The Black Dagger Brotherhood: An Insider's Guide (the black dagger brotherhood)

by Дж. Р. Уорд

  Kirk or Picard? Kirk. Abso.

  Football or baseball? Member of the Red Sox Nation. ’Nuff said.

  Sexiest part of a female? Would be indiscreet to spell it out. But use your damn brain.

  What do you like most about Marissa? I love her skin and her hair and the way she crosses her legs at the knee and folds her hands together. I love her accent and her pale blue eyes and die way she’s the most proper lady you’ve ever seen but still makes me—Er, anyway. She has perfect style and exquisite taste and she wakes up smelling good. More than that…she’s always loved me for who I am, never wanted me to be different. Which makes her an angel.

  First words spoken to her were: “No…don’t go back there…I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Her response was: “How do I know that?”

  Last gift given to her: A desk chair. Two days ago. The one she had before squeaked when you turned in it and didn’t have any lumbar support. So I took her to Office Depot and had her try out a bunch and bought her the one she liked best.

  Most romantic thing you’ve ever done for her: Dunno. I don’t think I’m good at the romantic shit. Jesus…I have no idea.

  Most romantic thing she’s ever done for you: Waking me up every day with a smile. I’ve got expensive tastes, but one small smile from her is priceless.

  Anything you’d change about her? Sometimes I wish she didn’t work so hard. Not in terms of hours, more like the pressure she puts on herself to save every single person who comes to Safe Place. It reminds me of when I was in Homicide. Not all outcomes are what you hope. I do my best to be there for her and talk things through with her. She asks me a lot of questions about the murder cases I worked on and how I dealt with the families. What she does now and what I did then—there’s a lot of parallels. It brings us closer.

  Best friend (excluding shellan): Vishous, then Rhage. And Phury, too.

  Last time you cried: I don’t cry. Ever.

  Last time you laughed: Little while ago, when V changed Nalla’s diaper. I’m going to get hit tor that, but shit it was—Ow.

  My Interview with Butch

  After Zsadist and I get home from Target, I help carry the bags into the mansion. We are just finishing the fetch-and-carry routine when Butch comes out of the door under the stairs. He’s dressed in a black Izod sweater with a white shirt underneath and a pair of superbly cut black trousers. His shoes are Tod’s. Black with no socks. He’s got a duffel bag on his shoulder and a monster grin on his face.

  Butch: My turn!

  Z: (bending over a bag and taking out one of the Miami Ink hats) For you.

  Butch: Okay, that’s hot. (Takes it and puts it on.) Thanks, man.

  Z: Got one for your boy. too.

  Butch: Which is actually another gift to me, because we won’t have to fight over this one. (Turning to me.) You ready?

  J.R.: Absolutely. Where are—

  Butch: Out the back. (Sweeps arm toward library.) This way.

  I smile a good-bye to Z and he returns my expression, his ruined lip twitching up briefly and his eyes flashing yellow. I think for a moment how lucky Bella and Nalla are; then I follow Butch out of the foyer and into one of my favorite rooms in the house. The library is walled with books, the only breaks coming for the windows and the bank of doors and the fireplace. Oil paintings of landscapes are hung over the tomes here and there, giving an English-manor-house feel to the space.

  Butch: (over his shoulder) Betcha can’t guess where we’re going.

  J.R.: It’s not just die library.

  Butch: (goes to one of the French doors and opens it) Right you are. And out you go!

  J.R.: What’s in the duffel?

  Butch: (shooting me his trademark smile, the one that totally eclipses his busted nose and the chip in his front tooth, the one that turns him into the most attractive man on the planet) It’s not a potato launcher.

  J.R.: Why does that not reassure me? (stepping out and stopping short)

  Butch: (with pride) I’d like you to meet Edna.

  J.R.: I…didn’t know you could do that to a golf cart.

  Edna is your standard-issue links transport—except she’s had a makeover right out of the Robb Report. She’s got a Cadillac hood ornament and a grille modeled after the Escalade’s. Painted black, her rims are twenty-fours, her bumpers are chromed, her seating leather, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to discover that she’s turbo-charged. Hell, if you could nitro an electric engine, I’d be looking for the injector button on the console.

