The red double-decker bus rolled out of the Rosewood’s grand portico just after breakfast, its top deck packed to the brim with eight overstimulated musicians, sound techs, lighting nerds, and one bright-eyed social media assistant filming everything.
Gordon, their hired London driver, sipped a thermos of tea like a man who’d already accepted his fate. “Y’lot better not try any of that moon-hollering up there while I’m drivin’ past Parliament. They’ll think it’s a protest.”
“Promise nothing!” Gabriel shouted from the top rail, hair slicked back, wearing sunglasses he’d absolutely not paid for from the hotel gift shop.
First stop: Buckingham Palace.
Tourists turned to stare as the red bus eased to the curb. Mark pointed up toward the guards. “If one of them even flinches, I’m putting it on a t-shirt.”
Cassie waved at a group of schoolchildren. Maya posed with a palace gate like she owned it. Rico leaned against the side of the bus, chatting with a girl who immediately burst into tears and asked him to sign her sketchbook.
Jonah tried to climb the gate. Thane dragged him off with a low growl and a quiet, “We do not get deported on day one.”
Then came Big Ben, the London Eye, the Tower Bridge—each landmark turning into a full-blown street event. Fans seemed to pour out of thin air at every stop, and by lunchtime, the bus had a motorcycle escort of live streamers and paparazzi on scooters. People waved from rooftops, cabbies honked, tourists snapped pics like they were tailing royalty.
Gordon, meanwhile, took it all in stride. “You lot realize I’ve driven the Queen once. She didn’t shout ‘I AM THE NIGHT’ from the top of me bloody bus.”
Gabriel grinned. “She didn’t have to.”
By mid-afternoon, they pulled up outside a weathered little pub tucked on a narrow street north of the city. The old sign out front read: The Black Swan Inn.
Mark stared at it with raised brows. “That’s the place?”
Thane nodded. “Filming location for the Slaughtered Lamb. Emily found it.”
“It’s real?” Cassie whispered.
Gabriel cackled. “Oh, this is gonna be a photo op.”
As they stepped inside, the air went still.
Locals sitting in the pub’s dim interior turned. Every head swiveled to stare.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then someone at the bar blinked, muttered, “Bloody hell, it’s them,” and all hell broke loose.
Phones flew out. People screamed. The bartender dropped a glass. A woman near the fireplace burst into tears. The man at the darts board fainted outright.
Gordon, who had followed them in just to use the loo, turned right back around. “Nope. I’m on break.”
Outside, a fresh batch of fans was already gathering. By the time Gabriel stood under the pub sign doing his best exaggerated howl, the crowd had tripled.
They signed the wall inside with the bartender’s blessing. Mark posed next to a framed still from the movie. Rico played a riff on someone’s acoustic guitar. Emily filmed every second, tears in her eyes. “This is the greatest day of my entire life.”
As they piled back onto the bus, Gordon muttered, “If anyone asks, you’re just a football team with a gland problem.”
Gabriel winked. “Don’t worry, Gordon. We tip well.”
Back into the streets they rolled, werewolves above London, tourists to history, chaos on four wheels.