Author: Thane Page 15 of 40

The bus creaked to a stop on the edge of a winding gravel drive, headlights casting long shadows across a wide clearing… and there it stood:

Blackthorne Hall.

A looming, weathered castle with gargoyle-lined battlements, a working drawbridge, flickering torch sconces, and ominous string music echoing from somewhere deep within.

Diesel stared through the windshield.

“…Nope,” he muttered. “This is how cult documentaries start.”

Emily was practically vibrating with excitement. “It’s perfect! They said we’re supposed to make a ‘theatrical entrance’ when we arrive.”

Thane, arms crossed at the front of the bus, growled. “We are the theatrical entrance.”

As the pack and crew disembarked, the crowd outside the castle erupted—a swirling sea of corsets, capes, silver jewelry, and extremely questionable contact lenses. Gothic fans screamed with delight, their cheers echoing eerily under the towering spires.

One man was dressed as a literal gargoyle. Another had bat wings so wide they took out two torches when he turned. A trio of women in matching lace veils bowed dramatically when Mark passed by.

Cassie looked around. “Did we just roll into a Tim Burton fever dream?”

Jonah elbowed Gabriel. “That guy’s dressed like you, man!”

Gabriel turned—and came face to face with a fan in a full-scale fursuit recreation of Gabriel’s own wolf form… complete with LED-lit eyes, a bass guitar prop, and a tail that actually wagged.

The fan dropped to their knees and whispered:

“I AM YOU. YOU ARE ME. THE LOOP IS COMPLETE.”

Gabriel blinked. “I have so many emotions right now.”

---

Inside the Hall:

Blackthorne’s interior was pure gothic opulence—vaulted ceilings, velvet drapes, skull-themed chandeliers, and a suspicious number of ravens perched in places ravens should not be.

The band followed a candle-bearing event coordinator named Darcy down a long corridor.

Darcy spoke in a slow, theatrical lilt. “The masquerade ball is in full swing, your stage is set beneath the ancient stained glass, and we’ve prepared—”

Thane cut her off. “Who’s the guy in the skull mask screaming at the candelabra?”

Darcy sighed. “That would be Lord Alaric, head of the Blackthorne Historical Society. He’s convinced your presence desecrates the sanctity of the Blood Ballroom.”

Cassie whispered, “…Blood Ballroom?!”

Darcy didn’t blink. “Yes. He also believes one of you is a reincarnated sorcerer from 1742. Try not to provoke him.”

Just then, Lord Alaric spun around, long cloak billowing. “THEY WALK AMONG US AGAIN!” he shouted, pointing directly at Mark. “LOOK INTO HIS EYES AND SEE THE VOID!”

Mark blinked once.

Alaric promptly fainted into a pile of pewter goblets.

Jonah: “Well, that was dramatic.”

---

Backstage Before the Set:

Gabriel was adjusting his in-ear monitors when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned—only to be pulled into a tearful hug by a fan in mourning garb.

“I just want you to know,” she sobbed, mascara running down her cheeks like haunted rivers, “I buried my rat to your Rain Moon Elegy song. It was so beautiful. Her name was Biscuit.”

Gabriel blinked. “…I am both honored and emotionally unprepared.”

Across the stage, Thane discovered someone had set up a literal coffin for him to rest in between songs.

He stared at it.

He stared at Emily.

Emily just whispered, “Lean in, my wolf. Lean all the way in.”

She said it playfully. Lightly. Like a joke between friends.

But the words hit the air like a gunshot in a cathedral.

Thane’s entire body went still.

The room, the chaos, the distant violin warmups, all seemed to fall away. His head turned slowly toward her, ice-blue eyes hard as granite. His ears pinned back. His lip curled just slightly—not in rage, but warning.

Lethal silence.

She froze.

Then came the growl — quiet, deep, and unmistakably final.

“Don’t ever call me that again.”

He turned and walked off, claws clicking sharply on the old stone floor.

Emily stood there, stunned, heart thudding against her ribs, the weight of her misstep crashing down like a curtain of shame.

Gabriel had been onstage nearby, adjusting his rig, but he’d heard it. His head snapped toward the sound the second the growl came. He moved fast, slipping past the stagehands and following Thane, tail stiff with unease.

