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

by Дж. Р. Уорд

  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 accepted 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 he 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. ’Cus 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 exit 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 Dutch’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.

  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 hack 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 wraparound
s) 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 Dutch’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 hack 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: 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. Chella?

  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.