The Åströms' Chronicles: Eleanor

Dense fog filled the streets of Tromsø and refused to leave even after the day crossed its middle.

Snowy-white, it looked thick enough to eat, reducing visibility to nothing, making it harder for the eagle to observe the people in the tiny apartment at 718 Vestregata Street.

Finally, he sighed and took off—anyway, he barely heard or saw anything there.

It was better to observe the area, to be prepared in case something bad happened.

Which was often the case when it came to venstres and høyres.

***

Ari turned on an espresso machine and checked his phone one more time.

His team should’ve already gotten here, but still, nothing.

Moreover,something was wrong with his earpiece, as Christine hadn’t responded for about an hour.

Eleanor half-opened her eyes and quickly skimmed the room. So far, everything was going smoothly, and hopefully, in several hours, the ättling would be safe with the venstres.

Just to think—she had managed to pretend to be a ducking house cat for years.

Fortunately, the human she stayed with wasn’t the smartest one.

Boy, the things she saw Ari doing were immensely horrible.

Absolutely gross.

Eleanor even stopped purring and instinctively unsheathed her claws.

“What’s wrong, Elly?” Rachel frowned and stopped stroking Eleanor, looking at her with concern.

“Nothing, just that I’ll open your jugular vein if you ducking call me Elly again, you stupid ugly piece of shit,” Eleanor thought, looking right into Rachel’s eyes and sheathing her claws.

“That’s it, good girl,” Rachel smiled and resumed stroking Eleanor, turning her attention back to Ari and Bjorn.

Eleanor closed her eyes, rolling them under her lids, and started purring again.

After all, the most important thing was to not let the humans find out who she really was.

Ari handed Bjorn a tiny cup of espresso and put another one in front of Rachel, who nodded in appreciation.

Bjorn sipped and looked at the cup respectfully. He must find out where Ari bought his coffee once this was all over.

Ari looked out the window.

Something felt wrong.

Bjorn took Varg’s notebook from the table, pocketed it, and then took the sword, looking at it from all directions.

“Well, let’s assume the magic sword also gave me magic fencing skills…” Bjorn looked around and stood in the very middle of the kitchen. “After all, why not?”

Slash!

“Shit!” Rachel jumped up from her seat, dropping Eleanor, who meowed angrily and ran toward the countertop.

The sword that flew from Bjorn’s hand hit a cupboard, several inches from Rachel’s head.

Eyes wide, Bjorn looked at Rachel, then at his hands.

“Well, guess it didn’t…” he said slowly.

“You think so?” she retorted venomously.

“I’m sorry,” Bjorn raised his hands, stepping toward Rachel. “I didn’t think…”

"You didn’t think a fucking heavy piece of sharp metal might slip out of control in your clumsy hands that have never held anything heavier than your cock?" Rachel raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms.

Shit, she was so tired of all this mess. She hoped Ari’s “team” would explain everything once they arrived.

Ari finished his espresso, moving his gaze from Bjorn to Rachel, trying to understand what was so familiar about these two.

Something on the edge of his mind, something he had heard before but then forgotten…

Bjorn smiled and pulled the sword out of the cupboard, leaning closer to Rachel than he needed to.

Rachel rolled her eyes and left for the balcony, grabbing her pack of cigarettes on the way.

Eleanor jumped onto the countertop, curled up, and kept observing.

The ättling had a point—he must’ve gained the sword-wielding knowledge once he interacted with the framsýn’s diary.

Interesting.

Knock knock.

Eleanor shuddered and looked at the door, where a polite knocking chimed from.

Ari slowly took his daggers from their sheaths.

Knock knock knock.

“Kron, it’s Trevor. We have a three-minute window. Chop-chop.” A low, hoarse voice came from behind the door, and Ari frowned.

“I thought Hanz was coming.” Ari slowly approached the door.

“Well, I thought I’d have a nice calm shift at headquarters, but then they sent me for no freaking reason. Open the damned door.”

Ari reached his hand toward the handle but then stopped.

Trevor’s voice was echoing.

“Why are you wearing skunda undir?” Ari frowned

“An order.” Trevor’s echoing voice grew irritated.

Eleanor moved closer to Bjorn and Rachel, who had walked back into the kitchen, and shifted her weight onto her rear legs, taking battle stance number eleven.

Bjorn glanced at her and frowned. This cat had looked strange from the very beginning, and now her posture was far from natural—as if she were deliberately preparing to move on her rear legs only.

Eleanor met Bjorn’s gaze, meowed, and started licking her right paw.

Bjorn looked away.

Shit. Fooling Ari was one thing, but keeping a low profile with these two was much harder.

“What’s wrong?” Bjorn whispered to Ari. “Don’t you know him?”

“Something’s not right…” Ari looked around, and his gaze fell on the fog outside the window.

***

The eagle circled the district, his usual irritation slowly turning into genuine concern as the cream-dense fog seemed to have very specific borders.

As if it were artificial.

For the first time since his father pushed him from a cliff, the eagle felt a true, deep, primal fear that started in his chest and spread through his body to the very tips of his feathers.

It wasn’t fog.

***

“Kron, I swear to all the gods, if you don’t open this door now, I’ll break it down,” Trevor’s echoing voice grew angry.

“Ari? Can you hear me?” Christine’s voice sounded from Ari’s earpiece—quiet and full of interference.

“Barely.” Ari tapped the earpiece several times.

“We…” Christine’s voice became even more distorted. “...did not… Trevor’s… tor… Ari… trai… Do you…”

Christine’s voice died, and Ari bit his lip.

Trevor’s a traitor.

His gaze fell on the fog outside the window.

His pupils narrowed down to tiny dots, his body became translucent and started shimmering as he donned skunda undir.

Not fog. They dared to use heildarstífla.

Shit.

Bjorn stepped in front of Rachel, holding the sword with a slightly shaking hand. He learned that nothing good was about to happen when people began shimmering around him.

Bjorn only hoped he could pull off the same trick he had in the alley.

Eleanor winced.

It seemed they were about to be attacked by a full regiment of top-notch høyres, and even if the ättling used iaktta again, there was no way he’d kill all of them.

After all, he was a clumsy bag full of shit, not a framsýn yet.

Eleanor’s pupils narrowed, turning into tiny dots, and her fur stood on end, its tips becoming translucent and shimmering so slightly that nobody would ever notice unless they knew what to look for.

One hundred forty-seven years old, Eleanor was one of the last living venns and a descendant of the royal branch, which made her both capable and responsible for protecting the ättling – the only being who could stop the evil coming from beyond the void again.

The evil the høyres had sworn an oath to in a desperate pursuit of pointless power.

The evil the venstres had been fighting since Varg Åström.

She did hope that in the upcoming massacre, nobody would notice that she was far deadlier than any house cat.