The address came through last-minute.
High-paying private party. “Upscale crowd. Keep it classy. Dress nice, no stage-diving.”
Cassie had raised an eyebrow. “Do they know who they booked?”
They didn’t. Or they did—and that was worse.
By dusk, the Feral Eclipse tour van was winding its way down a private road carved through thick Tennessee woods. Trees pressed in on either side like silent spectators. Even Mark looked uneasy—and Mark wasn’t afraid of anything.
They pulled into a gravel lot surrounded by expensive cars, all sleek and black. Up ahead stood a sprawling southern mansion with glowing windows and stone gargoyles perched along the roofline like they were waiting for something to happen.
Jonah muttered, “Anyone else getting vampire cult vibes?”
Gabriel leaned forward between the seats. “If we play a gig for the undead and no one tells me until after, I will riot.”
“I’ll mix the audio,” Thane replied flatly. “You riot.”
Inside, the vibe was off.
Too quiet. Too smooth.
The guests were dressed like old money: tailored suits, cocktail gowns, diamonds you felt before you saw. They didn’t dance. They hovered. Whispered. And they stared.
Not at Cassie. Not at Rico or Jonah.
At Gabriel.
And especially at Thane.
One woman whispered, “They don’t look like they’re wearing prosthetics.”
Another, in a breathy giggle: “You think it’s real?”
Maya clocked it immediately and sidled up next to Thane. “This is a damn werewolf fetish party.”
Cassie almost choked on a champagne flute. Jonah looked like he wanted to crawl inside the bass drum and hide.
They were led to a small stage in a velvet-draped ballroom filled with unsettling taxidermy and one-too-many wall mirrors. A tall man in a crimson suit met them there. Thin, waxy, and too smooth. The kind of man who would compliment your shoes while ordering your autopsy.
“Play well,” he said with a smile that stretched a little too far. “Our guests are… eager to hear you.”
The set started normal.
Cassie belted her way through the first track. Rico and Maya traded solos like fire. Jonah hammered the kit like he was exorcising demons. Gabriel’s bass rumbled the room, tail flicking in time with every beat. Thane monitored the soundboard from stage left, expression unreadable.
Then the lights flickered.
Once. Twice.
Then darkness.
Total blackout.
The crowd didn’t panic.
They cheered.
In the pitch dark, a voice hissed from somewhere in the audience:
“Show us what you really are.”
Maya growled. “Oh hell no.”
Jonah whispered, “Thane—what the hell is this?”
Mark’s voice buzzed through the comms in their ears. Calm, dry, and urgent.
“Breaker’s still intact. That was cut. This is on purpose.”
The tall man in red appeared again—this time high on a balcony, silhouetted by candlelight, drink in hand like this was theater.
“You’ll have to forgive our enthusiasm,” he said. “We rarely get to observe your kind in such… intimate conditions.”
Rico narrowed his eyes. “Our kind?”
“You think we booked you for the music?” The man chuckled, gesturing to Gabriel. “A real werewolf. And your engineer…” He looked directly at Thane. “The seasoned one. How long have you been hiding, hmm?”
Jonah muttered, “Oh my god. They’re werewolf groupies with a science budget.”
“No,” Maya growled. “They’re hunters.”
Another figure lunged forward.
Gabriel didn’t wait.
One moment he was beside Thane—the next, a blur of black fur, claws, and fury. The would-be attacker hit the floor hard, skidding across the parquet with a broken table leg lodged in his ribs.
Thane moved more deliberately—less flash, more weight. His clawed feet scraped against the floorboards as he stepped forward, a living wall of muscle and menace. One low snarl from his throat made the front row stumble back without a single strike.
“I warned you,” he rumbled, voice like gravel and stormclouds.
Another man charged with a syringe.
Thane grabbed him mid-stride and threw him through a marble end table. The legs snapped clean off.
Screams finally broke out—but not from the band.
They were from the audience.
“Get them out!” Thane snapped over the comm. “Mark, light us a path!”
Red spotlights exploded to life from the hallway entrance—burning beams cutting through the smoke like blades. Mark’s signature.
Cassie, Jonah, Rico, and Maya moved fast, hauling gear, covering each other. Gabriel cleared the path—feral, gleaming, a blur of teeth and claws. Every time someone got too close, he dared them to keep coming. No one did.
At the kitchen door, a man in a suit blocked the way, holding a taser.
Gabriel’s claws tapped once on the tile. “You really want to try that?”
The taser clattered to the floor a second later.
Moments later, they burst through the rear exit into the humid Tennessee night. Mark already had the van idling, side door open.
“Go!” Thane barked, hauling the last case inside.
They dove in one by one—panting, shaking, still riding the adrenaline. Thane slammed the door, and Mark hit the gas.
The mansion faded behind them in the mirrors—just flickering lights and long, twisted shadows.
Inside the van, silence reigned for a long stretch.
Then Cassie: “So… we’re never doing another private gig again, right?”
Jonah coughed. “I think they Yelp’d us under ‘live music and light werewolf mauling.’”
Gabriel, still catching his breath, flopped onto the bench with a lopsided grin. “Don’t care who they were. They came for a show.”
Thane—fur still bristled, claws still out—gave him a side glance.
Gabriel winked. “We gave ‘em one.”
