Trust Me When the Sun Goes Down (16 page)

“Amen to that, brother.  As long as the beer keeps flowing, let’s hope they always do.”  Drinking deeply, he settled back in his chair, eyes narrowing at Bishop.  “So, what’s the head of the Order doing that has him avoiding the chapter house?  This ain’t got nothin’ to do with that ass Corley being in town, does it?”

“Simon Corley is here?”  Bishop’s brows rose.  That was news to him.  He’d known the guy had close ties to Jennike, but had figured he was too proud to sit at her right hand.  “She’s not planning on making him Warden, is she?”  That could prove awkward for Anja.

“Hell if I know, but I don’t see it.  ’Course, I don’t see what he’s doing here at all.  They ain’t fuckin’, I don’t even think he likes her type.”

“Corley likes women.” Bishop waved that assumption away.  He’d kept his share of female feeders over the years.  He preferred them young and broken, and they never lasted long.

“Nah, I mean her balls are bigger’n his, man,” Jett laughed. 

“That’s cute,” Bishop smiled, taking another drink.  “I think she’s probably one of the few allies he has left after Sylvius banished him from Vetis.  As for what he brings to the table, you never know.  Jennike’s tastes can be varied, but I’m sure his vast personal fortune has something to do with it.  That has nothing to do with why I’m here though.  In fact, if I’m lucky, I can avoid seeing them at all.”  Technically he was supposed to go and pay his respects upon entering her city, as the head of the Order it was considered the polite thing to do. 

His phone buzzed, Jakob’s text brimming with impatience. 
I grow tired of waiting.
 

Jet’s head craned to get a look at the screen when Bishop set the phone down.  “Who’s that?  You got a girl now?”

“No, it’s the pain in my ass,” he muttered. 

“And here I thought you’d be free and clear of that shit, sitting on top of the Order.”

“This particular pain has been in my ass since I was turned.”  It was time to get down to business.  “Keep it on the down low, but I’m here with Jakob.”  He nodded when Jet’s eyes stretched wider.  “Yep, that Jakob, the
Ellri
.”   

“No shit?  You’re running with the big dogs, ain’tcha?”

“Lucky me,” Bishop breathed, taking another deep drink.  “What can you tell me about Lodinn?”

“Lodinn?  That cat is bad news, man.” Jett shook his head, gaze dropping to the bottom of his glass. 

“He
was
bad news.  He’s definitely dead and gone.  Which is why you can talk to me about him.”

“Oh yeah, I guess I never thought of that,” he brightened.  “You have something to do with that?”

“I was there.  It was Jakob who tore his heart out though.” Bishop left out the part where he’d very illegally shot the
Ellri
in the back with ACBT.

“Right on, man.  Consider me impressed.”

“I’ll be impressed if you can help me get a line on where he used to hole up in this neighborhood.  Is that something you can point me in the right direction on?”

“I can do better than that.”  Jet whipped out a pen and paper, and wrote down an address in Park Slope.  “As far as I know, his creepy old dude is still over in his pad, taking care of the place like he’s waitin’ on him to come home any minute.”

“Creepy old dude?”

“Yeah, I don’t know his name, the guy never talks, but he’s Lodinn’s man alright.”

Bishop studied the address for a few seconds and sent it in a text to Jakob, asking him to meet there.  “Cool, man, thanks for this.  I knew I could count on you.”  He held out his hand and Jet clasped it, pulling him into another one armed hug.

“I’m not even gonna ask what you want to know for, I’m just glad I could help.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Stay strong, my brother.”

“Stay black,” Bishop grinned and Jet beamed, tickled over the old joke. 

“Always.”  

Bishop waited for Jakob to show, knowing it’d take him much longer to get there from SoHo with traffic.  While he waited, he observed the neighborhood, a relatively quiet one for that time of night.  The historic brownstones had all been converted to single or double family homes from the rooming houses he remembered back in the day.  The prices skyrocketed as young urban families with money to burn infiltrated the once primarily Italian and Irish neighborhood.  Gentrification, they called it, and he had to admit, it was nice to see the area improved from the crime and degradation of the seventies. 

The house in question, the façade entirely comprised of red brick, was certainly one of the more expensive on the block.  At the end of the street, it shared only one wall with its neighbor, rising four stories high with an attic above and probably a basement below.  It was much too much house for one person by modern standards, but for someone of Lodinn’s wealth and history, he could see the appeal. 

He spotted Jakob coming down the street on foot and stepped out to intercept his path before he reached the house. 

“This had better not be another wild goose chase,” Jakob warned, blue eyes snapping with anger.  “I waited for you for over an hour.”

“I had a change of plans.  A change that led me here.” Bishop waved to the brick house.  “I have it on good authority that this is one of Lodinn’s homes.” 

“What good will it do us, this empty home?” Jakob scowled, unimpressed.  “The last one was no help at all.”

“For one thing, we can take a look around.  For all we know he’s got her body tucked away in the basement or the attic.  And, this house happens to come with its own servant.  I’m thinking he might be able to help us out with where Lodinn had her stashed.”

