Author: Thane Page 33 of 40

The moment Gabriel set foot on the stage—a spray-painted plywood riser with “Rock It, Cletus!” still faintly visible beneath the black paint—his clawed foot stuck to something.

“Either that’s a stage booger,” he muttered, “or crawfish juice is way more adhesive than I expected.”

Cassie pointed to the stage-left monitor. “Why is that wedge covered in duct tape that says ‘DO NOT SING HERE’?”

Thane checked the patch bay and grimaced. “Because if you do, it feeds back so hard it calls the dead.”

Jonah was crawling under his drum setup—wedged between what looked like a folding table and a fake cactus—to figure out why one of his toms was wobbling like a nervous chihuahua.

“Uh… guys?” he called. “There’s a mouse. Just… chillin’ in the kick drum. I think it’s judging me.”

Mark was high up on a shaky scissor lift made from an unholy mix of rebar, rust, and prayer. He had managed to secure two surviving VL2Bs to the flimsy truss overhead.

“Don’t bump the fogger,” he called through comms. “It’s directly wired into the breaker for the snack bar. Again.”

Maya let out a full-body sigh and glared at her mic stand, which had all the stability of a Jenga tower in an earthquake. “If this collapses mid-set again, I swear on every string I’ve ever broken, I will eat it.”

Gabriel was mid–bass thrum when one of the fluorescent lights above them fizzled, sparked, and then flickered back to life—revealing that the venue ceiling still had disco balls from the skating rink days… and possibly a squirrel nest.

Cassie laughed. “This is either gonna be the best show we’ve ever played or a paranormal crime scene.”

Thane barked into comms, “Let’s get it over with. Line check. Pray to whatever gods are listening.”

---

Five minutes into soundcheck:

• Maya’s strap broke and she did try to play with her teeth.
• Gabriel tripped over an extension cord and almost took out a full speaker tower.
• Rico knocked over a paper crawfish mascot that somehow burst into flames.
• Jonah’s snare stand collapsed and the mouse retreated, unimpressed.
• Cassie shredded her throat trying to sing over the venue’s popcorn machine whine.
• The lighting rig shorted during the fog test, cutting power to the bouncy house next door—mid-birthday party.

Mark, from his post near the breaker box, sighed. “Congratulations. We’ve broken everything. Including childhood.”

Thane slowly lowered his headset mic. “I’m starting to miss the birthday party gig.”

Gabriel, sweat-soaked, claws covered in stage grime, looked up and grinned. “Still better than Tulsa.”

The band collectively agreed.

Even the mouse seemed to nod.

By the time Feral Eclipse limped into their next destination, the sun was setting over Crawdad Crossing, a place so small it had a church, a bar, and a feed store—all in the same building.

The town sign featured a giant smiling crawfish giving a thumbs-up, with a crudely added “NO FURRIES” spray-painted beneath in dripping red letters.

“Oh great,” Thane muttered, leaning over the steering wheel with a scowl. “We’re already famous.”

Gabriel, still emotionally wounded from the gas station fan ambush, peeked up from behind his clawed hands. “Please tell me they don’t have Wi-Fi.”

Jonah checked his phone. “They have 3G and a Facebook page last updated in 2014 with a photo of a dead raccoon holding a Bud Light.”

Mark grunted. “At least it’s not a possum. That’d be culturally aggressive.”

The venue? A hollowed-out skating rink now used for “Community Events, MMA Fights, and Weddings.”

Inside, a dusty banner hung above the stage: CRAWDAD FESTIVAL KICKOFF – Featuring THE ECLIPSERS.

Cassie tilted her head. “Did they just… pluralize us?”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure that’s a different band.”

A man in an American flag tank top approached with the swagger of someone who’d once punched a vending machine for stealing his Snickers bar.

“You them… Eclipse boys?”

Thane sighed. “Feral Eclipse.”

The man blinked. “Right. That’s what I said. Y’all the ones with the fursuiter?”

Gabriel’s tail bristled.

Before he could lunge, Maya stepped in, guitar case slung over one shoulder like a bat. “Say that again, cowboy. I dare you.”

The man backed off fast. “Hey now, no need to get spicy.”

They entered the venue to find… an actual kiddie pool full of boiled crawfish next to the merch table.

Also at the merch table?