  Butch: Isn’t she spank? (puts duffel in the back and gets behind the chrome wheel) I was going for an updated Elvis vibe.

  J.R.: Mission accomplished. (Gets in beside him. Am surprised when my butt tingles.) Seat warmers, too?

  Butch: Shit, yeah. Wait’ll you hear the sound system.

  Kanye West blares out over the gardens and we take off across the rolling lawn, passing by flower beds that are battened down for the coming winter. As we go, I grab onto the lip of the top and start to laugh. Rolling bat-out-of-hell in a golf cart guarantees a trigger of your inner six-year-old, and I can’t help but get a case of the tickle-giggles as we bounce along. The fact that we are being accompanied by Kanye singing about the good life is just about perfect.

  Butch: (yelling over the righteous bass) You know what’s great about using this thing at night?!

  J.R.: (yelling back) What?

  Butch: (points to teeth) No bugs!

  Deer scamper out of the way at a dead run, their tails flipping up with white undersides flashing. Like Z, Butch doesn’t have the headlights on, but given how loud Kanye is, I don’t think there’s any chance of catching one of those lovely animals frozen in our path.

  Eventually, Butch slows Edna down right in front of the forest edge. Kanye quiets and the night’s silence rushes forward as if it’s a good host and we’ve just arrived at its party. Butch grabs the duffel and together we walk about twenty feet, heading in the direction of the mansion, which is in the far distance.

  Butch puts the duffel on the ground, unzips it, and wades around inside. What comes out is a series of thin metal sections, which he begins to fit together.

  J.R.: Can I help you? (Even though I don’t have any idea what he’s doing.)

  Butch: Two secs.

  When he’s finished, he’s built an odd kind of platform. The base is a foot off the ground, and it supports a metal rod that’s about two feet high.

  Butch: (going hack to duffel) The critical thing is trajectory. (Returns to platform and measures with leveler. Makes adjustment.) We’ll start small. (Again goes over to duffel and this time takes out…)

  J.R.: Oh, my God, that is fantastic!

  Butch: (beaming) I made it myself. (brings rocket over to me)

  The model rocket is about two feet in length from pointed tip to flared bottom, and it has three sections. White, with a Red Sox logo painted on the side, its top is fluorescent, no doubt to track its path and increase the chances of recovering it in the dark.

  J.R.: I didn’t know you were into this.

  Butch: I used to make models when i was a kid. Airplanes and cars, too. The thing is, some people like to read, but I’m slightly dyslexic, so that was never relaxing—too much work to get the letters to come out right. But models? It’s a way to get my brain to shut off when I’m awake. (Shoots me a sly grin.) Plus I get to do something with my hands, and you know how much I feel that. (Takes rocket over to launching pad and slides it down vertical shaft. Makes more adjustments.) Can you bring me the ignition wires? They’re the two bundles tied with twists?

  J.R.: (goes to bag) Holy…crap. You have, like, three more in here.

  Butch: I’ve been keeping busy. And here, take the flashlight, you’ll probably need it. I told V to shut off the motion-sensitive security lights in this section of the acreage.

  J.R.: (catches penlight he throws over and finds wire bundles) You want this box with the switch, too?

  Butch: Yes, but le
ave it there. We’re going to want to be a distance away when we fire them off.

  J.R.: (brings over wires and, as he reaches up to take them, I notice his bent pinkie on his right hand) May I ask you something?

  Butch: Hell, yeah. That’s the point of interviews, ain’t it?

  J.R.: Do you miss any part of your old life?

  Butch: (hesitates briefly in unrolling the wires) My knee-jerk answer is no. I mean, that’s the first thing that comes to mind, (resumes unrolling, then takes rocket off of launcher and attaches wires at bottom) And the core truth is that I’m happier where I am now. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could do some of the things I used to. Red Sox game on a Saturday afternoon? With the sun on your face and a cold beer against your palm? That was pretty cool.

  J.R.: What about your family?

  Butch: (voice gets tight) I don’t know. I suppose I miss the next generation…like, I wouldn’t mind finding out what Joyce’s kids look like and where they end up. The others’ as well. I wish I could go hack to see my mom every once in a while—but I don’t want to add to her dementia, and I think my visit didn’t help, (slides rocket hack onto base) I do go to Janie’s grave still.

