The Åströms' Chronicles: The Notebook

The rain had stopped twenty minutes earlier, and the streets of morning Tromsø smelled wet and chilly—the smell of an adventure.

Well, of course, it depended on the attitude—for some, adventure meant nothing but a mess they had to deal with instead of peacefully watching TV in a small, cozy apartment at 718 Vestregata Street.

Ari sighed and stepped into his kitchen, mourning his calm life that, as he suspected, was gone for weeks to come.

“Cheese?” Ari put on an old apron with a Viking torso print and looked at Bjorn, sitting at the kitchen table, stroking Eleanor, who was lying on his knees and purring softly.

Ari’s cat almost magically sensed people’s nature, which had proved true dozens of times—and yeah, she scratched the shit out of Ari’s ex the moment the cheating was uncovered.

However, that was the first time she had ever been so friendly with a guest.

Oddly enough, that convinced Ari that Bjorn might have been the one his brass was looking for—more than the fact he’d seen Bjorn use iaktta back in the alley.

Ari winced and rubbed his shoulder—he still couldn’t believe that bitch had handed him his ass.

“Yeah, sure,” Bjorn answered absentmindedly, looking out the window.

Bjorn felt… weird. Ever since he’d dreamt of a half-gray-haired man in Sommarøy forcing a huge army to retreat, he’d felt a strong urge to come to the island.

After all, he was an eccentric millionaire, an heir to a giant corporation, and sudden odd impulses fit perfectly with that image.

Bjorn smirked to himself—“image” was the perfect word to describe what he was.

Inheriting a huge corporation on the verge of bankruptcy—along with all the massive debts, both legal and not—wasn’t quite what he’d dreamed of.

All the more reason for a sudden vacation—to get away from it all, gain new impressions, reboot, and dive back into restoring the Åströms’ legacy: the biggest fishing equipment–producing company in Europe.

So much for a vacation—especially after an assault in the alley he now realized he’d barely survived, thanks to the man now cooking an omelet in a ridiculous apron.

Freaking mess.

“Ms. Landau?” Ari raised his voice, looking toward the balcony where Rachel was smoking her fourth cigarette since they’d arrived.

Rachel turned back and took another drag.

“Only a true gentleman would ask if we want cheese in an omelet after all the damned shit that happened,” she smirked. “Or a crackpot. Yes, please.”

Ari winked at her and turned back to the old fridge, scarred with dozens of magnets and making noises like it was going to die at any moment.

Rachel took one last drag and flicked the cigarette butt off the balcony into a big puddle. Not quite civilized, but she couldn’t give less of a damn—she was pissed as hell.

If they made it out of this mess alive, she’d kill Bjorn herself—no matter how dangerous the supernatural powers he seemed to be suddenly developing were.

Rachel slammed the balcony door and entered the kitchen.

“All right, Mr. Kron, I really appreciate the breakfast, but I’d love some explanation instead,” Rachel said, leaning in the doorway, looking at Ari, who was nonchalantly breaking eggs into a big bowl.

Ari didn’t bother to turn around as he cracked the last egg.

Ättling was important, and he seemed to like this woman, but Ari was fed up with the whole situation and wasn’t about to play by somebody else’s rules.

“And all the explanations will be provided—as long as—”

Ari’s eyes widened as the hair on his neck stood up.

His pupils shrank, his body shimmered, and he turned back lightning-fast, catching a knife that was lying peacefully on the table a second ago.

Rachel straightened up from the throwing position, looking at Ari—now back to normal speed—with a single eyebrow arched.

“Start by explaining this shimmering shit,” she suggested.

“Nice throw,” Ari said, slowly putting the knife back where it belonged and crossing his arms. “Not a common skill around here.”

“Dad wanted a boy,” Rachel shrugged and took a seat next to Bjorn, who glanced at her but said nothing.

Ari raised both hands and sighed.

“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to explain everything—it’s just that I don’t have the authority to. My people will arrive soon, and you’ll get all the answers in the world.”

Bjorn winced and gently lifted Eleanor, handing her to Rachel.

Eleanor opened her eyes, surprised by the sudden change, but then looked at Rachel and silently approved, closing her eyes again.

Rachel raised her eyebrows at Bjorn, but he shook his head slightly and stood up.

Uh-oh.

“Mr. Åström, I assure you that—” Ari looked at Bjorn tiredly.

“Cut the bullshit.” Bjorn raised his hand, locking eyes with Ari. The sharp steel in his tone made Ari shut up.

For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, a chill ran down Ari’s spine, and he suddenly wanted to be as far from Bjorn as possible.

Rachel stroked Eleanor, watching the two men face off—both slender and tall, with similar facial features. They could easily be distantly related—something Rachel hadn’t noticed until now.

“I realize that you saved our lives, and I will be grateful,” Bjorn said, frowning and tilting his head, his usual smile absent. “But only after I believe things aren’t about to get even worse for us.”

“Worse?” Ari smiled, relaxing. This shithead was just posing macho in front of his chick. “Worse than being killed by a crazy bitch in a dirty alley?”

“Yes. For example, if your people are going to use us in some kind of war that will kill much more than just two of us,” Bjorn retorted.

Ari had to admit it wasn’t absolutely impossible.

“You asked me about the object Varg held when Fiske found him,” Bjorn continued, looking at his hand, clenching his fingers as if holding an invisible item. “And for some reason, I knew the answer. For some reason, tons of weird shit has happened to us since I dreamt of Varg Åström killing Colonel Oliver Cole on the shore of Sommarøy centuries ago.”

Bjorn took a step toward Ari, making him step back.

Bjorn’s gaze darkened, his nostrils flared, his ears moved back eerily, and a gust of icy air blew into the kitchen—despite the sunny summer morning outside.