Emily stood there alone in front of the coffin, breath caught in her throat.

---

A few minutes later…

She found them near the side of the castle, beneath a small ivy-draped stone arch where the torchlight didn’t quite reach.

Gabriel was crouched next to Thane, checking a pedalboard setup while the alpha kept his arms crossed, staring off into the dark trees with his jaw clenched tight.

Emily swallowed hard. Then stepped forward.

“Thane… I’m so sorry.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t think. I wasn’t trying to — I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. I was just… caught up in the moment, and I crossed a line. I won’t ever do it again. I promise.”

Gabriel looked up at her slowly. His icy blue gaze carried more weight than his usual chaos. His face was calm, but not soft.

“He’s not your wolf,” he said, simply.

A pause.

Then, like wind through a candle, the fire in his eyes died down, and his voice warmed.

“But it’s okay. You owned it. Just… be careful what you borrow. Some names aren’t meant to be shared.”

Emily nodded quickly. “I will. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

Thane didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

The silence was acceptance.

Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But the kind of silence that let things settle instead of burn.

---

From the ballroom, the low hum of strings and stomping boots signaled the show was about to begin.

Gabriel stood and gave Emily a faint smile.

“Hey… if it makes you feel better? The last person who tried that got headbutted off a loading ramp.”

Emily blinked.

He winked.

She managed a weak laugh—and retreated to the crew bench, where Mark gave her a side-eye and handed her a can of soda without saying a word.

---

Backstage, Thane slung his coil of cables over one shoulder and met Gabriel at the wings. The alpha’s face was calm again, distant but grounded.

Gabriel leaned in just before they walked on.

“Still mine.”

And then they were gone, swallowed by red lights and thunder.

The bus hummed steadily down the moonlit highway, taillights glowing red against the dark stretch of backcountry blacktop. The pack was scattered across the interior—some sprawled on couches, some curled into bunks, gear rattling faintly in the belly of the beast. The afterglow of the last gig still lingered, a buzzing warmth under their skin.

Up front, Diesel leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his ever-present thermos of truck-stop rocket fuel. The old road dog grinned at the empty two-lane ahead.

“Alright, weirdos… where to next?”

Emily, seated just behind him with her tablet and headphones, blinked as an alert popped up. She squinted at the screen, then turned to shout down the aisle.

“Hey! You’re not gonna believe this—”

Cassie peeked out from behind the curtain of her bunk. “Is it another bootleg fur-fest? Because I swear to god if someone makes a ‘Paws and Praise’ remix again —”

“No,” Emily said, eyes wide, tapping her screen. “It’s… a castle.”

There was a beat.

Jonah’s voice called from the back: “You mean like a Cracker Barrel that looks like a castle or an actual castle?”

Emily turned the screen so everyone could see.

The image was unmistakable: a massive stone structure with spires and towers rising above a forested hill… and a banner stretched across the front gates reading:

“Midnight Masquerade: A Gothic Gala for the Ages”
Featuring live music from Feral Eclipse.

Thane narrowed his eyes. “…I didn’t agree to that.”

“Technically,” Emily said sheepishly, “the promoter’s email went to spam. It’s already sold out. Thousands of people. Half in costume. There’s, uh… a moat?”

Gabriel sprang to his paws, tail wagging in wide loops. “A moat?! Do we get to cross a drawbridge?!”

Maya leaned over the back of the couch. “Why does this feel like a setup for a Scooby-Doo episode?”

Mark grunted from where he was tightening a case strap. “If there’s a guy in a rubber mask, I’m out.”

Cassie emerged fully from her bunk, eyes gleaming. “Goth masquerade, castle venue, and a literal pack of wolves with stage passes? Oh yeah. Let’s go give the undead something to dance to.”

Diesel just chuckled. “Alright then, buckle up, kids. Looks like your next gig… is in a fairytale.”

The engine roared. The bus picked up speed.

And somewhere in the distance, the silhouette of a stone fortress rose against the starlit sky — awaiting its pack of midnight legends.

