The sonic assault is immediate as you step inside. It sounds like Elvis and a bag of wrenches fell into a combine harvester. The lead singer is dressed like Hermes (the Greek god) with a ducktail, a rhinestone-studded leather jacket, and a magic wand. This must be Psychopompadour, the rockabilly band. From what you've heard while standing in line, the schedule is Psychopompadour hosting a drag king show, then Scritti Ligotti, then Nin's band. You push past the winner of the drag king contest, a leather-clad figure with a huge white wig and pantaloons made of motorcycle parts named Bonny Prince Harley, and look for Elton, but he's already vanished into the crowd.
Your hunt for David Banicki also involved the fomor hunting you, through an unfamiliar city in the depths of winter. By contrast, the crowd here seems friendly, despite your quietly simmering Rage. You don't spend a lot of time around friendly people. You permit yourself to relax for a few minutes, listen to the jangling rockabilly music, and get a feel for the place. It's much less threatening than old war stories about Hog Throne's early days led you to imagine. There's an actual stage here, with curtains and spotlights. There's even a kid-friendly zone away from the bar for the under-18s, called the Ball Pit.
But as Psychopompadour shifts from "Xolotl Shakin' Goin' On" to "Yama Mamma," you remember that you're here to find Nin. She's probably in the farmhouse getting ready. It's guarded, not by ex-commandos or anything, just show security, but you'd need to be careful to avoid trouble. You might also want to track down Elton—he might already be in trouble.
And what about the Cult of Fenris? The local dirtbags might know where the Cultists are. And speaking of local dirtbags, what if you're out of a job on Monday because that little freak who runs Gorsky Manor has a bad trip? Maybe it's time to look for a side gig.
I act friendly with the older folks and look for gig work.
I follow my intuition to track down Elton and make sure he's okay.
I sneak past the bored-looking security outside the farmhouse to look for Nin.
I shift into my lupus form and sneak into the farmhouse.
What about the Cult of Fenris? I patiently, carefully talk to various creeps and low-lives and see what they know.
Next.
You talk to the barn's door guard, the one who let you and Mr. Gorsky in a half-hour ago, to make sure the bracelet on your wrist gets you back inside. When he says yes, you step out into the cool dry night air, wait for your hearing to return after Psychopompadour's sonic bombardment, and then study the farmhouse. Two cars are parked outside of the house, a Nissan Cube and that Scion that looks like a cube, you forget what it's called. A big man and a bigger woman with Hog Throne t-shirts guard the cars and the messy junction box outside, but the woman is on her phone and the man is smoking an electronic cigarette like it's his last one before the firing squad, eyes closed in concentration. This isn't exactly high security. Both guards can see the farmhouse door, but someone has pried the boards off a kitchen window, and you can see light spilling out of it.
You creep toward the window, then realize too late that something is creeping toward you. Dropping low, you see an open maw and wild eyes gleaming red in the light of a parking car's brake lights. At first you think gore hangs from the wolf's maw, but then you realize that the wolf has a beard.
"What was that?" a guard says. She turns on her phone's flashlight and sweeps it across the field. A moment ago, the red-limned wolf was less than a stride from you; now it's gone. Both guards stalk toward you.
"You shitfaced already?" the guy asks through a cloud of nicotine smoke.
"No," you say, getting up. "I just—"
The woman grabs your wrist, sees your bracelet, and shoves you back toward the barn.
"The bathrooms are around the back," she says. "Don't piss in the woods."
You're busted, so all you can do is apologize and get back into the barn.
Next