by J. R. Ward
Okay, I’m so looking down again for this part. I love to watch medical shows on TV, but I always have to avoid the gory sections—and as this is happening right in front of me, it seems twelve times more vivid. Or maybe twelve hundred times more so.
I hear V hiss and Jane murmur something.
Crap. I have to watch. I glance up. Jane’s hands are very much solid, and she’s stitching up her man with quick precision, like she’s done this a million times. Vishous is staring at her, a dippy little smile on his face—
“It’s not dippy,” he cuts in. “I do not have a dippy little smile on my face.”
Funny, now that he’s in Jane’s presence, he’s softer all the way around. He’s not exactly nice to me, but I don’t wish I were wearing body armor anymore.
“It’s kind of dippy,” I say as Jane laughs. “But I mean, sure, it’s dippy in a very I’m-a-warrior-vampire-I-eat-lessers-for-lunch sort of way. You’re straight-up gangsta. No one’s going to mistake you for a lightweight.”
“Wise of them,” he says as he reaches up to Jane’s hair with his glowing hand. It’s kind of cool what happens. The instant the light of him hits any part of her she becomes solid, and the longer he touches her the greater the area becomes. If the two of them are cuddling on the couch—and yes, he does cuddle with her—she’ll become wholly solid and stay that way for a time afterward. His energy pulls her form together.
Which is kind of romantic.
Out in the hall I hear a door open and shut and footsteps coming toward us all. I know it’s Marissa because I can smell the ocean . . . and because I hear Butch start to growl with an erotic kind of welcome. Marissa pauses and pokes her head into V and Jane’s room. Her hair is cut now so it’s just down to her shoulder blades, and she’s wearing a very nice black Chanel suit that I wish were in my closet.
The four of us talk a little, but then Butch gets impatient and calls out for his female, and Marissa smiles and leaves. She’s taking off her jacket as she turns away. Probably because she knows her clothes aren’t going to be on for long.
“There,” Jane says as she snips the thread. “All better.”
“I have something else that needs attention, true?”
“Oh, really? Would that be the graze on your shoulder?”
“Nope.”
As V reaches for her hand, I clear my throat and make for the door. “Glad everyone’s okay. Maybe we can reschedule the interview. Yeah . . . um, take care. I’ll see you later. Have a good—”
I’m saying all these things because I’m feeling awkward. Like the intruder I am. Jane replies with some nice words as V starts to pull her down to him. I shut their door.
I walk down the hall and take a last look around the Pit’s living room. Change is good, I think. And not just because in this case there is less Frat and more Home to this place now. I like the change that’s happened, because those two guys are settled and happy and their lives are better because of who they ended up with. And Butch and Vishous are still together.
I step out into the September night and have to wrap my arms around myself. It’s cold in Caldwell; I’ve forgotten how upstate New York gets cold so early. I find myself hoping my rental car has heated seats.
I’m getting behind the wheel when the front door to the mansion opens and Fritz comes rushing out. He’s like Tattoo from Fantasy Island, holding my bag up while he runs, calling through the dark, “The purse! The purse!”
I get out of the sedan. “Thanks, Fritz, I would have forgotten.”
The doggen bows low and says in a heartbroken tone, “I’m so sorry. So very sorry. I couldn’t get the pen mark out.”
I take my bag and look at the strap. Yup, the little blue streak is still there. “It’s okay, Fritz. I really appreciate your trying. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
After a little bit more soothing, and my declining the offer of a picnic basket of food, he goes back into the house. As I hear the door thunch shut, I stare down at my bag’s defect.
The moment I first noticed the pen streak, I wanted to get a new purse. Totally. I kind of like things perfect, and I was so frustrated I’d messed up my own bag . . . its imperfection made it less in my eyes.
Now I measure the thing in the moonlight, looking at all its little dings and faults. Man . . . it’s been with me for almost two years now. I’ve taken it to New York City to meet with my editors and my agent. On vacation to see my two best friends in Florida. It’s been to signings with me in Atlanta and Chicago and Dallas. It’s held my two cell phones: the one I use for my friends in the States and the one for my friends overseas. I’ve put in it receipts from car tows and bank deposits and dinners out with my husband and movies with my mother and my mother-in-law. It’s held pictures of people I love and change I didn’t want and the business cards of folks I needed to keep in touch with. It’s been locked in my car during walks with my mentor and quick trips into shops for bottled water and . . .
I smile a little and toss the thing onto the front seat of the Toyota Prius I rented from Enterprise. I get in and close the door and reach for the key I’d left in the ignition.
A knock on the Prius’s windshield scares the shit out of me, and I nearly dislocate my neck to look toward the sound. It’s Vishous with a towel around his hips and a bandage on his shoulder. He points down like he wants me to disappear the window.
I do. A cold breeze comes in, and I hope it’s just the night and not him.
V gets down on his haunches and puts his massive forearms on the side of the car. He’s not making a lot of eye contact. Which gives me a chance to study the tattoos on his temple.
“She made you come out here, didn’t she,” I say. “To apologize for being a prick.”
His silence means yes.
