Chapter 2

Trail of the Neo-Vikings

The museum loomed before them, its facade a testament to the reverence of the past, its doors marked by the yellow tape that spoke of recent violation. The air was crisp with the tension of unsolved riddles as Frank and Isabella approached, their footsteps measured, their eyes taking in the scene.

The police were a scattering of blue amongst the stone and glass, their radios a murmur of static and snippets of conversation. A detective, his coat collar turned up against the Nordic chill, eyed them with a mix of curiosity and caution as they made their entrance.

Inside, the museum was a carcass of culture, its exhibits torn open, the absence of the relics as loud as a scream in the hush of the halls. The curator, a woman with the pale flame of the north in her hair, met them beneath the hollow eyes of a Viking helmet, the iron gaze now a silent witness to the burglary.

"I'm Frank Baxter, and this is my wife, Isabella," Frank introduced them, his voice a note of calm in the disquiet of the museum. "We're here to help."

The curator's hands were a flutter of nervous energy, her fingers dancing over the list of stolen items. "It's all gone," she lamented, the paper shaking in her grip. "The artifacts, centuries old, each one a piece of the story of our sky."

Isabella leaned in, her gaze sharp and seeking. "May we?" she asked, gesturing to the list. The curator nodded, surrendering the document like one would a treasure map to lost souls.

The list was a litany of history, each item a verse in the epic of Norse legends. A sundial engraved with runes, a celestial sphere adorned with silver and sapphires, a set of stone tablets etched with the cycles of the sun and moon.

"These weren't just random thefts," Isabella mused, her finger tracing the descriptions. "They were targeted. Someone's collecting these for a purpose."

Frank's eyes met the curator's, finding the fear that pooled there. "Do you have any idea who might be responsible?" he asked, his tone gentle, an anchor in the storm of her distress.

The curator shook her head, her gaze lost in the memory of the glass cases now void of their charges. "Theories abound," she whispered. "But whispers of the neo-Vikings have been growing louder. They seek to bring back the old ways, to turn the wheel of time to an age of myths and legends."

The detective, who had been hovering at the edge of their conversation, cleared his throat. "We're doing all we can," he assured them. "But this is beyond mere criminality. This is a hunt for power."

Frank and Isabella exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. They thanked the curator and the detective, stepping back into the daylight that seemed to linger too long in the sky.

As they walked away from the museum, the list of relics a weight in their pocket, they knew they were chasing more than burglars. They were racing against a force that sought to rewrite the heavens, to control the very light that governed the world. And time, like the sun above, waited for no one.

In the quiet solitude of their inn room, the only sound was the soft rustle of maps and the whisper of pages turning. Frank and Isabella sat hunched over a makeshift command center, a collection of maps, photographs, and notes scattered across the bed. The dim glow of the lamp cast long shadows, turning the room into a landscape of light and dark, much like the mystery that lay before them.

Frank's fingers danced across the map, tracing lines that connected the dots of the thefts. "Look at this," he murmured, his voice low, a conspirator sharing secrets in the night. The locations formed a constellation on the map, each point a star in a celestial pattern that mirrored the tales of Norse gods and their earthly deeds.

Isabella leaned over, her hair falling like a curtain of silk, obscuring her face as she studied the map. "They're not just stealing relics," she said, the realization dawning in her voice. "They're reenacting the rituals, the ceremonies that were once performed at these sites."

The room felt smaller, the air heavier with the weight of their discovery. Frank pulled out the photographs of the relics, each one a piece of history, now a tool in a scheme that spanned the ages. The sundial, its runes a language of shadows and light; the celestial sphere, a miniature cosmos wrought in silver; the tablets, their stone surfaces a testament to the belief in powers greater than themselves.

"They're trying to harness something," Frank said, his brows furrowed in thought. "Something old, something powerful."

Isabella picked up the photograph of the celestial sphere, turning it in her hands, the facets of the sapphires catching the light. "The midnight sun," she whispered. "It's not just a phenomenon; it's a gateway, a door they're trying to unlock."

The pieces of the puzzle were coming together, forming a picture that was both wondrous and terrifying. The neo-Vikings weren't just thieves; they were believers, followers of a doctrine that sought to reclaim the glory and the might of the Viking Age.

"We need to find where they're heading next," Frank declared, his voice a blade cutting through the silence. "We need to stop them before they complete whatever ritual they've begun."

