by J. R. Ward
—Tee1025
If you mean left or been kicked out of the Brotherhood, as a matter of fact there has been: Muhrder. I don’t know a ton about him at this point—but he’s in the wings, so to speak. He gets mentioned in the books for the first time in Lover Enshrined, but he’s had a space on my message board for nearly two years.
Each current Brother seems to have a loss of faculty/curse. Is this relevant to just this group or was it a common thing amongst the BDB (like a Scribe Virgin thing—give and take)?
—lacewing
As far as I’m aware, not all Brothers have had issues—though the current members of the Brotherhood certainly do: Wrath didn’t want to lead because of his past. Rhage had (has) his beast. Zsadist was a sociopath. Butch didn’t know where he fit in. Vishous had (has) his hand and his visions. Phury had his addiction. In the case of these “faults,” each is part of the individual makeup of the Brother, often rooted in his past—so it’s not a group curse or group burden, as it were—and Rhage’s beast is the only one directly brought about by the Scribe Virgin. The others are happenstance.
Out of professional interest, I would love to know if the Brothers only get tattooed for reasons involving ritual. Or if they would get tattoos just for aesthetic reasons?
—Cynclair
Hey, Cyn! The Brothers for the most part only have tattoos for specific reasons: Wrath has his on his forearms to represent his lineage; Rhage has his dragon on his back; Z unfortunately has his slave bands on his wrists and neck; Vishous has the warnings on his temple, hand, groin, and thighs. As for the other males, Rehv has his two red stars on his chest and his others, all of which are ritualistic. That being said, Qhuinn has his teardrop on his face, which is ritualistic, and the date on the back of his neck, which is not. I think you’re going to see Qhuinn adding to his collection, and John and Blay getting their first ones—although I’ll keep to myself whether they’re ritualistic or not!
WARDen, it is understood that in the ceremonies there is a skull present, and this skull is the first original Brother. If I may ask . . . who is this Brother, and how did he become the first Brother?
—Court2130
Okay, so this is a great question. I won’t answer it—except to say that I know some of the details. Ideally, what I’d love to do someday is write the history of the Brotherhood—I’m not talking about time line stuff, but the stories of the early players. Maybe it’s a series of Slices of Life or maybe a full novel—it would be very cool, though. From what I’ve seen, it was a tough life in the beginning. Picture what it would be like for the first vampire warrior to run into a lesser, or what happened during the first meeting of the Brotherhood, or what it was like to be a part of the breeding program. I think that’s all fascinating stuff. So hopefully I’ll get to do it at some point!
Oh, but I will say this . . . Wrath is a direct descendant of the first Brother!
How does one get nominated for the Brotherhood? What is the protocol? Has anyone ever declined?
—Danielle
From what I’ve seen, it’s exactly what happened to Butch. The Brothers who are currently members are the ones who make the decision. There is a sponsor, usually the guy closest to the candidate, who advances his name for consideration at a meeting in the Tomb. It’s a blackball situation. If even one of the Brothers has a problem with the candidate, the guy’s out—no questions asked, no chance for reconsideration, ever. The king, who has, since Wrath’s great-grandfather, been a member of the Brotherhood, then takes the name of the nominee to the Scribe Virgin—so there are no surprises at the ceremony.
I have seen only one decline thus far. More on that at some point, hopefully. But, as Wrath says to Butch, you are only asked the once. Never again.
What is the background to the things in the museum case in the Chosen’s Temple (e.g., the fan and cigarette holder)?
—Lysander
From what I’ve seen so far, it’s a case of those objects having been left behind by visitors to previous Primales or having been taken by Chosen who have visited this side. A few (like the gun that was used to shoot V in the beginning of LU) were dropped in the process of that raid seventy-five years ago.
We know that Fritz is a whiz in the kitchen, but what does he consider his specialty?
—Mary
Lamb! He’s been cooking it for generations of the royal family. And, wait, I can guess the next question! How did he end up with Darius, then? Ah, now, that’s a story . . . but it’s wonderful that he’s back with Wrath (and that he’s still with Darius in a way).
Of all the things to have your enemy smell like . . . why baby powder?
—Haytrid
LOL! Haytrid, I know, right? But when I saw the first lesser . . . that’s what it smelled like. It’s so incongruous—and strangely perfect.