The stage had barely cooled down. The house still thrummed with the ghosts of echoing bass and crowd roars. Outside the venue, a long line curled through the parking lot—fans buzzing, makeup smudged, voices hoarse, hearts wide open.

The meet and greet was already in full swing, held inside a small conference hall at the side of the venue. Cassie was signing setlists, Jonah was showing off his drumsticks, and Gabriel had a pile of gifted bracelets draped around one furry wrist.

Thane, as always, stood half a step behind the table, arms folded, ice-blue eyes sweeping the room like a silent bouncer with very visible claws.

The vibe was joyful. Loud. Healing.

Until it wasn’t.

Three people in the back of the line—two older women and a man with a heavy scowl and a sign shoved under his arm—started muttering loud enough to be heard. Something about sin and false idols and wolves in human clothing.

Someone tried to shush them.

They just got louder.

Cassie blinked and leaned sideways toward Thane. “Uh-oh. Do we still have law enforcement on site?”

Thane didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t need to.

Chief Ron Callister, in full casual dad mode — standing proudly next to his grinning son in a patched-up Feral Eclipse hoodie — raised his handheld police radio to his mouth like he was ordering fast food.

“Unit three, five, and seven — remove the three loudmouths disrupting this line. And if they resist, I want ‘em helping sanitation detail until sun-up.”

“10-4, Chief,” came the reply.

Seconds later, three uniformed officers swept in, calm but firm, and escorted the protestors out to the roaring approval of the crowd. The chief just winked at his son and said, “Told ya we were staying for the whole show.”

---

Later, during load-out:

The adrenaline had mostly worn off. Gear cases thumped down ramps. Emily cataloged damage with a clipboard and a tired smile. Diesel leaned against the bus door, sipping a well-earned root beer like it was holy water.

Thane coiled cables with practiced precision. Mark stacked lighting crates. Gabriel was halfway into his bunk when he heard soft knocking on the side of the bus.

He blinked. Opened the door.

There, in full Feral Eclipse merch from head to toe — hat, hoodie, even wristbands — stood a young boy, maybe 11, his arm in a bright blue cast already covered in sharpied lyrics and paw prints from earlier.

“Hi,” the kid whispered. “Can you… sign this? You’re my favorite.”

Gabriel grinned and crouched low, claws careful. “Of course, little wolf.”

As he signed the cast with slow, careful strokes, the boy’s eyes went wide with awe. “I got all your songs on my phone,” he said quickly. “Even the ones not on Spotify. I found the B-sides on a forum. I burned a CD.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Old school. I like it.”

He paused. Then reached up and tugged off his venue all-access lanyard and slipped it over the kid’s head.

The boy gasped.

That’s when Gabriel heard the shouting.

The boy’s parents — standing at the edge of the parking lot with the same protest signs from earlier — were barreling toward the bus, panic on their faces like he was about to devour their son whole.

They stopped short as the boy turned and ran back to them, beaming. “LOOK WHAT HE GAVE ME!”

They just stood there — speechless.

The dad’s jaw worked silently. The mom dropped her sign.

Gabriel simply gave them a lazy, bright smile, one long fang showing like a badge of honor — and waved.

This wasn’t about them.
It was never about them.

It was about the kid. The moment. The music. The love.

And that was enough.

---

Back inside the bus, Thane watched through the window, arms folded, saying nothing.

Gabriel climbed in, flopped onto the couch, tail flopping over the edge, grinning from ear to pointed ear.

“Totally worth the cast-cramp,” he muttered.

Cassie passed with her tea in hand, smiling softly. “You’ve got a real gift, you know that?”

The crowd inside the venue was a roaring, electric sea of black t-shirts, homemade signs, and pure devotion.

Every seat packed.
Every inch of floor swaying.
And on the very edge of the front row, the police chief’s son beamed like the sun itself—wearing a vintage Feral Eclipse hoodie and holding a cardboard sign that said:

“My Dad Thinks Y’all Are Loud. I Think Y’all Are EVERYTHING.”

Backstage, Gabriel cracked his neck, tail flicking. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

Cassie checked her mic, narrowed her eyes toward the rising screams. “They’re starving out there.”

Mark, from the lighting booth: “Let’s feed ‘em.”