“A servant?”  It peaked Jakob’s interest and the pair strode up to the front door, which had been gouged and scratched over the years and painted a deep brown that covered but didn’t quite obscure the damage.   

Bishop rang the bell, listening carefully for sounds of life.  There was a heavy footstep approaching, slowly, cautiously, and he rang the bell again to hasten him.  “Why don’t you let me do the talking, okay?” he suggested.  “There’s no point in you scaring the guy half to death.”

“I am perfectly capable of being civil,” Jakob maintained, puffing out his chest.  The sound of locks being disengaged came to them and he plastered a friendly smile on his face. 

The door opened to reveal an older man, his face riddled with wrinkles.  Long hair, more grey than blonde fell past his shoulders, as did the beard that obscured half his face.  He wore an old pair of workpants, stained and pitted with holes, and a white tank style undershirt, clean, but yellowed with age.  Bishop could easily picture him working an old fishing boat in a rain slicker and cap. 

“Good evening,” Jakob smiled, his voice rich and smooth.  “So sorry to trouble you at this hour, but I wonder if we might have a private word with you?”

The guy took one look at Jakob and his mouth dropped opened in a strangled cry, backing up several feet into the hallway.  He fell to his knees and pressed his head against the floor tiles in supplication, a garbled sound coming from him that couldn’t be identified. 

“Good job, Jakob, you scared the crap out of him,” Bishop muttered, stepping inside the house before they attracted any attention from the street. 

“But I did nothing,” Jakob whined, frowning down at the prostrate man in distaste. 

“Get in here so I can shut the door.”  Bishop waved him in, darting one last look to the street before he closed it.  “Hey buddy, it’s alright.  We’re not here to hurt you,” he said in a soothing manner, but the guy didn’t acknowledge that he heard him.  “Hey, can you hear me?  We just want to talk to you.”

“His obeisance pleases me,” Jakob decided, nodding in approval.  “Rise my son, I would speak with you.”

And still the man didn’t obey and Bishop started to wonder if he was all there in the head.  “Maybe he’s deaf?”

“Rise!” Jakob boomed and the man quaked, but did not move a muscle.  “He hears, he does not comprehend. 
Rísa minn skósveinn, heilsa ykkarr nyr áss
.”

Bishop only understood some of that, but it sounded like he was commandeering him as his servant in old Norse.  Fat lot of good that would do.  “He’s not going to understand that, he’s…” 

The man rose as commanded, his eyes shiny with unshed tears as he regarded Jakob with equal parts fear and adoration. 

“
Tala
,” Jakob encouraged him with a benevolent smile, but the man pointed to his mouth and shook his head. 

“What is he, mute?” Bishop asked. 

“No, the power of speech was taken from him,” Jakob replied grimly.  “
Syna sjá
.”  The servant complied, opening his mouth wide to reveal an old scarred stump where his tongue had been cut out. 

“Brutal…”

“It is one way to ensure silence,” Jakob shrugged, far more comfortable with such things.  He went on to question the man closely, asking things that could be answered mostly with yes and no responses and the occasional garbled words.  Bishop was only able to pick out every few words of the old Norse, but could follow the basic conversation.

Yes, the man was Lodinn’s servant.  No, he had no idea Lodinn was dead, but seemed relieved to hear it.  His name was Karr or something that sounded similar, it was difficult to tell if there was a missing consonant.  More importantly, he nodded furiously when Jakob mentioned a golden haired beauty that Lodinn would’ve kept secreted away. 

“This is it!  We have found her!” Jakob crowed in triumph, barking orders for the man to take them to her at once.  The man nodded owlishly, pulling on a threadbare cardigan as he waved them out onto the street. 

Jakob chattered on about his glorious plans of restoring Carys to health and showing her the wonders of the modern world, but Bishop hardly heard him, his heart in his throat.  Were they really about to find Carys after all these years?  It couldn’t be so simple, could it?  Wasn’t it what he wanted?  Then he could get Jakob out of his hair and get back to the life he sought.  A life free from guilt over Carys’ death and free of Anja’s love if Jakob held up his end of the deal.

Karr led them to Green-Wood Cemetery and even Jakob fell silent as they made their way through the gravestones to an older section of mausoleums. 
Of course
, Bishop thought to himself.  What better place to stash a body than in a cemetery? 

They stopped before the entrance to a crypt built into the hillside like one of Anja’s beloved
Hobbit
homes.  There was nothing fanciful about this structure though.  Stained and pitted, the gray concrete façade was simple in design, two columns on either side of the massive wooden door, framed with a wrought iron gate.  Above the door was inscribed an old Norse rune,
Sigrún
– for victory.

The steps leading up to the door were slick with moss and rot, indicating no one had been there in quite some time.  Karr produced an old iron key from his pocket, but lacked the strength to turn the lock. 

“See to it,” Jakob nodded at the gate.  “I need a moment.”

Bishop stepped up, gently brushing the man aside to give the key a wrench.  It responded to force, and the gate opened with a groan of protest.  The lock on the door was easier to turn, swinging inward effortlessly.  There was no electricity, and even with his enhanced vision, Bishop had trouble making out more than shapes inside.  Karr was prepared though, producing a lighter, igniting several fat candles laid in holders around the crypt.   