The night pressed against the windows, the midnight sun a lingering glow on the horizon, a reminder that in this land, the darkness was held at bay, but only just. Frank and Isabella worked through the night, their minds racing, piecing together the clues, the patterns, the whispers of legend that might just save the world from those who would turn back the clock to a time of gods and monsters.

Their mission was clear, the path set. The race against the midnight sun was on, and the stakes were nothing less than the fate of the day and night themselves.

The tip came from an unlikely source, a whisper in the wind, a message left in the dark. It spoke of a place where history was bought and sold, where the shadows held more than just the absence of light. It was the kind of place Frank Baxter felt right at home, the kind of place that Isabella had learned to navigate with a dancer's grace.

"Underground market," Frank mused, his lips curving into a half-smile. "Sounds like our kind of party."

Isabella chuckled, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the chase. "I do love a good masquerade," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "What's the disguise this time?"

Frank pulled out two outfits from their duffel bag: a sleek, tailored suit that smelled faintly of mothballs and danger, and for Isabella, a dress that was a whisper of silk and secrets. "We're going high society tonight," he said, winking.

They dressed in silence, the transformation not just of clothes but of personas. When they stepped out of their room, they were no longer just a couple on the run; they were patrons of the dark arts, collectors of the forbidden and the rare.

The underground market was a cathedral of the clandestine, a place where the wealthy and the wicked came to play. Its location was never the same twice, tonight it throbbed with life beneath the cobblestone streets of Stockholm, hidden from the eyes of law and morality.

As they descended into the hall, the air grew thick with the scent of antiquity and greed. The walls were lined with artifacts that gleamed in the dim light, each one a stolen star torn from the fabric of history.

Frank and Isabella moved through the crowd, their eyes hidden behind masks of velvet, their true intentions cloaked in layers of silk and charm. They spoke in hushed tones, their words the currency of interest and intrigue.

At the heart of the hall, an auction was taking place, the lots more than mere objects; they were power, they were control. Frank's grip tightened on his paddle, the number emblazoned upon it a talisman against the night.

Then, amid the clamor and the call of bids, a piece caught their attention. It was a fragment of runestone, its surface etched with lines that spoke of the midnight sun and the world tree, Yggdrasil. It was a piece of the puzzle they were assembling, a clue that couldn't be ignored.

Isabella leaned close, her breath a caress against Frank's ear. "That's it," she whispered. "The key to the Aurora Engine."

Frank nodded, his gaze locked on the stage. The auctioneer's voice was a siren song, calling them to the rocks, to danger, to destiny. They were ready to answer the call, to dive into the depths.

The game was afoot, and they were all in. The bidding began, and with each number called, they drew closer to the truth, to the heart of the midnight sun.

The auctioneer's voice was a seasoned blend of honey and gravel, sweet enough to entice, rough enough to command attention. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his eyes sweeping across the room like a lighthouse beam, "behold the Aurora Engine."

It rested on a velvet cushion, an object no larger than a breadbox, but its presence filled the room, heavy with significance. The Engine was a thing of beauty, a network of gears and runes, of crystal and unknown metals that whispered of ancient knowledge and modern ambition. It pulsed with a light from within, a soft glow that seemed to beat like a heart, a beacon that called to the very souls of those gathered.

Frank's eyes were locked on the device, his detective instincts reading the room, gauging reactions, noting the greed that shone in the eyes of the collectors and the shadowy figures that haunted the edges of the gathering. Isabella stood close, her hand resting lightly on his arm, a touch that grounded him, that reminded him they were a team.

"The Aurora Engine," the auctioneer continued, his voice rising with each word, "is said to harness the energies of the midnight sun itself, to bend the very fabric of time and space, to hold sway over the cycle of day and night."

A collective inhale swept through the crowd, a shared breath of desire and danger. They were the elite, the hidden movers of the world, and they were used to acquiring whatever they desired. But this, this was something else, something that spoke of power beyond mere wealth or status.

Frank felt Isabella's grip tighten as the auctioneer set the starting bid, a figure that would have made lesser men blanch. But Frank Baxter was not a lesser man, and Isabella was not a lesser woman. They were hunters, seekers of truth in a world that preferred shadows.