A freshly printed stack of Team Pupslut shirts.

Gabriel’s soul left his body.

Thane picked one up and held it up with a smirk. “You approve of the font at least?”

Cassie howled with laughter.

Rico grabbed one and spun it like a prize wheel. “Who’s responsible for this?”

A young local girl in a homemade “I ❤️ Werewolves” hoodie peeked out from behind the folding table. “I saw it online. I thought it’d be cute. I made thirty of ‘em! They’re selling super well!”

Gabriel covered his face.

Mark put both hands on his hips, looked to the ceiling, and muttered, “This is our legacy now.”

Jonah just whispered, “We’re gonna die here.”

The van rolled to a sputtering stop outside Buckhorn Quick Mart & Liquor, the only gas station within twenty miles that didn’t look like it doubled as a meth lab… just a highly suspicious bottle return depot.

Mark killed the engine with a growl. “Five minutes. Fuel, caffeine, and whatever passes for food.”

“Bathroom too,” Jonah said, already bolting for the door like his bladder had filed an HR complaint.

Gabriel stepped out, stretching with a big yawn, his black T-shirt riding up slightly as he did. Two things happened instantly:

1. The automatic doorbell to the Quick Mart let out a bweep like it was dying.
2. A high-pitched gasp came from the snack aisle.

“OH. MY. GOD. It’s HIM.”

Everyone froze.

Out stepped a twenty-something woman with dyed green hair, phone in hand, wide eyes sparkling like she’d just spotted Elvis doing the Macarena. She turned the screen around to show… Gabriel. Shirtless. Flexing. Covered in glitter.

Caption: “Rawr Daddy 😈🐾 #LycanLust2023”

The entire band blinked.

Gabriel blinked harder.

“…Oh no,” he said softly. “That was a dare. That was for charity. THAT WAS PRIVATE.”

“IT’S ON REDLUSTFURRIES DOT NET,” she squealed, practically vibrating. “I run a whole fan page! You’re like… a LEGEND!”

Thane choked on his Mountain Dew mid-sip. “RedLust what now?”

Cassie dropped a protein bar. “Oh my god. I knew I recognized that abs pic from somewhere.”

Rico couldn’t stop laughing. “Dude. Dude. That site has rankings.”

Jonah came out of the bathroom, took one look at Gabriel’s face, and immediately went: “Nope. Not getting involved in whatever the hell this is.”

The girl was now circling Gabriel like she was trying to summon him with her camera app. “Can you do the howl? Like the one in the video? Please?! I have merch.” She pulled out a handmade T-shirt that read “Team Pupslut” with paw prints in… questionable placement.

Maya was screaming into a bottle of water, trying not to pass out.

Mark just walked back to the van and mumbled, “This is why I drink soda.”

Gabriel looked like he wanted to ascend to another plane of existence.

“I—I can sign something,” he stammered, “but only if you promise not to tag me on anything ever again.”

She happily handed him a RedLust-branded notepad shaped like a paw print.

He signed it with shaking hands. Thane patted him on the back like a soldier returning from war. “We’ve all done shameful things for gas money, my wolf. You just did it better than most.”

They all scrambled back to the van, half-laughing, half-mortified. As they pulled out, the girl waved both arms and yelled:

“WE LOVE YOU GABRIEL! TEAM PUPSLUT FOREVER!!”

Gabriel curled into a seat and groaned, “I’m never stopping at a gas station again.”

By the time the van creaked its way into the gravel parking lot of The Dusty Hollow Inn, the band was too road-worn to argue. The sign buzzed angrily with flickering neon letters—only D S Y H _ _ L _ W I N still lit—and a hand-painted banner beneath it read “NEW MANAGEMENT (WE THINK)”.

Cassie stepped out of the van, glanced at the building with one eye twitching. “This is where ghosts go to retire.”

“Does it come with free tetanus?” Maya muttered, hauling her guitar out of the back like it might catch something if it touched the ground.

The lobby smelled like burnt coffee, lemon air freshener, and failed dreams. A grizzled man behind the counter barely looked up from a TV playing static and Walker, Texas Ranger reruns.

“You the band?”

Gabriel, still hyped from the gig, beamed. “Sure are! We’re Feral Eclipse!”

The man pointed at a key rack behind him. “Pick one that’s not crooked.”

