nope.”

Gabriel eagerly rips into a box. Inside is a glitter-covered portrait of him drawn entirely in coffee stains. He holds it up proudly. “LOOK. IT’S ME. MADE OF BEANS.”

Jonah pulls out a small package addressed to “Drum Daddy.” He opens it and pulls out… a rubber chicken. With fangs. And tiny drumsticks taped to its sides.

There is silence.

Then Jonah says, deadpan, “This is my new emotional support item.”

Gabriel gently clutches the coffee portrait to his chest. “I’m gonna hang this above my side of the van bunk.”

Rico finds a rolled-up poster tube and opens it—revealing fan art of Thane and Gabriel as anime wolf princes in sparkly outfits, standing on a mountain of speakers and hearts.

Thane groans. “WHY ARE WE SPARKLY?!”

Maya’s cackling. “Because you’re someone’s OTP, apparently.”

Mark unearths a hand-sewn plushie of himself. It has a tiny scowl, clawed feet, and a felt coffee cup glued to its paw. He stares at it for a long moment. Then carefully tucks it under his arm without a word.

Gabriel gently nudges Thane. “You okay?”

Thane gives him a flat look. “I’m one taxidermy fan letter away from setting this entire rack of mail on fire.”

Gabriel beams. “You’re doing great.”

Just then, the clerk leans back out and nervously adds, “Oh! There’s… also someone waiting in the lounge who says they made you all something special.”

Everyone freezes.

Rico: “Is it edible?”

Jonah: “Is it legal?”

Maya: “Is it emotionally safe?”

Gabriel, eyes sparkling: “I HOPE IT’S ALL THREE.”

Post-gig, sun peeking through half-closed blackout curtains. A coffee machine wheezes in the background. Thane and Mark are groaning awake on opposite couches. The air smells like… is that burnt cinnamon?

Gabriel stood in front of the hotel kitchenette’s stovetop like it was a stage rig, shirtless, tail swishing behind him in full concentration. Clawed hands held a spatula like it was his bass. Something sizzled angrily in the pan. Something that had once been French toast. Maybe.

Thane sat up, blinking hard. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”

Gabriel turned, wide-eyed and way too cheerful for the morning after a show. “Brunch, obviously.”

Mark grunted without opening his eyes. “Something’s on fire.”

“It’s caramelizing,” Gabriel shot back proudly. “I saw it on TikTok. You just gotta blast the heat and flip it with confidence.”

“You’ve been watching cooking TikToks again?” Thane narrowed his eyes.

“Uh huh. Gordon Ramsay. But like… werewolf style.” Gabriel beamed, gesturing at the pan where something vaguely food-shaped had fused with the non-stick surface. “I added Red Hots, cinnamon, vanilla extract, and uh… that little bottle of vodka from the mini fridge.”

Mark opened one eye. “That’s not French toast. That’s arson on bread.”

Gabriel flipped the entire pan’s contents onto a plate with dramatic flair. The result thudded. Hard. Like drywall.

“I call it Raging Moon Toast!” he announced triumphantly, handing the plate to Thane with a toothy grin.

Thane stared at it. Then at Gabriel. Then back at the plate. “This looks like something I’d scrape off a subwoofer grill.”

“I’m touched,” Gabriel said, completely unbothered.

Mark groaned. “I’m not eating that. I have a death wish, but not that kind.”

Thane braced himself, tore off a chunk, and popped it in his mouth.

A pause.

He blinked.

Then his ears went flat. “Gabriel.”

“Yeah, Thane?”

“Did you just combine sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, vodka, and spicy candies and try to fry it in a hotel pan with no butter?”

Gabriel looked very pleased with himself. “You can taste the ambition, right?”

Thane slowly stood up, staring at the burnt-red slab in his hand. “I can hear my arteries crying.”

Mark muttered, “I’m putting in an order for real breakfast. If anyone wants something not soaked in danger, speak now.”

Gabriel took a proud bite of his own chaotic creation and immediately winced. “…okay maybe a little less vodka next time.”

The smoke alarm chirped once in sympathy.

The bass is rattling the roof. The crowd is in an absolute frenzy. Sweat flies from every limb on stage. Fog pours out in massive bursts. The lights are strobing like lightning trapped in a cage.

Gabriel is tearing through the bassline, clawed fingers a blur, black fur soaked, fangs bared in pure exhilaration. He stomps across the stage like he owns it—and let’s be real, right now? He does.

Maya’s got the rhythm churning like a damn freight train, slamming each chord with a feral twist of her hips, her eyes wild under the rig lights. She looks over at Rico, who’s blazing through the solo so fast his strings might catch fire.