“I don’t give a damn how fast you are, Mr. Kron,” Bjorn said. “I knew what Varg held. I knew how Fiske died. And I know you’re not making it out of this kitchen alive if I don’t want you to.”

Rachel stared at Bjorn, shocked. She’d known him as the nicest person she’d met—and had also seen him pissed, which was scary as hell.

But this… this was almost like someone else speaking.

Ari took another step back, thinking fast.

If he’d had any doubts about this man being an actual ättling, they vanished into thin air.

The power radiating from this untrained, clumsy victim of modern consumer culture—while raw—was overwhelming.

Of course, Ari could kick his ass if he really wanted to…

Or so he tried to convince himself.

After all, Bjorn had shown he was capable of at least two iaktta movements—and one would be more than enough for Ari.

“Okay.” Ari raised his hands. “You win. Despite direct orders, I’ll share some information with you right now.”

Bjorn looked at Ari for a second, then nodded and stepped back, his expression softening as he smiled a bit.

“I’m glad we reached an agreement.”

“Well, about that shimmering stuff…” Ari made a vague gesture with his hand. “We call it skunda undir—a state…”

“Wait, wait,” Bjorn smiled his usual wide, open smile, raising his hand. “Let’s begin with something more interesting.”

“More interesting than people turning translucent and moving at the speed of freaking light?” Ari raised his eyebrows, glancing between Rachel and Bjorn.

Rachel just shrugged.

Bjorn nodded and pointed at Ari’s jacket hanging near the door.

“The notebook. Where you read about the arrowhead stained with blood.” Bjorn spread his hands with a smile. “I’m used to writing down a lot, Mr. Kron, and I’m most comfortable getting information from text. It appears that notebook holds tons of it, so I’d appreciate a chance to read it.”

Ari smirked and shook his head.

As if.

He pulled the old Italian notebook from his jacket and sat at the table, glancing longingly at the bowl of unstirred eggs.

Hell, he was hungry.

Ari hated his job.

“All right… So, Varg Åström,” Ari pointed at the notebook. “The man you saw in your visions, had a notebook. We have no idea where he got parchment in the form of a freaking notebook centuries ago, when it was uncommon, to say the least—and it’s even more puzzling how he learned to write…”

Bjorn smiled, and Ari stumbled.

Why does this pain in the ass have to smile so much? Not that Ari preferred the angry version, but still.

“What?” Ari asked, a bit less politely than intended—recalling the fear Bjorn had caused minutes ago wasn’t pleasant.

“It was Fiske’s gift,” Bjorn said, pointing at the notebook, smiling as if remembering a good friend.

Which he partially did.

“It was also Fiske who taught Varg to read and write,” Bjorn continued, eyeing the notebook in Ari’s hands. “Of course, the notebook didn’t look like this…”

“When we found it, it was half-rotten and we had to improvise,” Ari shrugged, opening the notebook. “After all, if you restore such a unique historical object, why not make it look like one of the best notebooks ever made?”

Ari placed the notebook on the table and carefully scrolled through the pages.

Bjorn frowned—only about a third of them contained handwritten text.

“We don’t know why,” Ari shrugged, answering Bjorn’s silent question. “Maybe he wasn’t a big fan of writing after all—”

Bjorn reached out and touched the notebook.

“Well, seems like centuries have passed,” neat handwriting appeared on the blank pages as Bjorn’s fingers froze on its surface.

Rachel looked at the notebook, then at Bjorn, who slowly lifted his hand. The new handwriting disappeared.

“Shit,” Ari said, genuinely surprised.

“Did it happen before?” Bjorn said, staring at the notebook like it was a poisonous spider.

Ari slowly shook his head and examined the blank page under the light—immaculately clean.

Bjorn picked up the notebook, looked it over, and frowned—no new handwriting appeared.

“Maybe we had a collective hallucination…?” he smirked.

“Maybe don’t touch that thing again until our nerds figure out what just happened,” Ari said sarcastically, reaching for the notebook.

Suddenly, it turned translucent and began shimmering.

Despite logic, Bjorn didn’t drop it. He looked at it, knowing this was exactly what was supposed to happen.

“What the actual hell?” Ari quickly took his earpiece from the countertop and put it into his ear. “Chris, we have a situation here…”

“You didn’t tell them anything, did you?” Christine’s voice chimed from Ari’s earpiece, making him frown as he kept staring at the shimmering notebook.

The shimmering frequency rose exponentially.

“Let’s define ‘telling anything’ first…”

“Shit, Kron, you had just to make them feel freaking home and wait for the team… What’s happening there?”

“I’m not sure…” Ari slowly took his phone and snapped a picture of Bjorn. “I’m sending you a picture now. Hope you’re sitting.”

Rachel—eyes wide—watched Bjorn, absentmindedly continuing to scratch Eleanor behind her ear.

Eleanor kept sleeping nonchalantly.

Bjorn stood from his chair and, obeying a vague instinct, slowly moved his hand holding the shimmering notebook in front of himself.

The notebook left a long translucent streak which, after several seconds, became opaque, transforming into a short, wide sword.

Bjorn gripped its handle, and the feel of its rough, sweat-and-blood-soaked wrapping made him feel more confident than ever.

For the first time since dreaming of Varg, he didn’t feel bewildered—he felt complete.

The notebook stopped shimmering. Bjorn placed it on the table and opened it.

Another set of handwriting appeared under the gaze of Ari, Rachel, and Bjorn as they leaned over the table.

“Well, seems like centuries have passed,” the new lines appeared on the blank page, “and you’re the one who has to deal with all the freaking mess that seems to be starting here.”