Thane narrowed his eyes. “That’s your booking system?”

“It’s worked since ‘82.”

Jonah grabbed a key labeled “Room 3 (sorta works)” and immediately sneezed. “This place smells like expired toothpaste.”

Inside the rooms? Even worse.

Room 1’s ceiling fan wobbled like it was trying to escape. Room 2 had a bathtub full of tax forms from 2006. Room 3—Jonah’s—had an unplugged mini fridge containing exactly one jar of pickles and a cassette tape labeled “DO NOT LISTEN AFTER MIDNIGHT.”

Gabriel flopped onto a bed and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of dust. “…Soft.”

Mark walked in behind him, took one look around, and said, “I’m sleeping in the van.”

“No, you’re not,” Thane replied, rubbing his temples. “If I hear you dragging an extension cord out there again, I’m sedating you.”

They tried to relax. Jonah swore his room’s toilet flushed upward. Rico claimed the wallpaper moved when he wasn’t looking. Cassie found an ancient Gideon Bible with a love letter to someone named “Cooter” tucked inside.

By 2 a.m., the power blinked out for no reason.

Mark’s voice cut through the pitch-black like a blade. “I didn’t do it this time.”

Then the fire alarm chirped once, just to say hi.

“…Okay,” Thane said, sitting up. “We’re never staying in a place that has quotes around the word ‘clean’ in the welcome packet again.”

Gabriel turned on his phone flashlight, holding it under his face like a horror movie narrator. “You think if I lick the wall I’ll get powers?”

“Do it,” Maya said instantly from across the room.

They survived the night.

Mostly.

By sunrise, they were half-dressed, caffeine-starved, and fleeing the motel like it owed them money. As they piled into the van, Jonah whispered, “I think something watched me sleep.”

Mark took a swig of warm soda and said, “Same. But it tipped its hat, so I let it be.”

The next venue on the Feral Eclipse tour route? A former church converted into a music hall in rural Missouri called The Rafter Room. The GPS nearly gave up halfway there, rerouting them past suspiciously watchful cows and a hand-painted sign that just read: “Y’all better turn back.”

The old chapel loomed like a relic of some long-forgotten saint of chaos. The steeple had a lightning rod bolted on crooked, and someone had spray-painted Rage is Holy on the side of the bell tower. Stained glass windows had been replaced with colored plexiglass. The front marquee read:

“TONIGHT: FERAL ECLIPSE
TOMORROW: BINGO & BRISKET”

Inside, pews had been cleared to make way for folding chairs and a tiny bar in what used to be the confessional booth. The “green room” was the old Sunday school office—still decorated with sun-faded Noah’s Ark posters and an unsettling number of googly eyes stuck to the ceiling.

Cassie walked in, took one look around, and deadpanned, “I feel like we’re gonna summon something just by soundchecking.”

Maya kicked over a plastic duck. “If the power goes out mid-set, I’m blaming Jesus.”

Thane was already pacing near the back wall, eyeing a breaker box that looked like it had been through at least two exorcisms. “This place has three-prong outlets but only two wires.”

Mark, perched high on a truss trying to mount a VariLite with duct tape and hope, muttered, “It’s fine. We’ve lit worse.”

Gabriel was grinning ear to ear. “This is going to be the most metal church revival ever.”

Rico wandered up holding two mic cables in either hand. “These both say ‘Lead Vocals’ in Sharpie… one’s sticky.”

“Great,” Thane groaned. “We’re gonna get electrocuted and sued.”

But when showtime hit? The crowd—mostly locals, a few confused youth group members, and one guy in a Slayer shirt holding a casserole—turned wild. The sound bounced off the vaulted ceiling in ways that made even Jonah say, “Okay, that was kinda beautiful.”

Gabriel shredded his bass so hard a section of the back wall started rattling. Maya lost a pick mid-song and improvised with a communion wafer someone had tossed on stage. Jonah launched into a solo that echoed like thunder through the old rafters.

Cassie, radiant under Mark’s chaotic lighting work, had the entire place clapping and screaming by the third song.

At one point, an elderly lady in the front row stood, held up her walker, and yelled, “THIS SLAPS!”

Backstage after the set, dripping with sweat and pure disbelief, Thane slumped into a folding chair next to the now-empty baptismal font.