Mark doesn’t even blink. He punches the cue—BOOM. Pyro goes off, flames leaping skyward like fire demons. The VL2Bs behind the truss fire downward with deep red beams slashing through smoke like bloodied claws.

And then…

CRACK.

Everyone flinches.

Jonah—mid-drum fill—his right drumstick shatters in his grip. It flies over the snare like a splintered javelin and lands in the audience. There’s a beat of pure silence…

Then—without missing a single goddamn beat—he grabs a full, unopened Blue Moon beer bottle from behind the kit and starts drumming with that.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

The crowd loses their collective shit.

Foam sprays from the cap as Jonah slams the cymbals with the neck of the bottle like he’s conjuring thunder from hops and madness. He looks like a possessed bartender at a biker bar drum circle.

Rico sees it and howls with laughter mid-solo. Maya spins toward Jonah, her mouth open like are you freaking serious right now!?

Gabriel? He drops to his knees on stage in mock worship and bows to Jonah while still playing.

And the fans?

They’re throwing beer, screaming, chanting “JO-NAH! JO-NAH!” at the top of their lungs.

Even Mark, stoic Mark, cracks the tiniest grin as he floods the stage with blue-white strobe pulses in Jonah’s honor.

Thane throws his head back and howls, slapping the cable against the riser. “NOW that’s rock and f***ing roll!”

The curtain ripples like the breath of a monster. Behind it, tension crackles. The crowd outside is deafening—thousands of bodies, crammed shoulder to shoulder, pulsing with raw anticipation. A rhythmic chant rises from the front row: FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!

Backstage, it’s a war party.

Gabriel—sleek black fur gleaming under the stage rig, bass slung low across his chest like a weapon of mass destruction—paces like a predator. His icy blue eyes flash toward the curtain, already hearing the beat in his blood. He’s a god behind strings, and tonight, he’s ready to baptize this crowd in thunder.

Maya, rhythm guitar in hand, stands planted like a damn hurricane—sharp-eyed, hair wild, a sneer tugging at her lips. She’s already snarling under her breath: “If someone flubs this opening riff, I will bite a throat.”

Jonah, the drummer, is a machine at the kit—fingers loose, sticks spinning, heart already two measures ahead. His entire body buzzes like a live wire. “Let’s break the f***ing ground,” he mutters, cracking his knuckles.

Rico, lead guitarist, is all energy and nerves—shoulders bouncing, fingers twitching over the fretboard as he tunes. “Please don’t set anything on fire this time,” he says, not sure if he’s talking to Gabriel, Jonah, or God.

And in the wings—

Thane, towering and tense, stands with coiled audio cable in one clawed hand and a storm in his ice-blue eyes. His bare feet flex against the risers. “Mark—lighting’s ready?”

Mark, cool and composed, eyes narrowed from beneath thick gray brows, grunts. His hands hover over his custom DMX board like a conductor over a symphony of lasers. “You’ll know when I start,” he says.

Then—BOOM.

The curtain snaps upward in a blinding flash of red.

Gabriel charges forward like a bullet, slamming the opening bass line down hard enough to rattle the bones of the security guards.

Maya follows, rhythm roaring, power chords blasting through the stadium like shotgun fire. Her hair whips with every crunch of her strings.

Rico dives into his lead line, fingers blurring, mouth twisted in a grin that says hell yes we’re doing this.

And Jonah—oh god, Jonah—he detonates behind the kit, each drum strike a thunderclap, cymbals crashing like lightning at war.

The crowd. Explodes.

People scream. Cry. Climb over barricades. There’s a guy in the fifth row literally howling at the moon.

And above it all—Mark drops the hammer.

Six VariLite VL2Bs mounted along the upper truss fire down jagged red beams through the fog, slicing the stage into ribbons of fire and fury. The lights are choreographed with surgical precision—ripping, flashing, biting the beat with every strobe.

Gabriel jumps to a monitor, slams his foot down, and howls into the crowd with his arms raised high.

And the crowd?

The crowd howls back.

The floor was packed.

The first three rows were a melting pot of mania—sweaty, snarling, vibrating with anticipation. Lights still low. House music still playing. No one cared. They were already acting like the show had started.

One girl in the front center—purple hair, face paint, a custom-made shirt that read “Mate Me, Gabriel”—was trying to start a synchronized howl. Loud. Sharp. Repeated. And increasingly off-key.

A guy to her left—shirtless, shredded jeans, enough body glitter to qualify as a safety hazard—was aggressively moshing with a folding chair.

There was no music.

No beat.

Just him.
And the chair.
Locked in a battle for dominance.

Security had already tried to stop him once, but he’d hissed and told them he was “channeling the spirit of the lunar surge.”

Stage left, a small group had started a coordinated claw-hand chant. “FE-RAL E-CLIPSE! SLASH! SLASH!” with actual air slashing motions. One of them was wearing homemade foam claws the size of oven mitts.

