by J. R. Ward
Butch:
Phury, that ass-burning sensation you feel is because you just got booted with a royal decree.
Phury:
(wincing) I believe you are right.
V:
I like blue.
Rhage:
Of course you do. It’s the color of my eyes.
V:
Or a good facial bruise.
Butch:
I’m all about gold. At least when it comes to metals.
V:
And it suits you.
Rhage:
I like blue, because V does. I want to be just like him when I grow up.
V:
Then you’re going to need to go on a diet and stop wearing lifts.
Rhage:
Bet you say that to all the girls you date. (Shakes head.) You make them shave, too, don’t you?
V:
Better than having to back them out of their stalls, like you do.
J.R.:
I like black.
Wrath:
Score! Now, next question—
V:
How about making this more interesting.
Wrath:
(cocks eyebrow up from behind his wraparounds) In what way?
V:
(staring over at me) Truth or dare.
They all get quiet at this point, and I do not feel comfortable—although not because they are silent. I don’t trust V to play nice—and going by the tension in the room, neither do the Brothers.
V:
Well? What’s it going to be?
If I go for truth, he’s going to hit me with something that’s either impossible to answer or way too revealing. If I go for dare . . . well, he can’t kill me with whatever he makes me do. I’m pretty sure the others would make sure I live through it.
J.R.:
Dare.
V:
Fine. I dare you to answer my question.
Butch:
(frowning) That’s not the way it works.
V:
It’s truth or dare. I gave her the choice. She picked the dare. Wrath: Technically, he’s right. Although he’s fucking around.
V:
Oh, I’m quite serious, true?
J.R.:
Okay, what’s your question.
V:
Why did you lie?
The question doesn’t surprise me, and it’s a private thing between him and me. And he already knows the answer, but he’s asking it here to cause problems. Which it will.
Wrath:
(cutting in before I respond) Next question. Favorite food? Rhage: A Rhage and Butch sandwich.
J.R.:
(turning beet red) Oh, no, I—
Rhage:
What? Like you’re going to want any V in there?
J.R.:
No, I don’t think of you like—
Rhage:
Look . . . (pats my knee, all that’s-okay-dear) fantasies are good. They’re healthy. It’s why Butch’s skin glows like it does and his right palm is hairy—he wants me, too. So, really, I’m used to it.
J.R.:
I don’t—
Butch:
(laughing) Rhage, buddy, I hate to slow your roll, but I so don’t feel you like that.
Rhage:
(wags brows) Now who needs a truth-or-dare?
V:
You know, Hollywood, in the DSM-IV there’s a picture of your ugly mug next to “Narcissistic Disorder.”
Rhage:
I know! I sat and posed for it. It was so sweet of them to call.
V:
(barks out laughing) You are such a freak.
Wrath:
Food, challa?
J.R.:
I’m not a big foodie.
V:
You don’t say.
Rhage:
I like almost everything.
V:
And again, you don’t say.
Rhage:
Except olives. I just . . . meh. Meh on the olives. Olive oil is fine to cook with, though.
V:
What a relief. The whole country of Italy was worried about their national economy.
Butch:
I don’t like seafood.
Wrath:
God, neither do I.
Phury:
I can’t stomach anything with fish in it.
Z:
No way.
V:
I don’t even like the smell of the shit.
Rhage:
Come to think of it . . . yeah, big meh on anything that had a fin on it or comes with a shell. Well, excluding nuts. I like nuts.
V:
Go. Fig.
Butch:
I love me a good steak.
Wrath:
Lamb.
Phury:
Lamb is fabulous.
Butch:
Oh, yeah. With rosemary. Done on a grill. (rubs stomach) Anyone hungry?
Rhage:
Yes, starved. (Everyone roles their eyes at this point.) Well, I’m a growing boy.
Butch:
Which, considering how big your head already is—
V:
Strains the bounds of credulity.
Rhage:
I like all kinds of meat.
V:
(laughs) Okay, I’m so not touching that.
Rhage:
Which is kind of a surprise. (Grins.)
Wrath:
Can we please get back on track? Challa? Food?
The truth is, I’m loath to say anything and am disappointed to have the focus on me again. I love just watching the Brothers take the piss out of one another. Really, this vibe right here is what my days are like. I am among them, but not with them, if that makes any sense, and I’m always fascinated, wondering what they’re going to say and do next.