  J.R.: Really?

  Butch: Yup.

  J.R.: (I give him some space to speak. He doesn’t.) Were you surprised you ended up here? With the Brothers, I mean.

  Butch: Let’s get some distance between us and flyboy, shall we? (As we walk back toward the duffel, he strings the wires across the short grass.) Was I surprised? Yes and no. I was surprised at a lot of shit in my life before I ever met the Brothers. The fact that I ended up a vampire? Fighting the undead? In a way, how’s that any more shocking than the fact that I managed to live through all the self-destructive crap I did to myself before I met any of them.

  J.R.: I can understand that. (Pauses.) What about—

  Butch: By the oh-god-how-do-I-ask-this-question in your voice, I’m assuming you mean the Omega and his little implant surgery?

  J.R.: Well, yes.

  Butch: (repositioning Miami Ink hat) This is going to come out wrong…but in some ways, to me, it’s like I have cancer they can’t operate on. I can still feel what he put in me. I know exactly where it is in my body, and it’s wrong, it’s bad. (Puts hand on stomach.) I want it out, but I know if it’s removed, assuming that’s even possible. I can’t do what I do. So…I deal.

  J.R.: Has the aftermath gotten any easier? After you inhale a—

  Butch: (shaking head) No.

  J.R.: So…aside from that…(shifting the subject, because clearly he’s uncomfortable) what’s been the thing that’s surprised you most since coming into their lives?

  Butch: (kneeling down next to ignition box) You ask such serious damn questions, woman. (Looks up at me and smiles.) Thought this was going to be more fun.

  J.R.: I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you—

  Butch: It’s okay. How about we shoot off a rocket or two and then get back to the inquisition stuff. I’ll let you push the butttttttttton…

  I’m pretty sure at this point he’s waggling his eyebrows at me, but I can’t see under the brim of the Miami Ink hat. I smile anyway because…well, some things you can’t help but do.

  Butch: Come on, you know you wanna.

  J.R.: (kneeling down) What do I do?

  Butch: The way this works is this…(Holds up blue box.) Inside here are four double-A batteries. I turn the ignition key and this light (points to glowing yellow spot) tells us we’re ready. We pull out the key (pulls it out), and when you hit this (points to red button), the wires take the charge to the rocket’s igniter, and we’re talking a whole lot of zoom-zoom-zoom. Which is why we have over sixteen feet of cord between us and it. You ready? Okay. Let’s count this shit down. Three…

  J.R.: (when he doesn’t go further) What? Is there something wrong?

  Butch: You’re supposed to say two.

  J.R.: Oh, sorry! Two.

  Butch: No, we have to start over. Three…

  J.R.: Two…

  Butch: One…Fire in the hole!

  I press the butttttttttton, and a moment later there’s a spark and a flash and a whizzing fizzle that’s like a hundred Alka-Seltzers in a glass. The rocket shoots up to the autumn sky, an arcing trail of light and smoke streaming behind the glowing point at its tip. The angle is perfect, taking it precisely toward the center of the mansion. Its descent is just as smooth, and about three hundred feet from the ground the parachute unfurls. We watch the rocket as it slowly eases down, wagging from side to side like a lazy dog’s tail. In the lights from the library I see that it lands in a rose bed.

  Butch: (quietly) V.

  J.R.: I’m sorry?

  Butch: You ask what’s surprised me most, and it’s him. (Takes another rocket out of the duffel. Tins one is much larger and has the Lagavulin label repro’d on the side.) Now, this bad boy’s got some extra payload in him. He’ll go almost twice as high as the first, which is why I brought these. (takes out binocs) My eyesight and night vision are so much better than when I was a human, but I’m nowhere near where the Brothers are, so I need these. I like to watch the parachutes come out.

  J.R.: (desperate to ask him to explain about V, but respecting his distance) How long does it take you to build them?

  Butch: ’Bout a week. Phury paints the exteriors. (Goes over to launching platform and sets up rocket. When he returns, he nods at the ignition box.) Ladies should do die honors, don’t you think?