I run my hand up and over the wheel. “It’s okay that you and I don’t get along. I mean . . . you know. You shouldn’t feel bad.”
“I don’t.” There’s a pause. “At least, not usually.”
Which means he actually does feel bad.
Jeez. Now I don’t know what to say.
Yeah, this is awkward. Very awkward. And frankly, I’m surprised he’s staying out here with me and the car. I expect him to go back to the Pit and to the two people he feels comfortable with. See, V doesn’t do relating. He’s a thinker, not a feeler.
As time passes, I kind of decide that his presence with me now proves that yeah, in his own way, he really does care that it’s been rough between the two of us. And he wants to make amends. So do I.
“Nice bag,” he says, nodding to my purse.
I clear my throat. “It has pen on it.”
“You can’t really see the mark.”
“I know it’s there, though.”
“Then you need to stop thinking so much. It’s a really nice bag.”
V bounces his fist against the car’s panel, as a little good-bye kind of thing, and gets to his feet.
I watch him go into the Pit. Across his shoulders, cut into his skin, are the Old English letters: JANE.
I glance at my purse and think of everything it’s held and everywhere it’s been. And I start to see it for what it does for me, instead of what it lacks because of that imperfection.
I start the car and turn it around, being careful not to hit Rhage’s purple GTO or that giant black Escalade or Phury’s sleek M5 or Z’s Carrera 4S. As I leave the compound’s courtyard, I reach into my bag and take out my cell phone and call home. My husband doesn’t pick up because he’s asleep. The dog doesn’t answer because he doesn’t have opposable thumbs (so operating the handheld is difficult for him).
“Hi, Boat, I didn’t get the interview, but I got something to write about, anyway. I’m wired, so I’m just going to drive until I get to the other side of Manhattan. Probably end up crashing in the middle of the day in Pennsylvania. Call me when you’re up.”
I tell my husband I love him; then I hang up. Phone goes back in my bag. I focus on the road ahead, thinking of the Bro
thers. . . .
There’s nothing new in that. I’m always thinking about them. I start to get stressed about Phury.
On a whim, praying to get my head to shut up, I lean forward and turn on the stereo. I start to laugh. “Dream Weaver” is on.
Cranking the music as loud as the Prius can bear, I turn the heater on full bore, put the windows down, and floor the accelerator. The Prius does what it can. It’s no GTO, but the effect for me is just as good. Suddenly I’m enjoying the night, just like Mary did when she needed to get away from herself.
Racing through the darkness, hugging the curves of Route 22, I am the bird that fly, fly, flies away. And I hope this stretch between Caldwell and real life lasts forever.
Question and Answer with J.R.
Q and A with the WARDen
If you come to one of my signings, the Q and As are the best part. I get pelted with questions about the Brothers, the books, what’s coming, what’s happened, Boo, the coffins, whether the shellans have girls’ night out, how in the hell Jane works. . . . The lawyer in me loves it, and man, the readers are SMART. They don’t miss a thing, and I have mad respect for them. When it comes to stuff that has already occurred in the books, I’m straightforward with my responses. When it pertains to the future of the series, though, lawyer that I am, I am careful with my words. Undoubtedly the “leaf,” as they say, slips and I’ll reveal a secret or two. But most of the time I give a KEEEEEEEEEEP READDDDING, or I answer exactly what they asked—and not one word more.
They know when I’m being a little shifty.
For this insider’s guide, I had to keep the Q and A tradition going, so I posted on my message board and my Yahoo! Group that I was looking for questions. I received over three thousand of them! After reading each one, I chose the following:
Have you ever had a character in the middle of the writing process commit mutiny and say, “Nope, we’re not going to do it that way”? Who was it and how did you get them back on track?
—Jillian
I have to admit that when I saw this question I had to laugh a little—I WISH! Jillian, you give me far too much credit. As I said in the dossier section, the way it works with the Brothers is . . . I have no control over them. They do what they do in my head, and the job for me is just trying to faithfully record what I see. I don’t know where they came from or why they picked me, but I know one thing for sure: If they leave, I got nothing. So I’m the one who needs to stay on track, not them, if that makes any sense! ?
Where did your inspiration come from for the names of the Brothers? Most vampire romances I have read seem to borrow old-fashioned or elegant names, while yours are hard-hitting, to the point, and leave no room for confusion with regard to the types of males these are.
—Amber
The Brothers named themselves, actually—and I was a little confused at the beginning. When Wrath came into my head and I started outlining Dark Lover, I kept hearing him referred to by others as Roth. Roth? I thought. What kind of name is that? Roth . . . Roth . . .
The Brothers and their stories are always on my mind, but there are two situations in which they really take over: when I run and when I’m falling asleep at night. So there I was, pounding out the miles, staring at the ceiling in the dark . . . and this Roth name was banging around in my head, along with a hundred other things that happened in Dark Lover. . . . Suddenly, I realized I’d gotten it wrong. It wasn’t Roth—it was Wrath. Wrath . . . As soon as I got it right, the rest of the Brothers’ names fell into place, and so did the spellings.
