by J. R. Ward
“Oh, yes.”
The three of them left the gym and went back to the mansion. Halfway through the trip, Nalla conked out, so when they got up to their bedroom, they went into the nursery, put her down in her crib, and enjoyed a shower that was very hot—and not just because of the temperature of the water.
When they were through, Nalla was awake again, just in time for story hour.
While Bella dried her hair with a towel, Z went in, got the young, and father and daughter settled into the big bed. Bella came out a moment later and just leaned back against the doorway and stared at the two of them. The pair were cozied up together so close they were like one person. Z had on a pair of pajama bottoms that were Black Watch plaid, and a muscle shirt. Nalla was in a pale pink onesie that read Daddy’s Girl on it in white.
“Oh, the Places You’ll Go,” Zsadist read from the book in his lap. “By Dr. Seuss.”
As Z read along, Nalla patted the pages with her palm every once in a while.
This was the new routine. At the end of every night, when Z came home from patrol or teaching, he would usually take a shower as Bella fed Nalla, and then he and his daughter got in bed together and he read to her until she fell asleep.
Whereupon he carefully took her to the nursery . . . and returned for mahmen-and-papa time, as he referred to it.
Both the reading and the way he’d grown comfortable holding Nalla were miracles, and Mary had had a hand in both. Z and the female met once a week in the basement by the furnace. The two of them had told Bella about the sessions and sometimes Z would talk a little about what was covered, but for the most part what got discussed stayed in the basement—although Bella was aware that some of what was shared was gruesome: She knew because, afterward, Mary would frequently go into her bedroom with Rhage and not come out for a long, long while. But it was working. Z was easing in a different way, a new way.
It showed with Nalla. When the young grabbed at his wrists he didn’t pull away, but let her pat him or kiss him on the bands. He let her crawl over his ruined back and rub her face against his, too. And he’d had his daughter’s name added to his skin, carved lovingly below Bella’s by his Brothers.
It also showed because the bad dreams had dried up. In fact, months had gone by since the last time he’d shot upright in bed in a fear-sweat.
And it also showed in his smile. Which was broader and more frequent than ever.
Abruptly, the sight of him holding his daughter got a little wavy, and as if he sensed the tears, Z’s eyes flipped up to her. He kept reading but frowned with worry.
Bella blew him a kiss, and in response he patted the mattress next to him.
“ ‘So. . . get on your way!’ ” he finished as Bella cuddled up close.
Nalla let out a happy coo and patted the book cover he’d closed.
“Are you okay?” he whispered in Bella’s ear.
She put her hand on his cheek and brought his mouth to hers. “Yes. Very much so.”
As they kissed, Nalla patted the book again.
“You sure you’re all right?” Z asked.
“Oh, yes.”
Nalla grabbed at the book and Z grinned, tugging it back gently. “Hey, what are you doing, little one? You want more? You are just too much . . . you . . . oh, no . . . not the quivering lip . . . oh, no.” Nalla let out a giggle. “Outrageous! You want more, and you know you’re going to get what you want because of The Lip. Jeez, you’ve got your father wrapped around your little finger, don’t you.”
Nalla cooed as her dad opened the book again and the story started to roll out of Z’s mouth once more, his voice resonant. “ ‘Congratulations! Today is your day. . . .’ ”
Bella closed her eyes, put her head on her hellren’s shoulder, and listened to the story.
Of all the places she’d ever been, this was the best one. Right here. With the two of them.
And she knew Zsadist felt the same way. It was in all the hours he spent with Nalla and all the days he reached through the sheets for Bella when they were alone. It was in the fact that he’d started singing again, and that he’d begun to roughhouse with his Brothers, not for training, but for fun. It was in his new smile, the one she’d never seen before and couldn’t wait to see again.
It was the light in his eyes and in his heart.
He was . . . happy with his life. And getting happier.
As if he’d read her mind, Z took her hand in his larger one and gave her a squeeze.
Yes, he felt exactly the same. This was his favorite place, too.
Bella listened to the story and let herself drift off, just as her daughter did, safe in the knowledge that all was where it should be.
Their male had come back to them . . . and was here to stay.
The Brotherhood Dossiers
His Royal Highness Wrath, Son of Wrath
“Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy. For the price of admission,
you get a splitting headache, a nearly irresistible urge to commit murder,
and an inferiority complex. Yippee.”
—DARK LOVER, p. 107
Personal Qs (answered by Wrath):
J.R.’s Interview with Wrath
Here’s the thing about the king. He’ll allow himself to be interviewed, but it’s on his terms. Which is Wrath in a nutshell. He’s all about his terms, but then I guess when you’re the last purebred vampire on the earth and king of your race and . . . well, when you’re as big as he is and have a stare that can cut through glass like a diamond, the world is a place you dictate, not dodge around in.
