Gordon had extended the invitation like it was a casual thing.
“Just a quiet drink with some mates. Real proper pub, old-school. Nothing fancy.”
He should’ve known better.
The pub was called The Bitter Hound, tucked on a narrow street somewhere between Soho and total chaos. It had brick walls, creaky floors, and more beer taps than electrical outlets. There were dartboards, dusty trophies, and a jukebox that hadn’t worked properly since 1996. It was perfect.
The pack arrived just after sunset, ducking through the door one by one, the three wolves having to crouch slightly just to make it through the low frame. The moment Gabriel stepped in — bright-eyed, leather-jacketed and already buzzing — the pub froze.
Every local turned.
One old man nearly dropped his pint.
Gordon stood at the bar with a wide grin, pint in hand. “There they are. My bad decisions, just walked through the door!”
Mark grunted. “Place smells like stale mop water and fryer oil.”
Gabriel sniffed. “So… heaven?”
The humans — Cassie, Maya, Rico, Jonah, and Emily—looked unsure whether they were here to drink or to supervise. Emily was already recording, wide-eyed and whispering commentary into her phone like a nature documentary host tracking unpredictable beasts in their native habitat.
Drinks arrived fast and strong. Gabriel, of course, ordered whatever looked the most dangerous on tap and chased it with a mystery shot the bartender called Witch’s Cough.
“Oh god,” Gabriel said after taking it. “It tastes like licorice and regret!”
Fifteen minutes in, Jonah had challenged Rico to darts. Five minutes after that, Mark had challenged Jonah to not suck at darts, and a crowd had gathered. Gabriel declared himself referee and promptly changed the scoring system mid-round for “the vibe.”
Thane, meanwhile, had posted up in a corner with Gordon, sipping a strong stout and doing his best to pretend none of this was happening.
“I should’ve brought earplugs,” Thane muttered as Maya and Cassie got up to dance to a Pogues song someone managed to cue up on the half-broken jukebox.
Gordon chuckled. “This is the best night this place has had in years. Look—half the regulars are streaming.”
Sure enough, the pub was now full of phones held high. Fans had trickled in after someone on social media spotted Gabriel’s ears in the window. The chaos was growing.
“Oi!” someone shouted. “Do the howl!”
Gabriel grinned, stood on a barstool, and let one rip.
The howl was deep, resonant, and shook the pint glasses. The entire pub howled back, like a drunken wolf chorus echoing through centuries of poor decisions and good beer.
Mark groaned. “I knew he’d do it.”
Cassie leaned over, half-laughing, half-shouting, “He’s three drinks away from climbing onto the roof!”
“Correction,” Thane muttered. “Two.”
Gabriel launched into a retelling of the museum fight, complete with reenactments using bar towels and spoons. Rico pulled out his acoustic guitar and started strumming a sea-shanty version of “Field Notes from the Stars,” which turned into a full pub singalong.
By 11:30 PM, Gabriel had convinced a British rugby player to arm wrestle him (he won), Mark had been declared the pub’s new dart champion (he declined the title), and Jonah had somehow broken a barstool “just by sitting there, I swear.”
Emily was seated on the bar, eating chips and narrating live to her growing social media following:
“We’ve reached Peak Werewolf. No injuries. No arrests. Yet.”
Outside, a police cruiser slowed at the curb, saw the crowd through the window, and then promptly drove off.
Inside, the barkeep handed Thane a bill and a stack of thank-you cards signed by fans and regulars.
“Most we’ve ever made in a night,” the barkeep said, still breathless. “And the most fun, too.”
Thane looked around the packed, howling, ridiculous room. Gabriel had started trying to teach British tourists how to play air bass. Maya was laughing so hard she spilled her drink. Gordon was hugging Mark. And someone — somehow — had put bagpipes on the jukebox.
“Yeah,” Thane said, dry as ever. “Pretty standard Tuesday for us.”