The story behind the names, as I’ve said before, is that they are traditional names of the Brotherhood and can be given only to descendants of the Brother lines. Over time the names were bastardized in the English language and came to be associated with strong or aggressive emotions. I think they suit the Brothers perfectly because, as you say, they leave no room for confusion when it comes to what kind of males you’re dealing with!
If you were given the opportunity to go back and rewrite any part of the books published of the Brothers, would you make any changes? Is there anything that was edited that you wish could be added back in? Is there a depth to one of the characters in the BDB that you wish you had explored more? Are there any regrets?
—Flowerlady
Well, I never think the books are as good as they should be. I always feel I could do a better job. But that’s my personal makeup. I’m never satisfied with myself or anything I do—so that reaction isn’t specific to the writing.
When it comes to editing the books, I am the only one who takes anything out of them or puts anything in them. My editor and I touch base and she’ll give me her opinion and we’ll discuss this and that, but nothing changes unless I want it to and unless I do it. Control freak much? Er . . . you bet! (Also a lifelong characteristic of mine.) Any regrets? Not on that front. Any choices I’ve made I’ve done deliberately and with a lot of forethought.
For the depth issue, I’d have to say no—but only because I try to wring every single ounce of emotion and drama and pathos out of each of the stories. But I do have a regret on this front. As I said, I wish I’d put another couple pages at the end of Lover Unbound so readers saw more of what was in my head with respect to V and Jane’s happiness with how things worked for them.
I was wondering, where did you come up with some of your terms, like leelan, hellren, shellan? Are those terms you came up with? Or are they part of some ancient language you researched?
—Beth
Believe it or not, they just came with the stories—and still do. I’ll hear one of the Brothers or the shellans say a word and I use it accordingly. I didn’t expect, while I was writing Dark Lover, to end up with as many as I did! The glossary, by the way, was my editor’s idea. After she read the final on Wrath, she was like, you know . . . you should do one. And she was right.
I was actually wondering how you keep your writing styles separate? I think I heard that you write under a pseudonym and I[’ve] read a couple of other authors who do that as well. I guess I’m wondering how you make sure that your different characters don’t cross into the wrong genre or are written by the “wrong” person?
—Rebekah
It’s true, I write contemporary romance under Jessica Bird and urban paranormal romance under the Ward name. And you know, I’ve never had that crossover problem—probably because of the way the stories come to me in my head. The lines are just incredibly clear when the scenes hit, and the worlds are so completely different that confusing them is impossible. I will say that the voice when I draft on the page is not that dissimilar—although in the Brotherhood series the tempo is different and the writing more raw, because the Brothers are more raw.
I like writing in two vastly different veins. It refreshes me as I go from one to the other. The way I look at it, it’s two separate tracks that never cross, and I can only follow one at a time. I’m really lucky that I get a chance to do both.
You mentioned some coffins in the garage. What are the coffins about, and who is in charge of taking care of them?
—Meryl
I love this question! It’s something that I get asked a lot in one form or another. If it’s not the coffins, people want to know what the deal with Boo is, or the deets on other things that are shown but not explained.
As I said, I don’t always know what everything means when I see it. When it comes to the coffins, while I was writing Lover Revealed, I saw Marissa walk into the garage with Fritz . . . and there they were. I have absolutely no idea what’s in them, where they came from, or what role they’re going to play, but because it’s happened before, I know that if I see something as clearly as I did them, it’s going to be material. So really? I can’t wait to find out what their deal is!
What is the significance of the lessers’ jars? I know the heart is removed and placed into that ceramic jar, but why? Why isn’t it just destroyed? Why do they keep it? Why do the Brothers always want to retrieve the jars and put them
in the Tomb (if there is another reason other than just as trophies), and if it IS just for trophy value, why is it so important to the other lessers to go to the dead lessers’ homes and pick up their jars before the Brothers do, and what do they do with them if they beat the Brothers to them?
—Murrrmaiyd
I’m glad you brought this up, Murrrmaiyd, as it’s something I’ve wondered about myself. It has always struck me as odd that the lessers keep those jars after their induction ceremony—I mean, the Omega pretty much demands everything of them that is human, you know? Their blood is gone, their heart is taken out, they can’t eat, they’re impotent . . . so why keep something like that? And after they join the Society, they have no possessions of their own (they don’t even retain their own names!). The only thing that seems logical to me is that the jars serve as a tangible reminder of the power of the Omega. After all, someone who can replace your blood with his, then take your heart out can come back and get your ass if he doesn’t like the way you’re behaving. Plus the Omega is subversive—he deliberately creates situations that burden his lessers. By forcing them to keep their heart with them, it gives him one more thing to punish them for if they don’t do it. To this end, I think that the other slayers go after the jars because they know they’re going to have to tell the Omega if one is lost—and that’s a conversation that no one wants to have. As a side note, there is a central Society crypt that is used to store certain artifacts, but if a jar is recovered by another slayer before the Brothers get it, the heart is presented to the Omega. We won’t go into what the Evil does with it. Ew.
In the history of the Brotherhood, has there ever been a Brother who has (for lack of a better word) gone rogue?