4. Brought Into a Family Secret

Bjorn never liked suits. He was short so he always felt like they made him look round. Suits are for tall, skinny men, not guys five and a half feet tall with thick muscles and the start of a fifty-year-old pooch belly. 

Chelsea seemed to like it though. “Hey, Mister Handsome,” she growled seductively when he stood in front of the mirror. They’d had the suit tailored even and now was the final fitting. The tailor, an older Italian man, was a bit aghast of the age difference in this couple. Or was it that she was actively rubbing her ass against his leg and seeming desperate for a hard fuck? 

*****

The sight of the Pendergast home took Bjorn’s breath away. He felt awkward driving up in his dirty Jeep when all the rest of the cars were worth exceptional price tags. How could Chelsea not love growing up in this opulence?

The house, if one could call it a house, was at least fifteen bedrooms and looked like an English manor. Gardens splayed all around the front entry, which had a three-tier staircase. Patios lined each terrace of the stairs, complete with marble benches and massive, carved flower pots. Even though it was dark, Bjorn could tell that this home came with substantial lawn space. 

A porter swung open the ten-foot-high entry doors with a deep bow. “Good evening, Miss Pendergast.”

“Hello, Charles,” Chelsea said, touching the older man’s arm lightly. “It’s so nice to see you again. How is the missus?”

“She’s fine,” Charles responded, “We’re both better now that you’re home.”

Chelsea twinkled. She was home. She might have a difficult relationship with her widowed, socially awkward billionaire father, but she loved this manor house. It had been in her family for three generations, and so had Charles and his family. They were like family to Chelsea too, and she treated them with love and respect. They were surrogate parents for this wayward, troubled only child.

“I can’t believe you grew up in this,” Bjorn said, looking up and estimating how high the entry ceiling was. Thirty feet, at least. This place couldn’t be a starker contrast to the home he grew up in, a hardscrabble two-bedroom apartment where he and his single, hard working mom barely made ends meet. Bjorn got his first paid job, complete with W-2, when he was only thirteen, simply so that he could fend for himself and ease his mother’s financial burden. 

He was marvelling at how different he and this young girl were when another man, a creepy man, slinked up. Chelsea addressed him dismissively. “Johan, what do you want?” She practically spit the words at him. 

Johan, taking no offense at her hostility, simply said, “your father wishes to see you in the study.” He added a slight, fake bow at the end for good measure, then turned and strolled off. Chelsea burned him with a glare as he strode away.

“I take it you don’t have much love for that…Johan?” Bjorn didn’t know what kind of position Johan held in this weird environment so wasn’t sure how to address him.

Chelsea turned and gazed intensely at Bjorn. “No, Bjorn, I don’t like him. He’s a power broker of my father, and just a slimy snake. We should go find my father though. He won’t appreciate you keeping him waiting.”

The study of Pendergast Manor was larger than the library of Bjorn’s grad school. Mahogany wood, shelves lined with books in actual leather bindings, huge leather sofa chairs and painted lamps adorned the space. This was what wealth looked like. A smell of stale cigar smoke even hung in the air. 

David Pendergast sat swallowed in a singular sofa chair, watching Bjorn intently as he gazed around the room. “I’m glad you could make it tonight, Mr. Haraldsson. Please do come in and take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Bjorn settled on a comfortable loveseat, Chelsea sitting as well and clutching his hand as if he was protection from her father. “Father, why have you asked us to come tonight?”

Another man entered the room from a side door, almost as if this was her answer. He was much older than the other two men, probably in his late-70’s, perhaps even early-80’s. He shuffled in, and sat alone in his own chair. 

“I’ve asked Mr. Rosewood to join us tonight so he can properly elucidate on our current…predicament. You see, Mr. Haraldsson, you possess something very dear to me. I do not want it back, but I do want it repaired. And only you can do that.”

Bjorn frowned. What in the world could that mean? Surely he was talking about Chelsea, but broken? What an unusual way to describe a child.

Mr. Rosewood, reading the confusion on Bjorn’s face, felt obligated to chime in. “Mr. Haraldsson, how much do you know about your family genealogy?”

The question, unexpected, rightly caught Bjorn off guard. “Wha…?” He harumphed confusedly, “I had an aunt that did some ancestry work a long time ago. I know that my father’s side of the family is descended from Vikings.”

“Indeed they are,” said Mr. Rosewood, nodding his head in agreement. “There’s more to the story though, much more. I would encourage you to visit my bookstore soon so we can discuss in detail.”

“You see,” Mr. Pendergast added, “I need your assistance, Mr. Haraldsson. My daughter’s life may depend on it.”

Bjorn, befuddled, swung his eyes from one man to the other. Mr. Rosewood then added, “Mr. Haraldsson, you come from a long line of Vikings, famous Nordic warriors of old. They lived at a time when people believed in magic, powerful gods, and dangerous monsters. Nearly every Viking was a fierce warrior. The question before us is, are you a warrior as well?”

What in the fuck? This wasn’t what Bjorn expected tonight. He was expecting David Pendergast to introduce him to Bender’s high society as the fifty-year-old man who was fucking his teenage daughter. But Vikings? Warriors? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you sure you have the right guy?”

“We do indeed, Mr. Haraldsson,” David said, sitting forward and clasping his hands almost pleadingly. “I need your help.”

Mr. Rosewood spoke then, his words crashing like a tsunami. “Mr. Bjorn Haraldsson, your family were famous werewolf hunters. And your services are needed now.”

Chelsea clutched Bjorn’s fingers tightly. He swung his head towards her, almost forgetting she was there. The fear in her eyes caught him off guard. 

“B,” she whimpered, hushed. “I need your help.”