Two fans in the second row were cosplaying as Thane and Mark, complete with homemade furry feet and LED collars. Problem was—they’d somehow gotten way too into character and had begun mock-growling at people who got too close to the barricade.

Security referred to them as “Discount Snarl Bros.”

Gabriel peeked out from backstage and immediately ducked back, wide-eyed.
“They’re sharpening spoons out there,” he whispered.
“Why?” Thane asked, instantly alarmed.
Gabriel just shrugged. “To feel something, probably.”

Maya passed by holding her guitar, glanced at the monitor, and laughed. “You guys sure know how to attract the feral part of the demographic.”

Back at FOH, Mark slowly reached over, grabbed the master volume fader, and muttered,
“I should just cut the power and run.”

Thane leaned in next to him, gaze fixed on the front row through the haze.
“No. Let it ride.”

Then—without warning—one of the fans up front ripped off his shirt to reveal a freshly inked tattoo across his chest: “Pack Loyalty — Fangs Out Forever”

Another immediately fainted.

Security called for medics.

Jonah, tuning backstage, raised an eyebrow.
“We haven’t even played a note yet.”

Mark sighed.
“They’re pre-gaming insanity.”

Gabriel, sipping a new cup of coffee:
“…I kinda love it.”

Thane cracked his knuckles and stared at the swirling chaos near the barricade.
“Let’s give them something worth howling about.”

Thirty minutes to showtime.

The front row was already feral.

The clock struck six.

The main lobby lights dimmed.

And the doors of the venue flung open like floodgates releasing a tide of chaos.

Fans poured in—an eclectic wave of humanity in black shirts, tattered denim, and too many piercings to count. Someone was already filming with their phone. Someone else howled. The staff at the merch table visibly braced as the first dozen people beelined for limited-edition Feral Eclipse hoodies like it was a Black Friday bloodbath.

A shriek rang out near the front barricade.
“Oh my GOD—they put claws on the stage monitors!”

They hadn’t. That was just Thane’s wiring looking aggressive.

Backstage, Maya peeked through the curtain, lips curled into a grin. “You seeing this? We’ve officially crossed into cult territory.”

Jonah, reclined across two folding chairs, didn’t even look up. “We been cult. This is just… confirmation.”

Out front, the cosplay squad made their presence known.

Three superfans, all in varying levels of DIY werewolf makeup and fur-stitched leather, posed for a photo op right in front of the stage. One had sharpie-scrawled “GABRIEL 4 LYYYYFE” across their bare chest. Another had tried to recreate Thane’s stormy streaks of gray with what looked like silver glitter and glue. The third? Full-on snarling with glued-on dollar store claws and a tail that wagged a little too much.

Mark, watching from FOH with arms folded, deadpanned: “I’m leaving.”

Thane, beside him, squinted at the group and made a face like he’d swallowed spoiled chili. “They made me look like a drag muppet.”

“Your tail was sparkly,” Mark agreed.

Back near the barricade, Gabriel appeared—black T-shirt clinging to him, coffee cup still in hand, radiant with post-soundcheck energy.

The cosplay squad squealed.

“Oh shit, it’s him—IT’S HIM—GABRIEL!!”

He blinked, mid-sip, nearly choking.

“Hi?” he said with his usual wide-eyed grin.

They lunged for selfies. Gabriel obliged, though his face read full “I’m too caffeinated for this.” One fan asked him to sign their bicep. Another offered him a stuffed wolf plushie wearing sunglasses.

He took it.

Its tag read: “Lil’ Gabe.”

“Sweet baby lycanthropy,” he muttered, stuffing it in his hoodie pocket.

Backstage again, Thane and Mark both glared at the scene playing out on the CCTV.

“I hate it here,” Thane growled.

Mark grunted. “You should be flattered. They made Jonah into a Funko Pop once. It had glitter abs.”

Just then, a security guard walked by muttering into his radio:
“We got another one howling at the soda machine. Requesting backup.”

Backstage was a war zone of last-minute adjustments—cables taped down, amps humming, Gabriel tapping out bass lines with a manic energy that made even Maya nervous. Mark stood at the lighting console, claws hovering over the sliders like a predator stalking prey. Thane, meanwhile, was doing his final sweep—checking connections, tightening stands, re-coiling anything that dared to slouch.

And then…

POW!!

A deafening pop shook the loading dock. Lights flickered. Every screen in the venue blinked off.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL—” Thane roared from under the drum riser, slamming into view like a grizzly with caffeine withdrawal.

Mark’s lighting rig went dark.

Maya’s guitar amp sizzled.

Gabriel dropped his bass with a yelp, cradling the cable like it had just insulted his mother.