  We count it down, and this time we’re coordinated. As we rise to our feet and watch the rocket shoot to the heavens, I can feel that he’s about to say something.

  Butch: I am in love with Marissa. But without V I’d be dead, and not just because of the whole healing thing.

  J.R.: (glancing over) And that’s what surprises you most?

  Butch: (trains binocs on rocket) Here’s the thing, that relationship with V? It doesn’t fit into any neat buckets, and it doesn’t have to…although sometimes I wish it did. I feel like it would be smaller and less important if it was just best friends or brothers or some shit. It’s hard enough to be wicked vulnerable to one person, like your wife. But to have this other guy out there in the world, banging and crashing into lessers…See, I worry about losing them both, and I hate that. V’ll go out on his own sometimes and I can’t be with him, and I check my phone constantly until he gets home safe. There have been nights when Jane and I have sat side by side on my sofa in the Pit and just stared straight ahead. (Pauses.) It’s a pain in the ass, to tell the truth. But I need them both to be happy.

  Butch goes back, gets another rocket, and explains to me the ins and outs of its construction. This one is about the same size as the Lag and is painted black with silver bands. We go about shooting it off, and he’s funny and charming and irreverent, and you’d be hard-pressed to imagine that just minutes before he’d shared something so deeply personal. I assume the serious conversating is done for the night, yet when we launch number three, he returns to the subject of Vishous—as if the rocket’s flaring rise and parachuted fall creates a special zone for talk.

  Butch: It’s not a creepy incest thing, by the way.

  J R.: (eyes bulge) Excuse me?

  Butch: V and I being tight. I mean, we were tight like that way before the Omega…you know, did that shit to me. Sure, Vishous is the Scribe Virgin’s son and I’m…what I am thanks to Her brother, but there’s nothing sleazy about it.

  J.R.: I never thought that.

  Butch: Good. And P.S., I like Doc Jane a lot. She’s a real ass-kicker, that one. Man…(laughs in a bark), she’ll hand him his head on a plate if she has to. Damn fun to watch—although he behaves himself most of the time around her, which is disappointing.

  J.R.: And Marissa? How’s she dealing with another roommate?

  Butch: She and Jane get along like a house afire, and Jane’s been a real help. She does the checkups at Safe Place now. It’s much better to have a woman physician doing the exams. The n
urses Havers sent over were nice enough…but it’s easier with Jane, and she has more medical training.

  J.R.: Have Marissa and Havers had much contact?

  Butch: No reason to. He’s just another physician. (looks over at me) Family is what you make it, not who you were raised with. (turns back to duffel)

  Butch sets up our last rocket, and this is my favorite of all of them. It’s the biggest and has David Ortiz’s Sox uniform and the words Big Papi painted on the side. We do our countdown and I press the button…and there’s the whiz and fizzle as what Butch built goes barreling up to the sky. As I watch the glow at the tip rise, I see that this one is going really high. At its apex, it becomes the only star in the cloudy night sky.

  Butch: (softly) Pretty, isn’t it.

  J.R.: Lovely.

  Butch: You know why I build them?

  J.R.: Why?

  Butch: I like to watch them fly.

  We stand side by side as the parachute comes out and the rocket drifts back to earth and into the rose garden. As it floats down, swinging gently from side to side, the glow at its tip tells us its location relative to the house…and abruptly I know without asking the reason why he likes to aim them toward the mansion. With all the security lights, he could easily find them anywhere on the grounds. But Butch likes home…and he wants to send these models he spends hours working on back to where he loves and needs to be. After having been without a family or a place in the world for so long, now he has his parachute, his slow, easy ride after a blistering meteoric rise…and it’s the people in that mansion.

  Butch: (grinning at me) Damn, wish we had another, don’t you?

  J.R.: (wanting to hug him) Absolutely, Butch. I absolutely do.

  Lover Revealed

  The People:

  Butch O’Neal

  Marissa

  Vishous

  The Scribe Virgin

  The Omega

  Mr. X

  Van Dean

  Wrath and Beth

  Zsadist

  Rehvenge

  John Matthew

  Blaylock

  Qhuinn

  Xhex