The red double-decker bus turned the corner near Trafalgar Square and nearly ran over a mob of screaming fans.
Not literally, of course — the driver, a gruff East Londoner named Gordon who’d seen everything from Royal processions to stag parties in banana costumes, simply muttered “Bloody hell,” under his breath and tapped the horn twice as if that would help.
He’d been hired by the bus company for this one bizarre assignment: escorting an American rock band — half of whom were werewolves — around central London in a repurposed sightseeing bus. He didn’t ask questions. He just drove.
And he definitely didn’t look in the rearview mirror when one of them howled.
Feral Eclipse on Tour was hastily scrawled on a magnetic sign slapped to the side, but the howling fans sprinting beside the tires didn’t need a label.
“Oi, they’re in the bloody bus!” someone shrieked.
Gabriel stood upright on the top deck with both arms spread wide, wind blasting through his fur, his bass case strapped to his back like a warrior’s sword. “I AM KING OF ENGLAND!”
“No, you’re not,” Mark muttered from the lower deck, sipping tea like a Victorian aristocrat. “Sit down.”
Thane sat near the back with his tablet open, adjusting hotel check-in times with military precision while casually avoiding the flashing cameras pointed at them from all directions. “We’ll be at the hotel in five, assuming we don’t get overturned like a Beatles reenactment.”
Emily clung to the railing beside Gabriel, laughing as she filmed the madness for the band’s socials. “This is insane! I think that guy just tattooed Gabriel’s name on his neck!”
Cassie and Maya were taking selfies in front of Big Ben. Jonah waved at a group of fans on a passing tour boat, then promptly smacked his head on a low-hanging sign. Rico strummed a soft melody on his unplugged acoustic, nodding politely to the crowd like an indie artist with no idea he was part of a werewolf rock circus.
When they pulled up in front of the Rosewood London — a palace of Edwardian grandeur with wrought iron gates, towering marble columns, and a line of astonished doormen — they looked less like a band and more like the end of a music video no one could afford.
A crowd had already formed.
Security surged. Fans screamed. Phones waved like wildfire.
The hotel manager, a stiff-lipped man in a perfectly tailored suit, stepped forward with visible effort not to show panic.
“Mr. Conriocht,” he said, nodding at Thane, “we have your suites prepared. Nine rooms. All top floor. Full privacy. Soundproofing. Enhanced security — per your request.”
Thane nodded. “Appreciated.”
Then the manager’s eyes flicked upward as Gabriel launched himself from the top deck to the hotel steps in a single leap, landed barefoot and grinning, and shouted, “HELLO, LONDON!”
The crowd went nuclear.
Thane sighed. “…And this is why we needed enhanced security.”
As they moved inside, the hotel staff tried their best to maintain composure. Luggage was whisked away. Keycards were handed out. Complimentary champagne appeared like magic. A concierge discreetly handed Mark a pamphlet about the historic architecture—only to nearly have it snatched back when Mark asked where the lighting grid was.
Each member of the crew got their own luxury suite: gold-trimmed doors, marble bathrooms, velvet sofas, and minibars stocked with items so fancy even Jonah blinked and whispered, “Do we… do we touch anything?”
Gabriel touched everything.
“This soap costs more than my entire childhood.”
Thane collapsed onto the velvet armchair in his suite, massaging his temples. From the window, he could still hear the roar of fans outside, echoing off the city walls.
They’d arrived.
Europe was officially on notice.