The Black Dagger Brotherhood_An Insider's Guide

by J. R. Ward

  In the history of the Brotherhood, has there ever been a Brother who has (for lack of a better word) gone rogue?—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 Brotherhood

  Black Dagger Brotherhood Time Line

  from 1600 to present

  Table of Abbreviations

  The Old Language

  The Brothers Interview J.R.

  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.

  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.

  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 d
epth.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  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

  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.

  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.

  The kitchen is all cherry and granite, with two gleaming ovens, a six-burner cooktop, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator done up to match the cabinets. Over in the windowed alcove there’s a glass-and-iron table set, and I sit down in the chair closest to the stove.

  Wellsie has her hair up tonight, and as she stirs the rice in the pot she looks like a supermodel in a magazine ad for luxury kitchens. Beneath the loose black turtleneck she wears her belly is a little bigger than when I saw her last, and her hand keeps going to it, rubbing slowly. She’s glowing with health. Absolutely radiant.

  I follow Wellsie out of the kitchen and through a long living room that is done in a great mix of modern architectural details and antique furniture and art. At the far end we head into the wing of bedrooms. John’s is the last one before the master suite that anchors the left side of the house. As we get closer, I hear . . .

  John’s bedroom is navy blue, and the bureau, headboard, and desk have a Frank Lloyd Wright feel to them, all sleek wood. In the electric glow of the television I see John in the bed on his side, his skin as pale as his white sheets, his cheeks flaming red from fever. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s breathing through his open mouth with a slight wheeze. Tohr is right next to him, propped up against the headboard, the Brother’s huge body making John look like a two-year-old. Tohr’s arm is outstretched, and John is wrapped around it.

&nbs
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