Time Line of the Brotherbood
Black Dagger Brotherbood Time Line
from 1600 to present
Table of Abreviations
The old Language
The Brothers Interview JR
The Brotherhood’s Interview
My husband and I are moving into a new house. Which is great. Actually, it’s almost a hundred years old, but it’s new to us and our dog. My mother and her business partner and their crew have been working on it for a couple of months, and they’re just about finished. I figure we’ll be settling in a few weeks from now—and going through that wonderful process of figuring out where in the hell to put everything.
It’s about ten thirty at night and I’m pacing through the house, going from empty room to room, dodging spray machines and cans of paint and the occasional sawhorse. The place is heavily perfumed in eau de latex and I have to be careful not to brush against any of the walls because most of them are barely dry. There is plastic matting over all the wood floors, and the windowpanes are smeared with goo so their frames can be painted.
Being here all alone is creepy. Shadows are created, thanks to the streetlights down below, and every dark corner looks like a place someone could jump out at me from.
And then someone does.
I’m in the dining room when Wrath condenses out of thin air right in front of me. I yelp and pull a Chaplin, arms pinwheeling as I tap-dance backward. Rhage catches me from falling as Butch and V materialize behind the king. Z comes in last, sauntering in from the living room as if he’s been there all along.
Rhage:
(to me) You okay there?
Butch:
We could lay her down on a pair of sawhorses.
J.R.:
Don’t you guys knock—
V:
Oh, please.
Butch:
How about the kitchen countertop?
J.R.:
I’m fine!
Rhage:
There’s carpeting on the third floor.
J.R.:
You mean you’ve been here already?
Butch:
No. Not at all. Us? Trespass? I vote for the third floor.
V:
Or we could hang her ass up in a closet.
J.R.:
Excuse me?
V:
(shrugging) Goal is to keep you from knocking your shit out from the vapors. Come on. Work with me.
J.R.:
I don’t have the—
Butch:
Third floor.
Rhage:
Third floor.
J.R.:
(looking to Wrath for help) Really, I’m—
Wrath:
Third floor.
Chaos reigns during the trip up the stairs in the form of deep male voices arguing with one another. As far as I can tell, the topic is treatment for fainting, and I hope to Christ the remedies aren’t inflicted on me. Somehow I don’t think cold showers, stink bombs, old episodes of Barney (evidently the annoyance factor is supposed to be restorative), shots of Lagavulin (which would serve only to knock me out entirely), or laps around the neighborhood naked fall under the accep
ted standard of care for light-headed humans. Although the trip to Saks doesn’t sound so bad.
The third floor of the new house is a big, open space—basically a finished attic. Total square feet is only a little less than the first apartment I had with my husband, and the Brothers reduce the place to the size of a doghouse. Their bodies are huge, and unless they’re standing right in the middle of the room, which has a cathedral ceiling, they have to stoop to fit under the sloping roof.
Wrath is the first to sit down, and he picks the spot against the far wall that is the head of the room. The rest circle around. I end up doing an Indian-style across from the king. Z is to my right. They are all dressed as they would for a meal at the mansion: Wrath in a muscle shirt and leathers; Phury and Butch wearing elegantly tailored designer casuals; V and Zsadist in nylon sweats and tight T-shirts; Rhage in a black button-down and dark blue jeans.
Wrath:
What the hell are we supposed to ask you?
J.R.:
Whatever you—
Rhage:
I know! (takes cherry Tootsie Pop out of his pocket) Who do you like most? It’s me, right. Come on, you know it is. (unwraps the thing, pops it into mouth) Come onnnnnnn—
Butch:
If it’s you, I will kill myself.
V:
No, that just means she’s blind.
Butch:
(shakes head in my direction) Poor dear.
Rhage:
It has to be me.
V:
She said she didn’t like you at first.
Rhage:
(making point with Tootsie Pop) Ah, but I won her over, which is more than anyone can say about you, hot stuff.
J.R.:
I don’t like anyone best.
Wrath:
Right answer.
Rhage:
She’s just sparing all of your feelings. (grins, becoming impossibly handsome) She’s so polite.
J.R.:
(prayerfully) Next question?
Rhage:
(wags eyebrows) Why do you like me best?
Wrath:
Enough with the ego trip, Hollywood.
V:
That’s his personality. So it’s a permanent vacation to la-la land, not a trip.