Did I mention that I’m wearing waders at the moment, and I’m thigh-high in an icy Adirondack stream?
Yeah, the king’s taken up fly-fishing.
On this frosty November night, Wrath and I are standing in the midst of rolling, sluggish water that is cold. I have long underwear on, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t, as he’s not the type to be bothered by a chill. He did, however, make a concession to a set of gigantic waders, which Fritz custom-tailored for a pair of legs that are each about the size of my upper body. I’m to the side of the king; I figured if I were in front or behind I’d be in hook range, and considering I had to pester him for weeks for this audience, I don’t want to risk a trip to an ER for some kind of tackle-ectomy.
On a side note, Wrath looks worn-down. Mind you, he still outranks 99.9 percent of any of the males I’ve ever seen on the Holy Shit Hot Scale, but then, honestly, can you get sexier than a guy with hip-length black hair, a widow’s peak, and wraparound sunglasses? Not to mention the tats on his forearms and those green eyes and his . . .
Listen, I have never measured his backside. Ever. Not once. Or the tremendous width of his shoulders. Or his six-pack.
Oh, don’t look at me like that.
Anyway, where were we? Right, the stream. Fly-fishing.
The king and I are about a half mile from Rehvenge’s safe house in the Adirondack Mountains near Black Snake State Park. Wrath is standing about fifteen feet from me, whisking his right arm back and forth in a gentle rhythm, pulling a gossamer-thin fishing line through the stream, then letting it be taken, through the stream, then letting it be taken. The water sounds like wind chimes as it chatters past smooth brown and gray rocks, and the pine trees on either side of the banks whistle as the wind tickles through their branches. The air is cool and crisp, making me think that I’m glad I have a Macintosh apple in the backpack we brought with us—fall just goes with those tart, juicy little buggers.
Oh, and one last salient point. Wrath has a forty strapped under each arm and throwing stars in his pockets. I can see the forties. He told me about the stars.
The line suddenly goes taut, and Wrath focuses on bringing in what turns out to be a freshwater trout. The fish is gleaming and slippery in the king’s big hands, and he almost loses it while trying to get the hook out of its gaping mouth.
At this point the two of us wade over to the bank. Wrath gets out of the stream first and off
ers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me up. He picks up the backpack, opens it, and holds it out to me.
I reach in and take the thing. Its red-and-green skin is shiny in the moonlight, and when I bite into it, it cracks like hardwood. The juice drips down onto my palm as the two of us go through the woods together, our waders flapping against our legs.
He gives me a short, tight hug that lasts for two footfalls, and then the pair of us separate, but keep walking side by side toward the warm, welcoming home.
Dark Lover
The People:
Wrath, heir to the throne of the vampires
Beth Randall, newspaper reporter
Darius, son of Marklon, son of Horusman
Tohrment, son of Hharm
Wellasandra, blooded daughter of Relix, mated of the Black Dagger warrior
Tohrment
Rhage, son of Tohrture
Zsadist, son of Ahgony
Phury, son of Ahgony
The Scribe Virgin
Marissa, blooded daughter of Wallen
Havers, blooded son of Wallen
Fritz (Perlmutter), butler extraordinaire
Mr. X(avier), Fore-lesser
Billy Riddle, son of Senator William Riddle
Cherry Pie, a.k.a. Mary Mulcahy
Butch O’Neal, detective in the Caldwell Police Department, Homicide
Division
José de la Cruz, detective in CPD’s Homicide Division
Dick, Beth’s editor at the Caldwell Courier Journal
Doug, the attending at the hospital
Unnamed blond male, Billy Riddle’s partner in the attempted rape of Beth
Loser (unnamed youth whom Mr. X takes out with Billy)
Abby, bartender at McGrider’s Bar
Boo, the black cat
Places of Interest (all in Caldwell, NY, unless otherwise specified):
Screamer’s on Trade Street
Offices of the Caldwell Courier Journal (CCJ) on Trade Street
Beth’s apartment—1B, 1188 Redd Avenue
Caldwell Police Department on Trade (six blocks from Caldwell Courier Journal)
Darius’s House—816 Wallace Avenue
Caldwell Martial Arts Academy (across from Dunkin’ Donuts)
Mr. X’s farm, off Route 22
Havers’s clinic—undisclosed location
McGrider’s Bar on Trade Street
ZeroSum (corner of Trade and Tenth streets)
Summary:
In this, the first book of the series, Wrath, unascended king of the vampires and the last purebred vampire on earth, reluctantly assumes responsibility for seeing a half-breed female through her transition. Beth Randall is unaware of her vampire heritage and fights both her own truth and her attraction to the dark stranger who comes after her.