The bidding began, a frenzy of raised paddles and called figures, a cacophony of covetousness that filled the hall. Frank waited, his timing as impeccable as a sniper's bullet, as he let the others drive the price up, let them squander their fortunes in the pursuit of dreams.

Then, as the numbers reached astronomical heights, Frank raised his paddle, his intervention cutting through the noise like a knife. The room turned to look at the newcomer, the unknown player who had entered the game with such confidence.

Isabella's face was a mask of calm, but her eyes were alight with the thrill of the hunt, with the knowledge that they were moments away from securing the key to their quest. Frank met the auctioneer's gaze, his own eyes steady, his resolve unshakable.

The auctioneer called out the bid, and the hall fell silent, the collective breath held, as they waited for someone to challenge the new figure. But one by one, the paddles lowered, the other bidders bowing out, acknowledging the determination that radiated from the mysterious couple.

All of the paddles lowered except one. It was held by a masked figure.

The auctioneer's gavel came down like the crack of doom, and the masked figure who had won the bidding war stood up, the movement fluid and assured. The room, charged with a mix of elation and defeat from the other bidders, watched as the Aurora Engine was carefully handed over. Frank and Isabella, tucked away in the back, exchanged a glance that held volumes of silent conversation.

"That's our man," Frank's whisper barely reached Isabella, lost in the rustle of expensive fabrics and the murmur of voices as the attendees started to leave.

Isabella's eyes, sharp as shards of ice, never left the tall figure now in possession of the Engine. "Neo-Viking, has to be. Only they would be desperate enough to show face here."

They let the crowd thin before standing, their own disguises a blend of shadow and nondescript attire. They moved with the flow of the dispersing crowd, every sense attuned to the figure weaving through the throng ahead of them. The man moved with purpose, his head turning occasionally, as if he could sense the hunt had turned and he was now the prey.

The chill of the Scandinavian night greeted them as they stepped out of the underground market. The city's night was alive with the pulse of neon and the hum of nightlife, the midnight sun a mere memory here. Frank and Isabella kept their distance, their footsteps silent on the cobbled streets, as they followed the figure through winding alleys and past dimly lit storefronts.

Their quarry seemed to know the city well, taking turns and shortcuts with the confidence of one who calls the place home. But Frank and Isabella were no strangers to tailing, their skills honed in darker places than this.

Frank's hand rested on the cool grip of the revolver hidden beneath his coat, a comforting weight against his side. Isabella's hand brushed against the knife tucked into her belt, a silent promise of defense. They were a pair honed by danger, by the necessity of their lives, and the thrill of the chase was a familiar one.

They trailed the neo-Viking agent to an old warehouse district, where the buildings loomed like silent sentinels of a bygone era. The man paused at a door, his head turning left and right before he slipped inside.

Frank and Isabella waited a beat, two heartbeats in the night, before following. The door led to a stairwell, the steps worn by time and countless feet. They ascended, the only sound their soft breathing and the distant echo of a city that never truly slept.

At the top, they found a door ajar, light spilling out into the darkness. Frank gestured, and together they slipped inside. The room was sparse, the walls lined with maps and photographs, the air heavy with plans and plottings.

In the center, the Aurora Engine sat on a table, its glow dimmed but not extinguished, as if it were waiting for them. The masked man stood before it, his back to them, unaware that the hunters had become the hunters once more.

Frank stepped forward, his shadow falling across the table, his voice low and dangerous. "You know, that doesn't belong to you."

The man turned, his mask a grotesque parody of surprise, and the game was afoot once more.

The night erupted into a frenzy as the buyer, clutching the Aurora Engine, dashed through the doorway. The artifact, now a beacon in the dark warehouse district, seemed to pulse with a life of its own as if urging the man to hasten his escape.

Frank and Isabella were quick on his heels, their bodies coiled springs of adrenaline. They burst into the biting cold of the Nordic night, their breaths pluming out in white clouds. Ahead, the neo-Viking agent threw his leg over a snowmobile, the engine roaring to life under his command.

"He's not getting away," Frank growled, his voice a low thunder over the snowmobile's din. They spotted two idle snowmobiles nearby, left carelessly by some local thrill-seekers. With practiced ease, they jumped onto the machines, the engines revving in harmony with their racing hearts.

Isabella took the lead, her silhouette cutting through the night like a specter of vengeance. Frank followed, his eyes fixed on the fleeting figure ahead, the Aurora Engine a specter of glowing light against the dark canvas of the forest.

