Trust Me When the Sun Goes Down (Forged Bloodlines Book 8)

by Lisa Olsen

  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.

  “Yeah, go ahead and yell at her again, that’s a great plan,” Bishop muttered, hunkering down so that he was at eye level with the girl. “Hey, it’s alright, we won’t hurt you,” he tried again. “All we want to do is ask you some questions and then we’ll help you get out of here. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She stared at him, unresponsive. “Can you tell us your name?”

  The girl made a grunting sound, and he wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Didn’t she know? Or had Lodinn ripped out her tongue too? “Maybe it’s this place? I can understand why it freaks her out. Maybe we’d better get her back to the house?”

  “Your name, girl, what is it?” Jakob demanded.

  “Corrine,” she answered woodenly, her face blank as his compulsion broke through the layers of fear she’d cocooned herself with.

  “Do you know of a vampire named Carys?”

  “No.”

  “Was it Lodinn who imprisoned you here?”

  She looked around in confusion. “I don’t know. I don’t know this place. He asked me to get dolled up, I wore my pretty dress.” Her hands clutched at the soiled gown. “But I didn’t please him. I never pleased him.”

  “Ask her if she knew of any other women Lodinn was keeping,” Bishop suggested. “Any other places he had in town. Anywhere else that they traveled together.”

  “One thing at a time,” Jakob scowled. He led her through the questions, but the poor girl was woefully ignorant of anything but her own short life. Every time his compulsion started to fade she’d get agitated again, her responses growing less and less coherent until Jakob was forced to keep her tightly controlled, sending a burst of compulsion with every question.

  “I think maybe we need to let her get some rest, the poor kid’s been through a lot,” Bishop said at length, when they were no closer to finding Carys than when they’d started. “A good day’s sleep, some blood at sunset, and I’m guessing she’ll be in much better shape to answer our questions.

  Only she wasn’t.

  Jakob claimed Lodinn’s house as his own, and they checked out of the Plaza Hotel, taking up residence there. Karr continued to serve them without being asked, devoting himself to serving Jakob’s every whim. To Bishop he was respectful, but the old man avoided Corinne whenever possible.

  On a good night she did little more than stare off blankly into space, unaware of anyone or anything except when feeding. Jakob gave her his blood twice more, hoping to heal the damage to her brain, but she gave no sign of improvement, often breaking into fits of screaming and pounding her head on the walls.

  Further questioning revealed she’d only known Lodinn a few short weeks before he’d staked her, and she couldn’t fathom why. Jakob’s mood soured with each failed interrogation, and even Bishop had to admit, the girl was a dead end as far as finding Carys was concerned.

  Every night brought a new, often bloody, incident as she descended further into madness. Finally, after he’d had to pull her off of Karr, Bishop realized there was only one thing left for him to do. It was time to cut their losses and get back on track so he could get on with his life.

  “It’s time to move on,” Bishop announced once it was done, joining Jakob in the library to pour himself a scotch.

  “You have another lead?” Jakob’s blue eyes shone with excitement.

  “I want to go check out his old estate in Calais. A buddy told me about running into Lodinn over there about a hundred and fifty years ago. I think it’s worth checking out.”

  Jakob’s smile dimmed. “Then you have nothing more than rumor.”

  “Nope. But I think it’s time we struck out somewhere new.”

  “Very well, I shall make some calls. We’ll have to deal with the lovely Corinne. It shouldn’t be difficult if we take the jet, I can keep her docile enough for the trip.”

  “I took care of it.”

  “You called the pilots?”

  “I took care of it.” Bishop stared ahead in stony silence, drinking deeply. Jakob was silent for a few moments and Bishop wondered if he was upset. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn. He’d done what needed doing. “Go ahead and call the pilots, the sooner we can leave, the better.”

  “I liked her,” Jakob said softly.

  “There wasn’t enough left of her to save.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do. She was getting worse, not better, and no amount of blood or time would’ve helped. All we can do is hope that Lodinn hasn’t done the same to Carys.” If they found her in the same state, Bishop wasn’t sure what he’d do about it.

  Jakob was silent for long minutes, lost to his own thoughts. “Karr!” he bellowed out of the blue. “He will be coming with us, or would you kill him as well?”

  “Of course not,” Bishop scowled. “There’s no reason to kill him, he’s done nothing but serve you since we got here. I’m not a cold hearted killer, I just did what needed to be done.”

  The servant appeared at the door and Jakob barked off a rapid fire string of orders to pack up the house and get ready to leave. Karr nodded, making one of his odd sounds of assent when Jakob was finished.

  “Make your preparations, I wish to leave before the dawn. And in the future, you would do well to consult me before you bring the final death to any under my protection, Ulrik.” With that, Jakob turned on his heel and strode off.

  “Some protection,” Bishop muttered under his breath, downing the last of his scotch. Turning, he found Karr staring at him intently. The man’s eyes bulged, mouth contorting as he tried to speak. All he succeeded in doing was making a wet sound, and it took a few moments to sink in that Karr was trying to say Ulrik.

  “Ulrik?” Bishop repeated.

  Karr nodded vehemently, pointing at him and making the same sound.

  “Yes, I’m Ulrik.” Bishop thumped his own chest. “You know me?” Or of him at least, from the look on his face. He racked his memory, but he couldn’
t recall Jakob using his name once since they’d come to stay at the house. But what could the man possibly know about him?

  Karr shuffled to the built-in bookcase, his aged hands struggling to remove a leather bound book from the tight confines of the shelf with so many other volumes crammed in. The book was old, of exquisite workmanship, the leather embossed with a tree of life surrounded by intricate knotwork. The thick pages were covered with hand lettered entries in smooth, flowing script of different inks, in a handful of languages. There were simple sketches peppered into some of the entries, and pressed between two pages, a crumbling sprig of lavender. It was a woman’s journal, the dates sporadic and spanning centuries. But what leapt out to him was a single name that turned up page after page.

  His own.

  “This belonged to Carys,” he breathed, looking up to Karr for confirmation. How had he ended up with it? The servant made a sound that could’ve been Carys, it was difficult to say. “Do you know where Carys is?” Bishop asked again, flipping to the last entries that were written in German. “Wissen Sie, wo Carys ist?” he tried, elated to have found a common language with him, when Karr shook his head sadly.

  He had to find out how the man knew about the journal and how he’d come to know his name. “Können Sie schreiben, was Sie zu dieser Zeitschrift wissen? Wie Sie meinen Namen?”

  Karr nodded, picking up a pen and paper, his handwriting small and cramped, as though he was used to trying to conserve paper. When he was finished, he slid the page to Bishop who devoured the words, easily translating them in his head from German to English.

  I do not know this name Carys, there I can not help you. My master once told me of a great treasure he kept, worth more than a man’s weight in gold. He carried this journal with him wherever he traveled. I read it in secret, the parts I could understand at least, looking for clues to this treasure. I spied your name there often, and when I heard it just now, I thought this must be your woman.

  “Can you tell me where you traveled with Lodinn?” he asked, again in German.