J.R.:
It depends.
Rhage:
Okay, build your own sundae for us, then. What’s on it? Oh . . . and don’t be embarrassed. I know you’re going to picture me serving it to you wearing nothing but a loincloth.
V:
And your elf shoes. ’Cuz you’re mad hot with your little bells on.
Rhage:
See? You totally love me. (Turns back in my direction.) Challa?
J.R.:
I . . . er, I don’t eat ice cream. I mean, I love it, but I can’t eat it.
Rhage:
(looks as if I have a horn growing out of my forehead) Why?
J.R.:
Teeth problems. Too cold.
Rhage:
Oh, God. That sucks . . . I mean, I love me some coffee ice cream with hot fudge on it.
V:
That’s one thing I’ll agree with you on. No whipped cream shit or cherries for me.
Rhage:
Yup. I’m a purist as well.
Phury:
I love a good raspberry sherbet. On a hot summer night.
Wrath:
Rocky Road. (Shakes head.) Although I’m probably just thinking of life as king with that one.
Butch:
Me? Ben & Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Chunk.
Rhage:
Okay, that’s another good one. Anything they make with Oreos, also very good.
Z:
We just tried Nalla out with some vanilla. (Laughs quietly.) Loved it.
At this point the Brothers . . . they actually “Awwwwwww.” Then cover it up with a lot of scowling, as if they have to reestablish their masculinity.
Rhage:
(looking at me) For real? Have you seen that kid? She’s like . . . spank gorgeous.
V:
Yeah, ’cuz that’s the way you say, “My, that young is beautiful” in his language.
Rhage:
Come on, V, you totally feel me on this one.
V:
(ruefully) Yeah, I do. Man . . . my niece is the most perfect young on the planet. (Pounds knuckles with Rhage, then turns to Butch.) Isn’t she?
Butch:
&nb
sp; Beyond perfect. Into a whole ’nother category. She’s . . . Wrath: Magic.
Phury:
Total magic.
J.R.:
She’s got you guys wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she.
Rhage:
Absolutely—
Phury:
Totally—
Butch:
Wrapped tighter—
V:
Than a drum.
Wrath:
Completely.
Z:
(looking over at me and positively glowing with pride) See? For a bunch of violent, antisocial nut jobs, they’re okay.
Wrath:
Hey . . . did Challa ever answer the damn food question? (Resounding no echoes in the room.)
Butch:
She passed on the ice cream. (glances at me) Why don’t you build us a sandwich. You can use me, by the way, in any fashion. (grins) No probs with that.
Phury:
(smoothing over Butch’s comment) Or a meal. What kind of meal do you like?
J.R.:
I don’t know. Well, anything my mother cooks. Roasted chicken. Lasagna—
Rhage:
I love lasagna.
Phury:
Me, too.
V:
I like mine with sausage in it.
Rhage:
Of course you do.
Wrath:
(whistling through his teeth) Shut it, ladies. Challa?
J.R.:
Roasted chicken with corn-bread stuffing made by my mother.
Wrath:
Excellent choice—and wise of you. I was getting ready to make them vote again.
Rhage:
(leaning over conspiratorially) We wouldn’t have given you fish, though. So you don’t need to worry.
J.R.:
Thank you.
The Brothers keep talking, and I don’t really get asked much more, which is fine. I’m struck as they banter by how much they care about one another. The razzing never cuts to the bone; even V, who’s perfectly capable of cleaving someone in half verbally, sheathes his bladed tongue. As their voices bounce around the empty room, I close my eyes, thinking that I don’t ever want them to go.
When I open my lids again, the Brothers are gone. I am alone in my new old house, sitting cross-legged, staring at the blank wall where seconds before I saw Wrath so very clearly. The silence is a stark, sad contrast.
I stand up and my legs are stiff as I go over to the stairs and put my hand on the rail. I have no idea how long I’ve been up here, and when I look back to where we all sat, I see nothing but a stretch of wall-to-wall carpet under a row of ceiling lights.
I turn off those lights as I go down the stairs, and I pause at the second-story landing. I still don’t know where I’m going to write after we move in—which is causing agitation. There’s a bedroom that has a great view, but it’s small. . . .
