Fic: The Family Business - Chapter 4

[rusakko]

Chapter 4: Häyhä's Rifle

A steady drizzle of rain is falling down from the grey clouds above the Helsinki Cathedral. Lalli shivers. If he doesn’t catch Mikkel’s throat illness, all this running around in wet clothes is surely going to give him pneumonia. Sigrun, of course, says that the weather is perfect because it means no one will want to be outside at 3 a.m. and there’s a smaller risk of anyone seeing them, but then she isn’t the one who has to stand around in the rain keeping watch.

He is standing on a terrace behind the great white bulk of the cathedral, while below him, at street level, Emil, Sigrun and Mikkel are working on breaking the lock on the decorative metal gate protecting the glass door to the crypt. Judging by the cursing in three different Scandinavian languages, it is not easy.

“Okay, move back, I’m going to use the welding torch,” he hears Emil say. There’s a sudden bright light and a hissing sound followed by something clattering to the ground.

“Good job!” Sigrun’s voice says. Lalli glances around him. The street behind the cathedral is still deserted apart from Grandma’s van, where Tuuri is fidgeting nervously in the driver’s seat.

Then there’s a sound of glass shattering, and somewhere below Lalli’s feet, an alarm starts to ring. More swearing, mostly in Norwegian this time.

“Hurry up, boys, we don’t have much time!”

Footsteps, crackling of glass under heavy boots, and Sigrun’s voice retreating further into the crypt: “Get your explosives ready, Emil!”

For a few minutes, nothing happens, except that the rain keeps falling and the alarm bell keeps ringing. Then, a muffled boom from the crypt. And another one. And, somewhere in the distance, but rapidly getting closer, the wail of police sirens.

As he has been instructed, Lalli dials Sigrun’s number.

“The police are on their way.”

“WHAT!?” Sigrun’s yell almost ruptures Lalli’s eardrum. “Can’t hear you, kid, that explosion was pretty loud, but we’re almost done here!” She hangs up. Lalli is left to pace nervously in the rain.

He’s already moved to stand by the side door of the van when the trio emerges from the crypt, coughing through their ski masks and covered in dust. Mikkel, running out last, is carrying a long, thin box in his arms.

“Everyone get in the van! Tuuri, step on the gas!” Sigrun is shouting.

Lalli is bundled into the back of the van in a confusion of sharp elbows and singed hair, ending up somewhere on the floor half-lying on Emil’s legs. The Swede grabs hold of him as Tuuri makes a sharp turn at a far too high speed, tossing them about wildly.

“Are the police after us?” Mikkel yells.

“I don’t think so!” Tuuri shouts back.

“Then slow down before someone breaks their neck back here!”

They make it to The Grade A Cat without anyone breaking their neck and also, as far as they know, without being followed. Sigrun is in an ecstatic mood, slapping everyone on the back in turn and declaring that they must all have some Viking blood in them.

“Drinks are on the house!” she announces, marching to the bar.

“Oh yes, we should definitely celebrate,” Mikkel tells her acidly. “After all, we have not only caused what may be permanent damage to a beautiful building with immense cultural and religious value – we have also stolen a highly dangerous weapon that could cause terrible destruction if placed in the wrong hands.”

“Well, luckily it’s in the right hands, then!” Sigrun declares, unperturbed. “And you clearly need a drink or two to loosen up a bit.”

Mikkel sighs, shaking his head, but accepts the pint she offers him.

Emil and Tuuri, meanwhile, are trying to pry the long, narrow metal box open.

“I could try the welding torch,” Emil begins to say, but is immediately cut off by Sigrun.

“No playing with fire on business premises, pretty boy. Remember what happened last time. Mikkel, give them a hand with the crowbar, will you?”

The rifle looks utterly unremarkable. It does, however, seem to be in a surprisingly good condition considering that it is more than eighty years old. In fact, looking closer, Lalli can’t see a single scratch or stain. Recalling the hours spent painstakingly cleaning sand and mud from the rifle he was practically married to during his obligatory six months in the Finnish army, he is willing to admit that a self-cleaning rifle would be magical indeed.