Then… a voice. Wavering. Terrified.

“…I think I accidentally plugged the fog machine into the PA distro…”

Everyone turned.

There stood Logan, holding a melted three-prong adapter and looking like he’d just survived an electrical exorcism.

Thane’s snarl echoed through the concrete walls.

Mark stepped off the platform slowly—like a force of nature in a button-down shirt and black cargo pants. His claws clicked against the floor. One twitch of an ear. His eyes narrowed.

“Logan,” he growled, voice calm but deadly.

“I was trying to clean up the cord nest!” Logan squeaked. “And the labels were faded! And then the raccoon jumped out of the trap and I dropped my vape into the power strip!”

Thane took a step forward, fur bristling, hands flexing wide to bare full claws.

“I’m going to bury you under this stage,” he snarled.

“I vote we bury him behind the arena,” Mark added coolly. “Less traffic. Cleaner dirt.”

Logan backed into a lighting tree, knocking over a spare gobo lens with a crash.

“I was helping!” he whimpered.

Gabriel zipped in, practically teleporting between the wolves and the panicked intern. He grabbed Thane by the upper arm, claws gently digging into fur.

“Thane. Breathe. He’s not worth it.”

Thane was panting like he’d just sprinted a mile uphill with a speaker stack on his back.

Gabriel lowered his voice. “Think of the lawsuit. Think of the paperwork. Think of me… writing a heartfelt ballad about how my wolf went to prison for gutting an intern with a mic stand.”

Thane froze… and let out a low, guttural groan.

Mark finally huffed and stepped back, muttering, “He’d probably break the mic stand anyway. Kid’s made of panic and Hot Pockets.”

Gabriel turned to Logan and shoved a roll of gaffer tape into his shaking hands.

“Go. Tape down the green room fridge door so it doesn’t rattle again. That’s all you’re allowed to touch. Tape. And fridge.”

Logan nodded so fast his headset nearly fell off again.

As he vanished into the back hallway like a caffeinated goblin, Gabriel leaned into Thane’s side and whispered:

“Ten bucks says he tapes himself to the fridge.”

Thane exhaled a chuckle through gritted fangs. “Make it twenty.”

Jerry bolted around the corner of the venue like the opening act was a pack of debt collectors. The second he was out of Thane’s line of sight, he bent over and wheezed into the shadow of a broken vending machine. His Big Gulp sloshed wildly.

“Holy hell,” he muttered, pulling out his phone. “Call Greg. Call Greg. C’mon…”

The phone rang. And rang. Finally—

“You’ve reached Greg with All-Nite Promotions—”

He hung up and whispered, “Useless, Greg. Just like your inflatable stage dancers.”

Jerry slapped his forehead and darted into the maze of back hallways that connected the kitchen, janitorial closet, and what was generously referred to as the “green room.” He flung open a storage door and fished out a weathered metal cash box hidden behind a crate of expired Sour Punch Straws and three tattered mascot heads.

As he counted out a terrifyingly light stack of twenties, he muttered under his breath.

“No one told me they were real werewolves… I thought it was branding. Like those guys who wear Viking helmets and scream in German.”

He dropped a five on the ground, cursed, and dove after it, cracking his head on a case of discontinued energy drinks.

He staggered out of the closet, hair full of dust bunnies, clutching the envelope of his own doom. On the way back through the corridor, he passed the raccoon trap again. Sure enough, Ralph the raccoon was inside—now eating what was very clearly Maya’s emergency Pop-Tarts.

Jerry slowed down.

“…I’m not getting paid enough for this.”

He trudged on, then stopped at a water cooler with a taped-up hand-scrawled sign:

DO NOT DRINK – VERY SLIGHT SULFUR.
Jerry stared at it. Then drank anyway.

Halfway through his cup, he jumped as Logan—the unpaid college intern in a neon vest—ran up, headset tangled in his neck.

“Mr. Jerry! Mr. Jerry! I think I unplugged something important trying to get the disco ball going and now the fog machine is… uhh… breathing?”

Jerry blinked. “Breathing?”

A low huff… chuff… huff… echoed faintly from down the hall.

“Oh for the love of Meatloaf,” he muttered.

He stormed past Logan, slapping the walkie-talkie out of the kid’s hand as it squawked, “Can someone tell the guy in the parking lot with a ferret on his shoulder he’s not part of the VIP meet-and-greet?”

By the time Jerry reached the stage door again, he was sweating through his khakis. He shoved the envelope toward Thane like it might bite.

“Payment. In full. Don’t kill me.”

Thane opened it. Counted. Nodded.

Jerry sighed in visible relief. Then winced when Gabriel leaned in with a wicked grin and whispered:

“Ralph says hi.”

Jerry screamed.