“We just headlined a haunted chapel.”

Gabriel, drinking soda from a chalice he found in the back, nodded solemnly. “And brought salvation through distortion.”

Jonah blinked. “Is this sacrilegious?”

Mark walked by and slapped a clawed hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Nah. It’s rock and roll.”

The van bumped across gravel with the grace of a drunk moose. Dust clouded the windows as they pulled up to what the GPS optimistically called “Red Pines Event Pavilion.” It was, in fact, a half-rotted barn with a corrugated tin roof and a faded “Bud Light Presents: Open Mic Friday” banner barely clinging to the eaves. A neon horseshoe sign blinked “ECLIPSE TONIGHT” with a C flickering like it was on life support.

Gabriel leaned forward in his seat and peered out the windshield. “I think I’ve been here in a nightmare once.”

“Is it the smell of cow shit or the tumbleweed stuck in the fence?” Maya muttered, clutching her guitar case like it might leap out and run away.

Mark squinted through the windshield, unimpressed. “This place is haunted.”

“I’d rather hope it’s haunted,” Thane grunted. “Means the last band probably didn’t survive to leave a bad review.”

Rico, sprawled sideways with his guitar case wedged between his knees, pointed toward the double doors that looked like they were once kicked in by an angry goat. “Why is there a stuffed deer head outside the building?”

Jonah, barely awake, pulled his hoodie tighter over his head. “Please let it be taxidermy. Please.”

Inside wasn’t much better.

The “stage” was a wooden platform raised exactly six inches off the ground. It leaned just slightly to the left, as if it had opinions. A single overhead light swung gently above it, flickering like a possessed lightning bug. The only speakers in sight looked older than three of the band members combined. There were two mic stands—both duct-taped—and a jukebox in the corner blasting Toby Keith at skull-rattling volume.

The bar owner, a wiry man in a denim vest with a handlebar mustache that deserved its own zip code, stepped forward and held out a greasy hand.

“You the Eclipse fellers?”

Gabriel—ever the diplomat—grinned and shook the hand. “Yes, sir! We’re Feral Eclipse.”

The man looked around the group, pausing on Gabriel’s clawed hand and then on Mark’s towering gray-furred frame. “Damn. Y’all ain’t just a band. Y’all a damn furry convention.”

Thane inhaled sharply.

Mark put one clawed hand on Thane’s shoulder.

Gabriel held up a hand quickly. “We’re all musicians, sir. We just play a little harder than most.”

The owner snorted. “Harder, huh? We usually do country covers on Fridays, but hell, y’all can play whatever. Long as the beers flow and no one dies.”

“Low bar,” Maya muttered.

Rico wandered off toward the “dressing room,” which was actually a broom closet with a folding chair and a single fly strip swinging from the ceiling.

And yet—somehow—as soundcheck began, something shifted.

Gabriel’s first bass thrum reverberated through the rickety walls like thunder. Jonah’s drums—jammed between hay bales and a broken jukebox—exploded into rhythm. Maya’s guitar screamed defiance into the stale air.

The local crowd started drifting in—cowboys, punks, confused tourists, a dude in a tank top that read “Beers Before Fears.”

And they loved it.

They whooped. They howled. They two-stepped in the mosh pit. One guy cried.

By the time the set hit its peak, the band was on fire. Mark’s lighting rig was working overtime with whatever surviving bulbs he’d found. Thane looked like a war god behind the mixing board, soaked in sweat and growling orders into his headset mic.

And the barn? It didn’t collapse.

They played their hearts out. They screamed. They burned. They converted.

When it was over, the crowd roared for more.

Outside the barn, beneath the red Oklahoma sky, the band leaned against the van. Gabriel passed around cold sodas from a cooler someone left behind. They were sticky and half-warm, but perfect.

Mark smirked. “So. Not haunted.”

Thane took a long drink. “Worse. It was honest.”

Gabriel raised his soda. “To the barn that didn’t fall.”

Maya clinked hers. “And the stage that almost did.”

Everyone laughed.

Jonah looked back at the building with a stunned expression. “…What the hell just happened?”

Thane shrugged. “Magic. Or moonlight. Maybe both.”

The morning after was always rough.

But this morning? This one was biblically cursed.