The chase was a mad dash through the wilderness, weaving between the skeletal trees and over the icy crust of snow that blanketed the ground. The aurora borealis, a celestial dance of green and purple, watched over them, the sky alive with silent music.

Isabella's snowmobile was an extension of her will, skimming over frozen lakes, the ice below a treacherous mirror in the moonlight. Frank's machine was a beast beneath him, its snarl a promise of pursuit to the ends of the earth.

The northern lights bore witness to their chase, the snowmobiles' headlights carving paths of light through the night. The ancient forests of Sweden had seen many chases, many tales of flight and fight, but none quite like this.

Their quarry was cunning, taking risks, his snowmobile leaping over snowdrifts, skirting the edges of hidden crevasses. But Frank and Isabella were relentless, their resolve an unbreakable chain forged in the fires of their past trials.

As they emerged from the cover of the forest, the landscape opened up to a wide expanse of tundra. The snowmobiles' engines screamed into the silence, the chase a singular note in the quiet of the night.

The agent glanced back, his eyes wide behind his mask, the realization that he could not shake them dawning cold and hard. Frank leaned into the chase, his determination a tangible force that filled the space between them.

The night carried on, the chase a story written in the snow, a tale of desperation and pursuit under the watchful eyes of the stars and the silent song of the aurora borealis.

The night had deepened into a darker shade of mystery, and the chase had now drawn a congregation of shadows racing across the snow, their headlamps like fireflies in a frantic dance. Frank and Isabella pushed their snowmobiles harder, the engines growling beneath them as they skirted across the frozen landscape.

From the corners of the wide expanse, other lights flickered into existence, converging from different directions, all seemingly drawn to the same unseen lodestone in the distance. The neo-Vikings, Frank surmised, were uniting for something far larger than an underground auction — a gathering that sent ripples of unease through the cold air.

The stolen Aurora Engine was a prize that commanded power and respect, Frank knew, and those converging lights spoke of its allure, drawing the covetous and the power-hungry like moths to a flame.

Isabella, with her eyes fixed on the path ahead, leaned into the turns with a dancer’s grace, her instincts guiding her over the treacherous terrain. She was the first to spot the stronghold, a shadowy outline against the distant mountains, its presence an ominous scar on the otherwise untouched snow.

The wind, a relentless hound, snapped at their cheeks and tried to hold them back, but they pressed on, their determination a heat that kept the cold at bay.

"We're running out of time," Isabella shouted over the roar of the engines, her voice barely reaching Frank. "They're all heading to the same place."

Frank’s grip on the handlebars tightened, his knuckles white against the night. "We'll make it," he called back, his words less for her and more a prayer tossed into the wind. He urged his snowmobile forward, coaxing every ounce of power from the straining engine.

Their path was a desperate line drawn across the snow, their trajectory unwavering despite the forces that sought to converge upon them. As they neared the stronghold, the sight of the neo-Vikings' lair sent a shiver down Frank's spine — not from the cold, but from the knowledge of what lay ahead.

The stronghold loomed, a fortress carved from ice and stone, its ramparts a testament to the neo-Vikings’ ambition. Torches flickered along its walls, their flames defiant against the Arctic chill, casting a warm glow that belied the cold intentions of those within.

The chase had led them here, to the heart of the neo-Vikings' domain. Frank and Isabella knew that within those walls lay the answers they sought and the peril they had to face. The convergence of the snowmobiles' lights was a beacon of the battle to come, a prelude to the clash of wills and worlds.

With a final burst of speed, they closed in on the stronghold, the circle of lights around it tightening like a noose. The stage was set, the players in motion, and Frank and Isabella were ready to bring the curtain down on the neo-Vikings' midnight sun ambitions.

The chase had ended, but the game was just beginning. They were far north now, where the land whispered secrets of old, and the snow lay thick upon the ground like a blanket thrown by the gods themselves. The stronghold stood before them, a monolith to modern audacity and ancient lore — its very walls a fusion of steel and etched runes, a testament to the neo-Vikings' reverence for their brutal ancestors.

The night held its breath as Frank and Isabella watched from a copse of trees that had somehow found purchase in the frozen earth. The snowmobiles, like steel steeds of a bygone era, disappeared one by one into the fortress’s belly through a gate that seemed to appear from the very shadow of the structure itself. It was a sliver of darkness that yawned wide, then closed with a silence that was felt rather than heard.