Craft comments:
Dark Lover remains the book of which I’m most proud. In my opinion, the pacing is as good as I’ll ever get it, and it was the place where I found my voice. Of course, writing the damn thing scared the ever-loving pants off me because it was a huge stretch for me as an author. Huge. I’d never tried multiple POVs and plots before or done a series or given world building a shot. I had no clue what I was doing when it came to . . . well, just about everything in the story: Even though DL was the fifth book I’d written for publication, it was such a departure from the ones that came before it, I might as well have been starting from scratch again.
And I hadn’t been an expert before then by any stretch of the imagination.
My first four books were single-title contemporary romances. Published under the Jessica Bird name, they were very much a product of years of reading and loving Harlequin Presents and Silhouette Special Editions. Well, that and the fact that I was born a writer. It’s just part of my makeup, something I have to do if I’m going to be happy—and sane. But that’s another saga.
I loved writing the Jessica Bird books, but my contract wasn’t renewed . . . which meant I didn’t have a publisher anymore. I knew I had to change directions if I were going to still have a job, and I tried my hand in a couple of different subgenres. I pulled together a romantic-suspense proposal, but the material just wasn’t strong enough. I thought about doing women’s fiction and chick lit—except they weren’t what I read, probably because the subject matter wasn’t my bag. I also considered staying with contemporary romance and trying to find another publisher, although I knew the chance of someone else picking me up was unlikely.
It was in my darkest moment, when I had nothing particularly fresh and interesting in my brain save for an abiding realization that if I didn’t reinvent myself I was toast . . . that Wrath showed up. Although I had always been a horror fan, it had never dawned on me to try my hand at paranormal romance. All of a sudden, though, I had over two thousand pounds of male vampire stuck in my head, and the Brothers wanted out like they were locked in a house that was on fire.
Okay. Right. Horror meets romance meets erotica meets fantasy meets hip hop. Throw in some leather and some Miami Ink shit, stir with a baseball bat and a tire iron, sprinkle on some baby powder, and serve over a hot bed of Holy-Mary-mother-of-God this-has-to-work-or-I’m-going-to-be-a-lawyer-for-the-rest-of-my-natural-life.
No problem.
Damn it, I remember thinking, why don’t I drink? Or at least eat chocolate?
Which brings me to my first rule for writers: PR is mission critical for survival, and I’m not talking about public relations.
Persist and Reinvent. If you’re not selling, or if you’re not getting a good response to your material from agents or publishers, try something else, whether it’s a new voice or subgenre or even genre. Keep at it. Keep trying. Look for new avenues that interest you. Find a different path.
It was the only thing that saved me.
That didn’t mean P&R was fun. As I sat down to tackle Wrath’s proposal and sample chapters, I was at once singularly inspired and totally stalled. All I had was a tangle of visions in my head, a burning panic that no one would get the series, much less buy it, and the near conviction that I couldn’t possibly pull off something as complicated and interconnected as the Brotherhood’s world.
Nothing like trying to fly a plane when you can barely handle a bicycle.
Facing a whole lot of blank screen on my computer, I knew I had to tamp down my anxiety, and considering the fact that putting my skull in a vise wasn’t a viable solution, I made an agreement with myself: I would write the story that was in my head exactly as I saw it, and I would do it for me and me alone. I wouldn’t allow any you-can’t-do-thats or that’s-against-the-rules or better-play-it-safes to get in the way. Whatever I saw in my mind’s eye was going on the page.
My rule number two? Write. Out. Loud.
Take your vision and execute it to the fullest extent of your capabilities. It is always easier to pull back than to push forward in revisions, and I think that the bolder you are in your first draft, the more likely you are to be honest with what’s in your head.
So, yeah, that was the plan, and I felt pretty good about my resolution. Except right out of the box, I had a problem.
How was I going to work the plan?
With all that I was being shown, and the number of POVs and subplots, I was at a loss when it came to drafting the story. After doing the panic-and-pace thing for a little while, I ended up falling back on my legal training. In law school, you study by creating these voluminous outlines of the material presented in class. By the time you’re done putting everything in order, you’ve actually learned the material—so it’s the process, not necessarily the outcome, that is the big benefit.
Outlining extensively was, and continues to be, the single most important tool I use in my process.
Before the Brothers, I started with nothing more than a high-level summary of my story, the sole goal of which was to give my editor a clue as to where I was headed. Most of my thinking was done while I was drafting—which was totally inefficient and a little dangerous. For exa
mple, I’d take the hero and heroine into emotional places that didn’t work, or get their motivations and conflicts muddled, or lose track of the book’s momentum . . . or sometimes all of these at once. Sure, I’d figure my way out eventually, but I’d end up scrapping tons of pages and be too much of a burden on my editor during the revision process. Further, because of all the struggling, the choices I made were not the best ones because I was brain-dead from all the confusion and lack of clarity.