The tour van—beloved, battered, and one shaky tire away from becoming modern art—was packed with four barely-functioning humans and three sleep-deprived werewolves, all equally grumpy, and at least two of them actively contemplating violence. The sun wasn’t even fully up yet. Everyone looked like they’d fought a tornado and lost.

Gabriel was at the wheel, wide-eyed and buzzed from his second gas station cold brew—he insisted on driving this leg. Thane, in the passenger seat, looked like a man on his sixth war tour, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch at his temple every time the van hit a pothole.

In the back row, Jonah was passed out against the window with drumstick imprints on his forehead. Rico was slumped next to him, earbuds in, mouthing lyrics to a song only he could hear.

Cassie sat with her knees pulled up, hood over her head, holding a half-eaten granola bar like it had personally wronged her. “If this van hits one more bump, I’m gonna puke out my soul.”

Maya was trying to tune a guitar in her lap while simultaneously elbowing Gabriel in the ribs from behind his seat. “I told you we should’ve stopped at the nice coffee shop.”

“There wasn’t time!” Gabriel barked back, slurping his cold brew like it was a life elixir. “We’re twenty minutes behind schedule already because someone left their entire amp rig back at the hotel.”

Rico raised his hand weakly. “That was me. I have no regrets.”

From the back, Jonah moaned, “Tell my mom I died doing what I loved. Except I didn’t. I died in a tin can with no AC and Gabriel playing ska on the Bluetooth.”

Gabriel grinned into the rearview mirror. “It’s called character development, Jonah.”

Maya launched a balled-up sock at his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Mark, seated sideways at the side equipment rack (the only one tall enough to do so without folding like origami), checked the rig straps with an expression of deadpan despair. “If this amp stack slides forward one more inch, it’s going to flatten Jonah like a pancake.”

Thane growled without opening his eyes. “Maybe then we’ll have room for the fanmail crate.”

Gabriel yawned, then jolted suddenly as the van hit a speed bump at mach five.

THUMP—CRASH—SPLASH.

The third coffee of the morning shot skyward like a geyser and splattered across the roof liner, raining back down in glorious brown droplets.

Everyone screamed.

“I just bought that!” Maya wailed.

Cassie covered her head like it was acid. “Coffee rain! COFFEE RAIN!”

Jonah sat bolt upright, blinked at the mess, and murmured, “Is this… my resurrection?”

Gabriel swerved slightly from laughter. “Okay, okay, my bad! But look on the bright side—we’re all awake now!”

Thane stared at the mess, clawed hand slowly rubbing his muzzle.

“I swear,” he muttered darkly, “if the promoter doesn’t have our load-in ready by the time we get there, I will burn their stage to the f***ing ground.*”

Gabriel glanced sideways at him, still grinning. “Love you too, my wolf.”

Thane exhaled sharply and leaned his head against the window, eyes closed. “Only reason you’re still alive.”

Mark, from the back: “This is fine. This is normal. This is the exact energy I signed up for.”

The van creaked, coffee continued to drip from the ceiling like an espresso-based rainstorm, and the open road stretched out before them like a dare.

Feral Eclipse rolled on.

Backstage smelled like ozone, fog fluid, and sweat-soaked denim.

The band stumbled into the green room like survivors of an apocalypse—sweaty, buzzing, wide-eyed, and trying to remember how to human again. Gabriel kicked the door open with his heel and flopped onto the faux-leather couch like it was the throne of Valhalla.

“Holy shit, that crowd,” he breathed, wiping his soaked face with a towel. “Did you see the kid in the front row with the LED werewolf mask?”

Thane followed behind, one clawed hand clutching his pack of coiled cables like a python he hadn’t finished choking yet. “I saw him. I also saw the idiot trying to film on stage right while standing on the damn fog cannon. Nearly launched him into the f***ing truss.”

Mark walked in last, still adjusting sliders on a wireless console in his hands like the show wasn’t over until the lightboard said so. “Three beams overheated. One fogger’s clogged. Two strobe units blew their fuses. Great show.”

Cassie collapsed onto the arm of the couch, makeup smeared, shirt plastered to her back. “I think my spine fused to the mic stand mid-second song. Might need a crowbar.”

Rico wandered in with a bag of gummy worms and just sort of… fell sideways into a beanbag chair. “No thoughts. Only sugar.”