In the center of the chamber lay a stone sarcophagus, massive and ornately carved with knotwork and more runes, too many for him to easily process.  He’d never been fluent in the language.  There was no sign of life, no vermin, no insects – even the air felt stale and undisturbed despite the door standing open. 

Bishop’s hands went to the cool stone, hesitant to disturb the grave, but before he could try the lid, Jakob brushed him out of the way. 

“I will be the first to see her,” he declared, a terrible glint of obsession in his eyes.  He pushed and the stone slid free, revealing the top half of the grave.  Bishop inched forward, breath catching as he glimpsed golden hair.  Before he could get a better look, Jakob suddenly gave a mighty roar, shoving the lid to crash on the other side where it landed with a resounding thud, splitting in half.

Bishop darted a quick look inside, a puff of disappointment leaving his lungs as he saw the beautiful blonde inside was not Carys, but some other girl, pinned with a wooden stake through her heart.   

“Lies!” Jakob howled, stalking after Karr, who huddled in abject terror. 

Bishop quickly moved to intercept him before he tore the guy’s head off.  “Hey, you never asked him about Carys.  You said something about a golden haired beauty.  That’s why he brought us here.”

“Where is she?  Where is Carys?” Jakob demanded, switching back to old Norse when the man’s eyes simply bulged wider. 

“He doesn’t know, Jakob.”  Bishop held tight to his arm, knowing Jakob could break him in half if he wanted to.  “Jakob, he doesn’t know!”

The
Ellri’s
shoulders bowed, his face crumpled in anguish as the words sank in.  “I thought it was her,” he said piteously, sinking to the dirty stone floor. 

“I know,” Bishop whispered, breathing an inner sigh of relief.  “I thought it was her too.”  Part of him hadn’t honestly believed it would be this easy to find Carys to begin with, but he was surprised how much it had stung not to find her in the tomb.  He approached the sarcophagus, peering at the girl’s face.  She resembled Carys and Anja well enough to be a sister or cousin, but could never be mistaken for either of them. 

Her long blonde hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, held there with jeweled pins that sparkled in the flickering candlelight.  She wore a beaded white dress, low waisted and fringed, a flapper dress they called it, a matching beaded band around her brow.  Perfectly preserved in torpor thanks to the wood piercing her heart, she hadn’t deteriorated at all, her pale cheeks still plump with good health as though she was merely asleep.

“I wonder who she is,” he said softly, but Jakob was uninterested.

“It hardly matters.”

“It does to her.  Would it be kinder to leave her staked or wake her up?”

“Leave her be, she’s not our concern.”

“What if she knows something about what Lodinn did with Carys?  From the look of her clothes, she was either on her way to a costume party or he staked her sometime in the twenties.  We don’t know what he did with Carys this whole time.  He could’ve had her entombed like this, or he could’ve kept her in his bathtub.  If she lived with him for any amount of time, she might have information we can use.”

A light of interest came into Jakob’s eyes.  “Very well then, remove the stake.”

“She’ll need blood to heal the wound.  The moment I pull it out, her body will start devouring itself to counter the damage.”

“I will provide her with what she needs,” Jakob waved him on impatiently.  “Proceed.”

Bishop let out a long breath, grasping the stake firmly and giving it a sharp tug.  The instant the wood left her heart, her body gave a reflexive jerk, lungs filling with air as she dragged in a great breath.  Blue eyes flew open, wide and clouded with pain, as a high pitched cry tore free of her throat.  The pretty white dress became stained with blood as the wound began to bleed profusely.

“Jakob,” Bishop prompted when the
Ellri
did nothing more than stare down at her agony.  Finally, he seemed to snap out of it, reaching down to lift her from the stone coffin and gathering her into his arms.   

“Drink, child,” he bade her, offering his wrist.  The girl’s mouth fastened there eagerly, operating purely on instinct to take what she needed.  She drank and drank, Jakob’s arms tightening around her reflexively as he felt the pleasure of her eager mouth.  His hands started to wander and Bishop looked away, uncomfortable with the display.  All he could think of in the back of his mind when he saw the blonde head bent to drink from Jakob was Anja and how the two might’ve shared moments like this one. 

The powerful
Ellri
blood healed her wound efficiently, and still she drank, until Jakob tore her mouth away from his flesh with a final shudder.  “Enough,” he said, his voice rough. 

The girl blinked, as though she hadn’t understood the word, a disgruntled look on her face.  But instead of protesting his withdrawal, she simply stared at the shadowy interior of the crypt, fear descending to replace the hunger.  A low, keening wail came from her, building in volume as her eyes grew bigger and bigger in fear. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bishop started forward, but she recoiled from the movement, burying her head under Jakob’s arm.  The wailing cry didn’t stop though.  As Jakob stroked her hair and murmured soft, soothing words, the cries becoming racking sobs that shook her thin shoulders.  

Finally Jakob was at an end to his patience, and pulled back to look down at her, forcing her chin up to meet his gaze.  “You will cease that crying at once,” he barked.  The cries immediately stopped as his compulsion took effect, but the poor girl still trembled in his arms.