I reach the first floor and turn off more lights, making a circle around all the rooms. Before I leave the dark house, I pause in the den and look through the foyer and the living room out to the sunporch—which is the other candidate for my writing place.
I’m staring across the way when a car makes the corner down below on the street. As its headlights flash up through the banks of windows on the porch, I see Zsadist standing on the tile. He points downward with his finger a couple of times.
Right. I will write out there. I lift my hand and nod my head, so he’ll know the message has been received. With a flash of his yellow eyes he’s gone . . . but I’m not feeling so alone, even though the house is empty.
The sunporch is going to be a great place to work, I think to myself as I walk out to my car. Just perfect.
In Memoriam
What follows below is the last interview of Tohr and Wellsie together, which I conducted during the short time span between Lover Eternal and Lover Awakened. I’m reproducing it below in Wellsie’s memory and in memory of their unborn son.
December in Caldwell, New York, is a hunker-down kind of time. The days get dark at four in the afternoon, the snow begins to pile up as if it’s in training for January’s onslaughts, and the cold seeps into the very foundations and load-bearing walls of the houses.
It is in days after Thanksgiving that I come into town for more interviews with the Brothers. As usual, Fritz picks me up in Albany and drives me around in circles for two hours before taking me to the Brotherhood’s mansion. Tonight’s trip is even longer, but not because he’s obscuring the path more: To my discredit, I pick the first storm of the season to travel through. As the butler and I go along, the snow lashes against the Mercedes’ front windshield, but the doggen isn’t worried, and neither am I. For one thing, the car is built like a tank. For another, as stated by Fritz, Vishous has put chains on all four tires. We chow through the thickening blanket on the roads, the sole sedan out amidst municipal plows, trucks, and SUVs.
Eventually we pull into the Brotherhood’s compound and come to a stop in front of the massive stone castle they live in. As I get out of the car, snowflakes tickle my nose and land on my eyelashes, and I love it, but I’m chilled instantly. This doesn’t last long, though: Fritz and I go in through the vestibule together, and the outrageously beautiful foyer warms me just by its very sight. Doggen rush over to me as if I’m in danger of hypothermia, bringing slippers to replace my boots, tea for my belly, and a cashmere wrap. I’m stripped of my outdoor clothes like a child, wrapped up and Earl Grey’d and marched toward the stairs.
Wrath is waiting for me in his study. . . .
(edited out)
. . . At this point, I leave Wrath’s study and head down to the foyer, where Fritz is waiting for me with my parka and my snow boots. Tohr is my next interview, and the butler is going to take me to the Brother’s house, as evidently he’s off rotation tonight.
I’m rebundled in my nor’easter clothes and get back in the Mercedes. The partition goes up, and Fritz and I chat using the intercom that links the front and the rear of the car. The trip is about twenty minutes, and man, the Merc holds steady in all the snow.
When we stop and stay that way, I figure we’re at Tohr’s and I unlatch my seat belt. Fritz opens my door and I see the low-slung modern house the Brother and Wellsie and John Matthew live in. The place looks incredibly welcoming in the snow. On its roof two chimneys are gently smoking, and in front of each of the windows pools of yellow light condense on top of the thick white ground cover. On their travels from cloud to earth, flakes hit these patches of illumination and are spotlit for a brief time before they join legions of their accumulated brethren.
Wellsie opens the back door, motions me in, and Fritz escorts me over. After bowing to Wellsie, he heads back to the Mercedes, and as the car turns around in the driveway, my hostess shuts the house’s door against the wind.
J.R.:
What a storm, huh?
Wellsie:
God, yes. Here, off with the coat. Come on.
I’m unwrapped again, but this time I’m so distracted by the smell coming from the kitchen that I barely notice my parka disappearing.
J.R.:
What is that? (inhaling) Mmm . . .
Wellsie:
(hanging up my coat and dropping a pair of L.L. Bean moccasins at my feet) Boots, off.
J.R.:
(kicking the boots free and putting my feet into—ahh, bliss—soft lamb’s wool) It smells like ginger?
Wellsie:
You warm enough in just that sweater? You need another? No? All right. Just holler if you change your mind, though. (Heading into the kitchen and over to the stove.) This is for John.