Thane gave one final nod. “Let’s rock.”

But just as the intro music rolled — just as fog machines hissed and the first strobe snapped —

BOOM.

Everything. Went. Black.

The amps silenced.
The lights died.
The crowd gasped like one organism losing its breath.

Inside the pitch dark, Gabriel muttered, “…That wasn’t us, right?”

From backstage, Emily’s voice: “Guys, we’ve lost mains. Like… outside.”

Diesel cracked the back door just as the emergency lights kicked in — and saw it:

A protestor.

Older, bearded, absolutely unhinged—swinging a FIRE AXE into the venue’s main electrical disconnect, arcing sparks everywhere. Screaming something about salvation and wolves of the apocalypse.

And just as he swung again —

ZAP.

He crumpled like a sack of potatoes, smoking, groaning, but somehow still alive.

And charging at him across the parking lot like a freight train of law and fury:

The Chief of Police.

“YOU MADE MY SON CRY!”

The zealot didn’t make it two feet before the chief full-body tackled him to the gravel with the kind of force reserved for football finals and righteous parental rage.

The crowd hadn’t seen what happened — just that the show had stopped.

Inside the venue, chaos brewed. Fans chanting “FERAL! FERAL!” Others asking what was going on. Lights flickering. Kids crying. Phones up.

Thane stepped out the back door, ice-blue eyes locked on the scorched power box.

He turned to the chief, who was still breathing heavy, cuffing the half-conscious zealot with unnecessary enthusiasm.

“Easy,” Thane said quietly. “He believed something too hard to see the truth. It doesn’t make him right — but it makes him… human.”

The chief stood, still bristling.

“My son was happy,” he growled. “This lunatic tried to take that away.”

Thane nodded once. “Then let’s give it back to him.”

He turned, knelt down by the fried panel, claws glinting in the emergency light.

Diesel hovered nearby. “You’re not gonna touch that thing —”

“I’ve seen worse,” Thane muttered.

He pulled a crescent wrench from his back pocket. Found an old screwdriver buried in the tool bin by the loading ramp.

Gabriel poked his head out. “Are those… fuses?”

“Nope,” Thane growled. “But they’ll do.”

With careful movements, sparks crackling just inches away from his muzzle, Thane rigged the connection.

Click.
Whine.
THUNK.

The power surged back online.

The amps kicked.
The lights strobed.
And the venue ERUPTED.

---

Onstage moments later:

The band stood in a line under the lights — smoke curling up from the floor like ghosts on fire.

Cassie raised the mic, grinning like a beast about to break the world open.

“Somebody tried to shut us down tonight.”

The crowd BOOED.

“Didn’t work.”

SCREAMS.

Cassie pointed toward the soundboard, where Thane stood like a battle-worn sentinel, claws still faintly singed.

“Because nothing — not hate, not fear, not fire axes — is gonna stop this pack.”

The first note dropped like thunder.

The fans lost their minds.

The police chief’s kid wept openly and danced harder than anyone in the room.

And under the stage lights, with cables humming and voices raised, Feral Eclipse tore through the most cathartic, fierce, soul-ripping set they had ever played. The crowd inside the venue was a roaring, electric sea of black t-shirts, homemade signs, and pure devotion.

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.”

The crowd had finally begun to thin, the town square slowly returning to its previous sleepy pace — minus the glitter confetti, sticker-covered food carts, and the rapidly deflating inflatable Gabriel head now curled up on the lawn like a dying moon bounce.

The band trickled back toward the bus, still signing the occasional hoodie or paw print sketch, all riding that weird post-gig adrenaline slump that hits once the fans start leaving and your blood sugar crashes like a dropped cymbal.

Mark was already at the bus door, arms folded, tail flicking slightly with every tired footstep behind him. He was eyeing the last fan stragglers like they might suddenly break into interpretive dance or ask him to join a TikTok.

Cassie jogged up beside him, stretching her arms over her head.

“Y’know,” she mused, “you really give off that whole ‘pack therapist’ vibe.”

Mark didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just turned his head.

That stare.

