The morning after their unforgettable night in Ireland dawned hazy and slow, the kind of quiet that only came after leaving it all on the stage. With little fanfare but a lot of yawns, the pack boarded their private tour bus once again, this time bound for the heart of France. The drive to the ferry was uneventful — aside from Gabriel nearly getting into an argument with a customs officer over the “illegal level of charm” on board — and the crossing itself was blessedly calm. Thane used the downtime to review schedules, Mark napped with his hoodie pulled over his eyes, and Emily stayed glued to her phone, grinning as she scrolled through the tidal wave of fan tributes from the last show. As they rolled through the outskirts of Paris, the skyline rising in the distance, something in the air shifted — like the whole city was holding its breath for what was about to hit it.
Paris had never looked more cinematic — golden light spilled across the Seine, car horns blended with distant music, and the unmistakable shape of the Eiffel Tower loomed like a silent spectator over the sprawling city. But the most electric energy that night wasn’t atop a monument — it was barreling toward the Accor Arena in the form of one double-decker red tour bus, one very French chauffeur, and nine howling lunatics ready to shake Paris to its foundations.
The band’s arrival was everything but subtle. French fans, already massed outside the arena gates, exploded into cheers as soon as the bus rolled into view. It was like a street festival had detonated — there were signs, flags, red flares, Eiffel Tower hats, someone in a full-on werewolf fursuit, and at least one accordion player trying to cover a Feral Eclipse song very badly.
“Are they barking at us?” Cassie blinked, squinting out the lower window.
“They’re howling,” Gabriel grinned, pressing his muzzle against the glass. “That’s our thing.”
“Your thing,” Mark corrected gruffly. “Mine is not getting trampled.”
The second the doors opened, the screams escalated into literal sobbing. The moment the pack stepped down — Gabriel waving with his signature grin, Thane stone-calm and cool, and Mark already regretting the noise — camera flashes went off like fireworks. Security struggled to hold the lines, but the French had no chill, especially when it came to werewolves.
Inside, the arena staff were in full meltdown mode, some trying to coordinate VIP logistics while others stood slack-jawed just watching Gabriel bounce around like a caffeinated wolf-pup. One poor intern dropped a crate of laminated passes when Gabriel casually asked, in his absolute worst French accent, “Où est la baguette?”
Rico caught the moment, snorted, and muttered, “We’re gonna get deported.”
Backstage, things didn’t calm down at all. Influencers were already arriving for a rooftop pre-show party and trying to sneak selfies with the band. Emily ended up body-blocking a TikTok fashion model from climbing onto the bass rig. Thane had to explain to the lighting director — twice — that yes, the gray-furred werewolf in the corner glowering at the lasers was the lighting designer and no, he didn’t want to be told how to run his console.
But it wasn’t until the pack was escorted up to the rooftop VIP lounge, with a postcard-perfect view of Paris and trays of very expensive cheese, that things truly hit fever pitch.
“Oh no,” Thane muttered, watching a half-dozen fashion influencers descend on Gabriel like he was the main course. “They found him.”
One woman with glitter eyeliner and a press badge clutched his arm and squealed, “You are like… the black wolf of Versailles!”
“Oui,” Gabriel grinned, slipping into his worst French accent again. “Je suis très fluff.”
Mark facepalmed.
By the time the meet and greet started, things had turned from overwhelming to flat-out absurd. Fans screamed. Fans cried. One woman dropped her phone and didn’t even notice. Gabriel signed someone’s baguette. Cassie took over for a translator who had fainted mid-introduction. Jonah somehow got his drumsticks stuck in a potted plant and declared it a sign of good luck. The energy was feral in every sense of the word.
And as the band was finally ushered toward soundcheck, Thane gave one last glance toward the Eiffel Tower in the distance — lit in gold, silent and tall — and muttered under his breath with a faint smile.
“Let’s make Paris remember this night.”