Jonah followed him in, looking half-possessed. “I transcended. I saw sound. It was red.”

Maya, who had already found the mini-fridge and was halfway through a bottle of water, raised an eyebrow. “You broke two sticks and your backup pedal, dude.”

“I used the kick drum like a cannon. I regret nothing.”

Gabriel raised a celebratory fist. “That’s the energy I live for!”

He then tried to high-five Jonah, missed, and knocked over a stack of plastic water bottles.

Thane growled and started rewrapping cables with the same energy someone might use to interrogate a spy. “I swear, if I ever meet the promoter who installed those janky power tie-ins—”

“I already put a beer in their office toilet,” Mark muttered.

Cassie snorted. “That’s why you were gone for ten minutes.”

From the hallway, a runner poked her head in timidly. “Uh… just wanted to say, you guys have mail. Someone dropped off a package. It’s, uh… vibrating?”

Everyone stopped.

Gabriel sat up straight. “Is it addressed to me?”

“…It just says ‘To the black-furred one with claws.’”

Gabriel lit up. “That’s me! I’m gonna open it.”

Thane barked, “Do not open anything that vibrates and doesn’t have a return label—”

But Gabriel was already slicing into the package with a claw.

Inside?

A single, blinking LED collar.

And a note that read:

“You looked so dominant tonight. Call me. 🐾”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Jonah muttered, “So hey, do we need to, like, screen our fanbase for collars now?”

Cassie choked on her water. Maya cackled and fell over. Rico was too tired to process and just popped another gummy worm.

Gabriel blinked at the gift, then looked up slowly. “Okay. One: flattered. Two: deeply confused. Three… Thane?”

“Burn it.” Thane grunted, not even looking up from his cables.

Gabriel sighed, tossed it in the trash, and flopped back on the couch.

Mark clicked a button on his tablet. “Cameras off. Lights stable. Fog fans cooling.”

Cassie raised her water bottle like a toast. “To another night of madness.”

They all clinked—plastic bottles, metal cans, and one rogue drumstick from Jonah.

And for a moment… just for a breath… it was quiet.

Then Gabriel, grinning sideways, whispered, “Hey, anyone else wanna prank Maya again tonight?”

“NO!” came five simultaneous voices, and a pillow flew across the room.

The stage lights were dimmed, flickering faint red like an animal’s breath in the dark.

The crowd hadn’t stopped murmuring since the doors opened—part anticipation, part confusion. Nobody had seen a soundcheck, there were no openers, and a few fans were whispering that the band had stormed into the venue like a tornado of gear, fury, and caffeine.

Backstage, Thane clicked the last cable into place and gave Mark a quick nod. “Whatever doesn’t explode, make it flash.”

Mark’s fingers danced over his patch panel. “My specialty.”

Cassie, doing last-second stretches, cracked her neck. “Can we just not break anything vital tonight?”

Jonah slapped his snare like it owed him money. “No promises.”

Rico was behind his kit, head bowed, muttering something to the gods of rhythm and fire.

Maya stood center-left, testing her strings. “Let’s see if the roof holds.”

Then Gabriel stepped forward.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t even twitch.

He just howled.

Not into the mic—just raw from his chest, filling the backstage hallway, vibrating the metal door hinges.

The crowd outside erupted like gasoline to a match.

Mark hit the lights.

Six VL2Bs exploded into deep red, blasting down through a thick layer of creeping fog. The backdrop shimmered as the Feral Eclipse logo cracked across it like lightning splitting the sky.

And then—BOOM.

Maya’s guitar screamed to life with a war cry of distortion.

Rico slammed into the opening riff like he’d declared war on time itself.

Gabriel leapt onto the stage, claws flashing, bass in hand, carving the first riff into the air like a blade. His icy blue eyes locked with the crowd’s and dared them to blink.

Cassie hit the mic like she’d been born with one in her hand.

“WE—ARE—FERAL ECLIPSE!”

The audience surged forward.

Thane moved through the shadows at stage left like a predator, hands flying over the controls strapped to his rigging vest, eyes flicking between meters and surge levels as if managing a nuclear reactor.

Mark’s lights hit full sync: pulsing, breathing, attacking the fog and giving the stage a heartbeat of its own.