Cassie held up both hands like she’d just walked into a crime scene. “Just saying! Emotional stability! Quiet strength! Calm presence! …Terrifying glare. It’s comforting!”

Jonah trotted past eating cotton candy. “He’s totally our emotional support werewolf.”

Gabriel, ten feet behind, snorted. “Nope, that’s canon now.”

Thane, without looking up from checking the side of the bus, growled, “Put it on the merch board.”

Mark’s eye twitched.

That’s when it happened.

A young woman — maybe mid-30s, frazzled but determined — approached nervously with a wide-eyed toddler on her hip and said, totally sincerely:

“Hi. Sorry. He doesn’t usually like strangers but… he really calmed down when you were standing nearby. Would you mind just… holding him? For a second?”

Mark blinked.

Twice.

She was serious.

Before he could object, the kid reached out — tiny hands latching onto Mark’s sleeve with the desperate grip of a sleepy cub — and settled into his arms like he belonged there.

Dead silence.

The whole band froze.

The toddler yawned and patted Mark’s snout.

Mark looked down at the child, then up at the mother, then over at the band… who were all openly watching with giddy smirks.

“I will,” he rumbled slowly, “end all of you.”

Cassie was already taking photos.

Gabriel was biting his lip, tail flicking wildly with barely-contained joy.

Jonah whispered to Rico, “Oh my god, the pup chose him.”

Thane just grinned. “Told you. Emotional support werewolf.”

Diesel leaned out the bus doorway, saw the scene, and nodded like it made perfect sense. “You break it, you bought it, Mark.”

Mark sighed through his nose, held the kid like a mildly offended statue, and muttered—

“…I miss the hangover.”

The set had ended nearly twenty minutes ago…
But Gabriel was still completely pinned near the merch table, buried under a sea of fans shouting praise, shoving homemade artwork and torn scraps of posterboard for autographs.

“GABE! I LOVE YOU!”
“SIGN MY ARM!”
“YOU’RE THE FURRY PRINCE OF BASS!”
“PLEASE PLAY MY WEDDING!”

Gabriel was laughing, flustered, tail swishing wildly as he tried to sign things with both claws and zero coordination. Someone gave him a friendship bracelet. Someone else gave him a ferret.

He held the ferret like it was sacred and mouthed, “Why me?” at the sky.

A few feet away, Thane was coiling up his mic snake, guarding his battered portable case like it was a newborn pup. A teenage fan in a too-big hoodie tripped nearby—and her chocolate milkshake nearly arced through the air right into his cabling.

He caught it in one clawed hand mid-spill.

Looked at her.

Growled — not hard, just enough to vibrate the air.

The girl gasped, nodded frantically, and backed away like she’d just crossed the wrong line on an ancient forest path.

Thane sighed. “…Kids.”

---

Meanwhile, over by the side of the makeshift stage, Cassie had crouched down next to a younger boy — maybe 12, maybe 13 — who was sitting quietly off to the side, watching the crowd with wide eyes and arms wrapped tight around his chest.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Too loud?”

He nodded.

She sat next to him. “You came for the music, though?”

He nodded again. “I like the lyrics. Yours. I didn’t think anyone else felt that way… not in this town.”

Cassie’s eyes softened.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled setlist, and handed it to him. “You ever write music?”

“Sometimes. I don’t show people.”

“That’s okay. Most people don’t show their hearts either. But it’s worth it when you do.”

He stared at the setlist like it was a map to a better place. Then whispered:

“…Thanks for singing it like you meant it.”

Cassie smiled. “Always.”

---

Near the edge of the event, Mark stood next to the bus with his arms folded, eyes scanning the scene like a quiet sentinel.

Diesel stood next to him, sipping from a can of something probably older than the tour itself.

“Not bad,” Diesel muttered.

Mark grunted in agreement.

“You think they realize how rare this is?” Diesel asked.

Mark shook his head. “They will. Eventually. Maybe not today.”

“Think that’s what makes ‘em great?”

Mark looked out over the crowd — Gabriel overwhelmed with affection, Cassie talking softly to the quiet kid, Thane checking every cable like it held the world together, Maya teaching someone how to hold a power chord, Jonah breakdancing with toddlers.

He nodded slowly.