"The Aurora Engine," Isabella murmured, her breath a cloud of vapor in the chill air, "it's in there."

Frank nodded, his eyes not leaving the fortress. "And so are we, soon enough." His hand rested on the pistol at his hip, its weight a comfort and a promise.

They waited, counting heartbeats against the silence of the Arctic night, their patience a hunter’s trap laid with care. The gate remained closed, the fortress an inscrutable face that gave away none of its secrets.

"Once we're in, we find the Engine, we stop whatever madness they're planning with the midnight sun," Frank said, his voice a low rasp against the stillness.

Isabella's hand found his, her gloves leather against leather. "Together," she said, a vow that was stronger than the ice beneath their feet.

They made their way to the fortress, their movements a shadow's whisper. Each step was calculated, a chess piece moved with precision on a board of white and shadow. The hidden gate was their goal, the chink in the armor of the neo-Vikings’ stronghold.

As they drew near, the details of the fortress came into sharper relief — the way the modern metalwork twisted around the ancient stone, the manner in which the torches' flames seemed to shun the touch of modernity, clinging to the old rock like memories that refused to fade.

They found the gate's mechanism, a seamless blend of technology and mysticism, with controls that looked as though they were carved from the very ice that surrounded them. Frank's fingers danced across them, Isabella's keen eyes guiding him.

With a sound like the sighing of giants, the gate slid open, revealing the gaping maw of the neo-Vikings' lair. They slipped inside, the darkness swallowing them whole, the cold a cloak around their shoulders.

The fortress was a labyrinth of ice and echoes, a place where the past and present collided with a soundless fury. It was a place of power, of secrets, and Frank and Isabella moved through it with the inevitability of fate, drawn ever onward by the pull of the Aurora Engine and the mystery of the midnight sun.

The stronghold's inner corridors stretched out before them, a network of chilling purpose and whispered secrets. The light here was scant, the bulbs ensconced in fixtures that mimicked torches, their electric glow a feeble attempt to stave off the enveloping darkness. The walls, a marriage of rough-hewn stone and steel, seemed to absorb the light, and with it, any warmth that dared intrude upon the cold dominion of the neo-Vikings.

Frank's footsteps were silent, his presence as discreet as the shadows that clung to the corners of the hallway. Isabella matched him stride for stride, her eyes taking in every detail, her mind cataloging escape routes and strategies with the precision of a master tactician. The distant chanting drew them forward, a siren call that promised answers and danger in equal measure.

They came upon a grand doorway, its arch a testament to architectural prowess, etched with runes that spoke of an age when the world was wild and raw. The chants, now clear, flowed through the open portal like a river of sound, carrying with it the fervor and conviction of those who believed their time had come again.

Frank and Isabella exchanged a glance, a conversation held in the space of a heartbeat, and moved as one to the doorway's edge. There, they peered into the neo-Vikings' sanctum, a chamber vast and vaulted, where shadows and light danced in an eternal struggle.

At the room's heart stood the Aurora Engine, a construct of metal and myth, its core alight with an inner flame that pulsed with a rhythm akin to a living heartbeat. Around it, the neo-Vikings had gathered, their numbers a sea of fur and leather, their voices rising in a chant that was both invocation and celebration.

The Engine's glow bathed the room, casting the neo-Vikings' features in a stark relief that rendered them both more and less human. It touched upon their leader, a towering figure who stood with arms raised, his voice the axis upon which the ceremony spun.

Frank felt the pull of the Engine, a whisper in his mind that spoke of power and peril. He knew, with a certainty that was bone-deep, that they had found the heart of the neo-Vikings' plans, the nexus of their dream of eternal night. The Engine was the key, and it was here, within their reach, yet guarded by those who would see the world plunged into darkness.

Isabella's hand slipped into his, a silent signal that it was time to withdraw, to plan their next move. They stepped back from the doorway, the chanting a fading echo as they retreated into the corridor's embrace.

The stronghold's heart had been revealed, the Aurora Engine a beacon that drew them inexorably onward. But the path forward was fraught with peril, a treacherous route that they would navigate with care. For now, they had seen the enemy's face, had glimpsed the power they wielded. The next move was theirs to make, and they would make it count.