Butch:
Which means it’s actually a surprise he won’t wear that Hawaiian shirt Mary got him.
Rhage:
(under breath) I’d burn that eyesore, but it’s a lot of fun to take off her.
Phury:
Amen to that.
Butch:
You have a Hawaiian shirt? You’re fucking kidding me.
Phury:
No. But I like taking Cormia out of my clothes.
Butch:
Respect. (pounds knuckles with Phury)
Wrath:
Fine, I’ll ask a question. (The Brothers all quiet down.) Why the hell do you still jump when I turn up in front of you? It’s fucking annoying. Like I’m going to hurt you or some shit?
Rhage:
She’s afraid you’ve left me behind and she’s not going to get to see me.
Wrath:
Don’t make me stab another wall.
Rhage:
(grins again) At least her contractors are still around, and she could get it fixed easy enough. (Bites down on Tootsie Pop.)
Butch:
Wait, I know the answer. She’s afraid you’re going to tell her V’s got a brother she’s going to have to write about.
V:
Whatever, cop. I’m an only.
Butch:
Lucky her, considering you almost killed her—
Z:
I know why.
All heads, including mine, turn to Zsadist. As usual, when he’s in a meeting, he’s sitting perfectly still, but his yellow stare is shrewd as an animal’s, tracking the people around him. Under the lights that are mounted along the ceiling, his scar is standing out with special depth.
Wrath:
(to Z) So why does she jump?
Z:
Because when you’re around she’s not quite sure where reality is. (glances at me) Isn’t that right.
J.R.:
Yes.
At this moment, I recall that Z’s had the same problem a number of times—and it must have shown in my eyes, because he looks away quickly.
Wrath:
(nodding with a kind of huh-that-makes-sense) Okay, cool.
Butch:
I got a question. (grows serious . . . then channels that ass from Inside the Actors Studio) If you were a tree, what kind would you be?
Rhage:
(amid laughter from the Brothers) I know, a crab apple. She bears fruit, but she’s cranky.
V:
Nah, she’d be a telephone pole, not a tree. Trees have too much body.
Butch:
(glaring at his roommate) Chill, V.
V:
What? It’s true.
J.R.:
I like the crab apple.
Rhage:
(nodding at me with approval) I knew you’d agree with me over these steakheads.
Phury:
How about a Dutch elm? They’re long and willowy.
V:
And a dead species. At least I only insulted her figure. You gave her a disease that’s going to mottle her leaves.
J.R.:
Thank you, Phury, that’s lovely.
Wrath:
I vote for oak.
V:
Please, that’s a total arboreal projection. You’re an oak and you assume everyone else is.
Wrath:
Untrue. The rest of you asses are saplings.
Rhage:
Personally, I’m a shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag bark hickory. For obvious reasons.
Butch:
(laughs in Hollywood’s direction, then turns to me) I think she’s a Christmas tree. ’Cuz she’s into the bling. (pounds my knuckles)
Wrath:
Z? You got a tree?
Z:
Poplar.
Rhage:
Oh, I like those. Their leaves make a cool clapping sound when the wind goes through them.
Butch:
Nice. I remember those from when I was a kid.
Phury:
Those are friendly trees. Not snotty. I like that.
Wrath:
Poplar is up for a vote. All in agreement say aye. (The Brothers all “aye.”) Any dissent? (silence) Motion is carried. (looks at me) You are a poplar.
I’d like to point out that this is precisely how things go with the Brothers. They decide. I follow. And incidentally, the common, lowly poplar is probably one of my favorite trees of all time.
Wrath:
Next question. Favorite color?
Rhage:
(raises hand) I know! Rhaging red.
Butch:
Rhaging . . . (Busts out laughing.) You are such an assaholic, you know that? A real assaholic.
Rhage:
(nodding gravely) Thank you. I try to excel at everything I do.
V:
We need to get him into Asses Anonymous.
Rhage:
I’m not so sure about that . . . that Knitters Anonymous program didn’t do jack shit for you.
V:
That’s because I don’t knit!
Rhage:
(reaches over and grabs Butch’s shoulder) God, denial is sad, isn’t it.
V:
Listen—
Wrath:
Black’s my favorite color.
Phury:
I’m not sure black’s a color, my lord. Technically it’s the sum of all colors, so—
Wrath:
Black’s a color. End of.