“It’s not the music. Not alone. It’s what they give away.”

Diesel raised a brow. “What they give?”

Mark turned toward him.

“With their whole hearts,” he said. “That’s what makes something great.”

Diesel smiled. “Heh. That almost sounded poetic.”

“Don’t let it get around,” Mark muttered. “I’ve got a reputation.”

---

Back by the mic snake box, Thane finally relaxed — just a little.

The milkshake girl came back, this time with a paper towel and a quiet “sorry.”

He blinked. Took the towel. Nodded once.

“…It’s alright.”

The sun beat down on the tiny town square, warming the cracked pavement and makeshift booths as locals bustled around in fake fur ears and “Pack Pride” T-shirts that none of them had technically licensed.

The crowd was starting to buzz louder, shifting uneasily as whispers passed like wildfire:

“The real Feral Eclipse is here.”
“No way. This is a prank.”
“I saw the big brown one growl at a funnel cake.”

And then the unmistakable shadow of the tour bus crept around the corner.

The crowd gasped.

And then they saw the wolves.

Thane stepped out first — broad, massive, fur slightly bristled, ears angled back just enough to make kids stare and grown men reconsider their decisions. Behind him came Gabriel, tail twitching, still wearing his sunglasses from the diner hangover recovery. Maya, Rico, Jonah, and Cassie followed, all in full we-survived-Granny mode.

Even Mark was there, sipping his fifth bottle of water with the energy of a man who had seen too much.

Phones exploded.

A local reporter, mid-broadcast for the town’s tiny public access station, did a double-take so hard she nearly dropped her mic. She adjusted her blazer, shoved past two dancing teens in tail belts, and darted up to the group.

“Um — hi! Crystal Denton, KLUZ Channel 4 — wait, I mean, Channel Two — you’re… are you really Feral Eclipse?”

Gabriel grinned. “Nope. We’re just very convincing furries.”

Thane didn’t even crack a smile. His glare could’ve curdled fresh milk.

Gabriel leaned down like he was going to adjust his in-ear pack. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and Thane whispered:

“Suggest a show. Say it’s your idea. I want this town to feel seen. But it didn’t come from me. You get me, my wolf?”

Gabriel’s ears perked ever so slightly.

Then he straightened, looked at the camera, and said:

“You know what? This town went all out. Inflatable werewolf heads. Bootleg merch. Half the booths smell like burnt sugar and ambition. I say… we give them a show.”

Gasps.

Someone dropped a caramel apple.

Thane tilted his head to the side, pretending to think about it — just enough that Cassie immediately squinted at him.

Maya leaned over to Rico. “That was totally Thane’s idea, right?”

Rico nodded. “Oh yeah. He’s just letting Gabriel carry the credit.”

Jonah, deadpan: “Alpha move.”

The reporter fumbled her mic. “W-wait — do you mean… a real show? Here?”

Gabriel winked. “Low-key. No lights. No pyro. Just some good music and a whole lotta sound.”

The crowd cheered like it was the Super Bowl.

Kids were screaming. Someone tried to scale the inflatable Gabriel and was promptly tackled by a guy in a half-melted werewolf costume.

Emily, standing quietly off to the side, smiled behind her camera as she recorded the whole thing. Of course it would go viral in under ten minutes.

---

Later that afternoon:

The town square became a makeshift venue.

No trusses. No effects. Just a couple of wedges, some borrowed power from the city hall outlet, and Thane’s ever-faithful console set up on a folding table under a beach umbrella.

The band took the stage — barefoot, rumpled, still a little hungover — but radiating raw presence.

Cassie took the mic and simply said:

“This one’s for the weirdos with Sharpies, fake fangs, and too much heart.”

And then they played.

And it wasn’t polished. It wasn’t flawless. But it was real.

Gabriel’s voice cracked on one chorus. Jonah flubbed a fill and laughed halfway through it. Maya played the wrong chord and muttered, “Oops” into her mic.

And it didn’t matter. Because the town loved them.

People danced in the street. Kids sat cross-legged near the front. One elderly couple slow-danced in front of the port-a-potties.