Sigrun is more sceptical. “Doesn’t feel that special to me”, she says, picking it up and weighing it in her hands. “We should probably test it on something before going after the demon. It would be kind of embarrassing if it turned out to be just a normal old rifle. And the demon would also kill us.” Her gaze sweeps over the group as if trying to decide which of them to use as a practice target. Fortunately, Mikkel steps in before they find out who would have been chosen.

“I heartily agree, Sigrun, but in my opinion, it can wait until everyone is sober and we are in a place where the sound of a gunshot will not attract unnecessary attention. In the meantime, I suggest you put the rifle away…”

---

The rifle having been packed safely back into its box, the group has settled comfortably at the counter. Emil, whom Lalli is beginning to dislike a lot less than he dislikes most other people, has brought more cookies, and Lalli is trying to devour them all as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Tuuri is interrogating Sigrun and Mikkel about why they became hunters and, more importantly, how they ended up in Finland.

“Oh, my parents are hunters, too, so I was raised to the life,” Sigrun is explaining cheerfully, pouring herself another beer. “I put my first ghost to rest when I was seven years old. Sometime in my twenties, I got bored of just hunting stupid Draugar and Lindworms all the time, so I decided to take a holiday trip to Finland because I wanted to have a go at killing an Ajattara…”

But the rest of Sigrun’s story is lost to Lalli. His ears are suddenly filled with the same high-pitched whine that he heard in the forest, when the mysterious force banished the Näkki. His sight is dimming, too, or rather everything else is being drowned out by a light that somehow seems to be radiating from all around him.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he hears Emil exclaim. The Swede grabs him just before he falls off his barstool. “Guys, I think Lalli’s not feeling well!”

Lalli is vaguely aware of being carefully lowered onto the floor, but he feels his consciousness slipping away into the brightness.

“Wow, what kind of a drink did you make him, Emil?” he faintly hears Sigrun ask.

“Just milk, I swear,” the Swede replies, sounding distressed, but his voice is receding somewhere far away, as Lalli is rising up, up, above the noise and confusion.

There is only the light now, but this time, it seems to be forming into a shape that is vaguely human-like, though it’s too bright for him to see properly.

“You need to have faith, Lalli. Trust me,” the being made of light says in a booming voice. “I can help you. Just let me help…”

Lalli tries to reach out towards the being, and for a moment it feels as if his hand has gotten a hold of something soft and fluffy. Then the light flashes brighter than ever before, and he can remember no more.

---

The floor is hard and uncomfortable. Lalli tries to shift into a better position, but strong hands grab his shoulders and hold him still. There’s something wet and sticky dripping from his nose.

“I believe he is coming round,” Mikkel’s voice says.

“Lalli!” Tuuri’s voice. “Can you hear me? Just lie still and don’t move, you’ve had some kind of a seizure.”

“We should take him to the hospital,” Mikkel says. “The nosebleed seems to be stopping, but collapsing like that is certainly not normal.”

“No!” Lalli forces his eyes open, struggling to sit up. Another pair of hands – Emil’s – help him. “No hospital. I’m fine.”

“What happened?” Tuuri asks, pale and wide-eyed. Lalli has no idea, but he hopes it doesn’t happen again. His head is hurting and everything around him seems to be a little out of focus.

“I had… some kind of a vision,” he mutters, wiping blood from his face with the back of his left hand. Haltingly, he attempts to describe the bright light, the voice and the dreams he has had before. The others listen in a grim silence.

“Mikkel, do you think something’s trying to possess him?” Sigrun asks once Lalli has finished speaking.

The big Dane shakes his head slowly.

“It does not sound like it, but of course I cannot be certain,” he says. “It appears to me that the being, whatever it is, is merely attempting to communicate – for now, at least.”

“Can we make it stop?” Tuuri asks.

“Not until we find out what it is,” Mikkel replies.

“And how do we do that?” Sigrun demands.

“I do not know. We could try to summon it if we knew its name or had some kind of a physical trace of it –”

“I think we do,” Emil interrupts him quietly. He points at Lalli’s right hand, which is clenched into a fist.

Lalli looks down. Clutched in his hand, a little crushed but still clearly recognizable, are three long, soft feathers, as bright red as Sigrun’s hair.