Gabriel dropped into the breakdown—low, growling notes that made ribcages thrum and eyeballs twitch. He threw his head back and roared.

And the crowd roared back.

Fists in the air. Horns. Claws. Cell phones forgotten. Tears on some faces. One fan threw an entire wolf tail plushie onto the stage and Gabriel kicked it back into the pit with a savage grin.

Maya hit her solo, bending the strings like reality itself had to obey.

Jonah exploded behind the kit, snapping sticks, flipping them mid-beat and catching the replacements with the swagger of a man possessed.

Cassie dove into the final chorus with a scream that cracked like thunder over the fray.

And Thane?

He stood at the monitor rack, drenched in sweat, clawed feet planted wide as he juggled feedback loops, dying power amps, and the wrath of the gods, running the sonic war machine with blood and fire.

By the end of the set, the crowd was rubble.

Literal crowd-surfers lay in sweaty heaps, breathless.

Someone fainted.

Someone else proposed.

A kid near the front had clearly peed himself from excitement.

And in the center of it all, Gabriel stood over the mic, chest heaving, fur soaked, claws out, smiling with the fury of a beast set free.

He leaned in, voice gravel and glory.

“Next time… bring more friends.”

The van screeched into the venue’s back lot with all the subtlety of a garbage truck crashing into a dumpster full of bad decisions. A stack of mismatched road cases toppled sideways in the rear as Thane killed the engine with a growl low enough to match his mood.

“Six hours of driving,” he muttered, stepping out barepaw and already bristling, “and we’re ten minutes late because somebody needed Red Vines and a spirit quest.”

Gabriel, still chomping on said Red Vines, flashed a cheeky grin. “I regret nothing.”

The venue? A concrete shoebox with the acoustic warmth of a metal coffin. There were water stains on the ceiling, two visible rats near the loading door (Mark nodded at them respectfully), and someone had duct-taped a “DO NOT FLUSH ANYTHING EVER” sign on the green room toilet.

Inside, the stage was half-lit and still littered with bits of confetti from whatever ska band had played last night. The sound tech was a kid who looked like he’d dropped out of college to follow jam bands and had the wiring skills to match.

Thane’s icy blue eyes locked on the kid. “Power drop?”

The tech blinked. “Huh?”

“POWER. DROP.” Thane’s claws flexed.

“Oh! Uh… yeah. There’s one. But like, we lost the three-phase a while ago. Got this one quad outlet, but two ports kinda smell like smoke.”

Mark stepped up beside Thane, crossed arms, and loomed. “We’re going to need more than that unless you want your monitors to burst into flames.”

The kid stared. “Cool…”

Maya groaned, throwing her guitar case down and opening it like she was preparing for battle. “If my strap snaps again, I swear to every human god, I will beat someone with the amp head.”

Cassie stepped over a tangle of cables, her mic in one hand, and looked around. “Who the hell books a band like us and gives us one working power strip and a fog machine that smells like burnt soup?”

Rico, always the optimist, chimed in. “Hey, at least there’s a stage this time.”

Jonah looked up from reassembling part of his kit that had exploded during the bumpy ride. “And at least I still have my beer bottle from the last set. You know. In case of emergencies.”

Gabriel slung his bass on, still chewing Red Vines. “We’ve played worse.”

Thane looked at him sideways. “Name one.”

Gabriel grinned. “That wedding gig where we accidentally caused the divorce mid-set.”

Cassie smirked. “Oh yeah. That was beautifully traumatic.”

Thane rubbed his temples and began plugging in the gear himself, grumbling like a thundercloud. “Alright, wolves and humans—let’s see if we can make this sonic trashcan shake.”

Mark, perched in his lighting command zone (which was really just two milk crates and a borrowed laptop), flicked on the VariLites. They blinked once. Then again. Then flickered out entirely.

“Cool,” he said flatly, “they fear commitment.”

Gabriel’s voice rang out from center stage. “Y’all ready to blow the doors off this sad shoebox?!”

The monitors squealed with feedback that could peel paint.

Jonah dropped his beer bottle.

Cassie covered her ears.

Thane looked like he was about to shift, chew through the PA rack, and eat the contract.

And from somewhere near the back, the jam-band tech kid yelled, “Duuuuuude, that’s, like, real primal.”

The band responded in unison:

“SHUT UP, KYLE.”