And somewhere backstage, Crystal Denton stood slack-jawed, blinking into her camera like she was dreaming.

As the last song faded out, Thane rose from his board just enough to catch Gabriel’s eye—and gave the tiniest nod.

Gabriel just grinned wide and mouthed, “They bought it.”

Cassie raised her arms. The town howled with joy.

The bus rumbled through a winding back road, still vibrating slightly from its dramatic diner escape. Everyone inside was in varying states of recovery, dehydration, and denial.

Thane sat in the lounge seat up front, arms crossed, a headache brewing behind his eyes like a summer thunderstorm. He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t growling yet either… which somehow felt worse.

Gabriel was stretched out across one of the forward benches, tail flopped over the edge, trying to tune his bass in silence.

“Dude,” Jonah said from the back. “You’re tuned. The strings are fine.”

“I’m not,” Gabriel muttered.

Then — off in the distance —

“IS THAT A GIANT INFLATABLE WEREWOLF HEAD??” Cassie shouted.

Everyone crowded toward the windows.

Sure enough, as the bus crested the next hill, they saw it:

A tiny town. Maybe five stoplights total.
Every telephone pole lined with handmade signs reading:

🛑 “FULL MOON FEST!”
🎉 “WELCOME, FERAL FRIENDS!”
🐺 “LIVE MUSIC & FAKE FANGS!”
😬 “FEATURING: Feral Eclipse (probably!)”

And there, dead center in the town square:
A giant inflatable werewolf head that looked suspiciously like Gabriel.

Except… it was wearing sunglasses.

With a sign beneath it that said:

“GET YOUR FERAL ON WITH GABE WOLFBOY!”

Thane. Froze.

Then slowly — very slowly — turned in his seat.

Everyone immediately backed up like they’d just spilled blood in shark-infested waters.

“…they used my face,” Gabriel whispered in awe.

“They used our name,” Cassie growled.

Jonah peered closer. “Is that supposed to be me? Why is the drum kit made of cardboard and sadness?”

Diesel let out a low whistle. “This is either the worst tribute… or the best lawsuit I’ve ever seen.”

Thane stood.

Silent.

Dead silent.

He stalked toward the back of the bus like a beast on the hunt, claws flexing at his sides. His fur bristled down his arms and his ears were pinned all the way back.

Gabriel blinked and immediately launched after him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa — my wolf, hang on!”

“Someone is profiting off our image and playing canned music next to a stand called ‘Wolfy Wieners.’ I will BURN THIS TOWN TO THE BEDROCK.”

“Okay yes that’s bad,” Gabriel admitted, hands up, “but also, your vein is doing the thing. The scary one. Breathe, — uh — my wolf, I mean. Please?”

Thane snarled. “There’s a man in a papier-mâché costume out there with a sign that says ‘Pet the Pack Leader.’”

“…Okay, that’s worse,” Gabriel muttered. “Like a lot worse.”

Mark wandered past holding a bottle of water. “Do we want a distraction or a diversion?”

“Neither,” Thane snapped. “I want their printer. I want their event permit. I want their town council.”

Just then, a soft voice piped up from the side of the lounge.

“…I’ll go,” Emily said quietly, already pulling on her crew hoodie.

Everyone turned.

She stood up straight, shoulders a little shaky — but eyes set with fire. “I’ll talk to them. You guys stay here. Just… let me try first.”

Thane blinked.

Gabriel opened his mouth — paused — and just gently nodded.

Emily stepped off the bus.

---

Fifteen minutes later:

The door creaked back open.

Emily stepped in, holding a tray of funnel cakes and a gift basket full of handmade werewolf keychains. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and she had a few glitter stickers stuck to her hoodie.

Gabriel blinked. “What happened?”

“They had no idea we’d actually show up,” she said with a laugh. “They thought the band name was fake. They’re just fans. Really, really bad at branding.”

Thane was silent. Still. Tense.

Emily walked over, placed the basket gently on the table near him… and handed him a handmade mug with paw prints and “Alpha Coffee” scrawled in Sharpie.

Then she looked up at him and said quietly:

“They really do love you, you know. Even if they’re… kinda legally clueless about it.”

Thane stared at the mug. Then — finally — let out a slow breath. Shoulders relaxing. Ears untwisting. Just a little.

“Did you… tell them to take the inflatable down?”

Emily grinned sheepishly. “I may have… accidentally signed a few t-shirts instead.”

He blinked. Then chuckled — once, low and growly.

“…Fine. We stay. One hour.”

Gabriel whooped and collapsed onto the couch in relief. Jonah ran out the door yelling “I’M FINDING WOLFY WIENERS.” Rico chased him.

Emily smiled… then grabbed another funnel cake.

Mark raised a brow. “So we’re doing the chaos with consent now?”

Thane grunted. “I’ll allow it.”

The coffee was just starting to work.

Gabriel’s tail had stopped twitching. Maya was upright without sunglasses. Cassie was managing real, actual sentences. Jonah even managed to snort-laugh at something Diesel said about “firefighter groupies in ’88.”

Thane had one clawed hand wrapped around a steaming mug of black coffee and the other gently massaging his temple. He was almost calm.

So of course, that’s when the chaos arrived.

It started as a low rumble outside—like a dozen subwoofers stacked in the back of a monster truck. Everyone glanced toward the windows.

Outside the diner, a full caravan of fan vehicles was suddenly rolling into the parking lot.

Pickup trucks, vans, a Prius with FERAL 4 LIFE painted on the hood in glitter paint. One fan had strapped a mannequin with werewolf ears to their roof.

Emily, peeking out from behind the blinds, slowly said, “Did someone post where we were?”

Jonah checked his phone. “…Yep. It’s already viral. Feral Eclipse spotted post-granny hangover at diner, looking ‘soft and huggable.’”

Thane’s eye twitched. “I am not huggable.”

Mark casually sipped his coffee. “You are when you look like roadkill.”

Within seconds, the parking lot was full.
Fans were pouring out of vehicles. People were sprinting across the street. One guy was holding a guitar above his head like a tribute offering.

And then someone screamed, “I BROUGHT COOKIES FOR THE WOLVES!”

That’s when panic actually hit.

Tina, the poor waitress, looked from the mob outside to the band. “Do… do I call the cops?”

Diesel stood up slowly, like a man about to fight gravity itself. “Nah. I’ll handle this.”

Cassie blinked. “Are you about to say something wise and cowboy-ish?”

He walked to the door. “No. I’m gonna yell at them and see what happens.”

He cracked it open. “FOLKS! YOU NEED TO CHILL!”

The crowd… did not chill.

Instead, someone shouted, “IS GRANNY WITH YOU!?”

Gabriel’s eyes widened. “They want her, not us!”

That’s when someone launched a werewolf plushie through the open door and it hit Jonah in the face.

He stared at it. Then slowly, in one movement, just laid down on the floor next to the booth.

“I’m done. Tell the fans I died nobly.”

Thane stood up with a groan, slammed the rest of his coffee, and growled, “Pack the food. We’re bailing.”

“Bus is two blocks away,” Diesel muttered. “We can make a run for it.”

“Fans’ll see us,” Cassie said, glancing out.

“I have an idea,” Gabriel said. “It’s bad. But it’s so us.”

---

Ten minutes later:

The front doors of the diner burst open.

The entire band and crew charged out in a line, led by Gabriel, who was holding a takeout box like it contained sacred treasure.

Mark casually followed behind, holding Emily’s iced tea and muttering, “Told them not to run. Now we’re a parade.”

The crowd SHRIEKED. Phones came up. Chants of “Feral! Feral! Feral!” broke out.

And somehow—in the chaos—a handful of fans actually joined the chase, sprinting behind the band like they were escaping paparazzi in a 90s music video.

One kid screamed, “GO GO GO!” while filming.
Another dove into a bush and shouted, “I REGRET NOTHING!”

Diesel threw the bus door open just in time. One by one, the crew hurled themselves aboard, gasping, laughing, growling, sweating.

As the doors slammed shut, Thane shouted toward the back, “DRIVE! FLOOR IT!”

The engine roared to life.

The last thing they saw through the back window?

A fan holding up a sign made from diner napkins taped together that said:

“We love you even when you look like cryptids!”