The Black Dagger Brotherhood (27 page)

As I've said, I wasn't sure how readers were going to take the whole V/Butch thing, and after the book came out I was surprised. Overwhelmingly, folks wanted more of the two of them! The fact that the readership was so incredibly supportive is a testament to their open-mindedness and I'm very grateful for it. I'm also thankful for trailblazers such as Suzanne Brockmann, who, with her Jules Cassidy character, paved the way so that males like Blay can get their happily-ever-afters, too, and Brothers like V are accepted for just who they are.

And now a couple of random thoughts about
Lover Revealed
. . .

Butch didn't just make me blush; I had my first case of writer's block with him.

It wasn't because he was getting naked all the time, though.

With each succeeding title the books were getting longer, and I was becoming concerned. If the trend kept going? I'd be turning in tomes. The issue appeared to be that the world had started developing its own plot—something that was particularly true with Butch's story—so the events weren't just about the heroes and heroines anymore.

For me as the author, the fact that I have the freedom to explore the ins and outs of the Omega and the Scribe Virgin and the war with the Lessening Society is part of what I like about the series. Bigger, however, is not necessarily better. During the revision process, my editor and I always check the pacing just to make sure there's no fat on the page. It's rewarding when we don't find any—but also daunting when you see those little numbers in the upper corners getting higher and higher.

Anyway, when I started drafting
Lover Revealed,
I decided I was going to be “smart,” given the complexity of all the plotting. I decided that I was going to consolidate a bunch of the up-front scenes to save page space.

Right.

Sure, this made sense practically, but the Brothers didn't like it at all. As I tried to retrofit the beginning scenes, cramming them in together, the voices in my head dried up. It was the eeriest thing. Everything went dead quiet, and I confronted what I've always feared the most: Because I have no clue where my ideas come from or how I do what I do or why certain things happen in the world, I'm always afraid the Brothers will pack up their leathers and their daggers and leave me with nothing.

Four days. The dead zone lasted for four days. And because I can be dense, it wasn't immediately clear to me what the problem was. Finally, after I was going half-psychotic from the silence, it dawned on me . . .
Huh, you don't suppose I'm trying to jockey these scenes around too much just to save on page count?

As soon as I stopped worrying about length, everything flowed again and the Brothers came back. Takeaway? Good old rule number eight trumps just about every other concern I might have. Every story demands different things, whether it's pacing or description or dialogue . . . or page count. The best thing you can do is remain true to what you see. I'm not saying you should be inflexible during revisions. Not at all. But be brutally honest in that first draft—then you can worry about editing things out later.

On another subject . . . a lot of people ask me what the deal with Butch's father is. Specifically, they want to know if he'll play a role later in the series. The answer is, I don't know. I can see a pathway where there could be some very interesting family ties, but it's a wait and see situation. I am quite sure of one thing, though: Butch's father had to be a half-breed. The male had to either have gone through the transition, but been able to endure sunlight as Beth can, or the change didn't hit him and he functioned in the world as an aggressive human.

The other question that I often get about Butch's background has to do with the rest of his family and whether he ever reunites with them. That answer I do know, and it's no. He's said his good-bye to his mother, and his brothers and sisters have been shutting him out for years. The one person from his old life he does miss is José de la Cruz—although something tells me the two of them aren't done yet.

Finally, of all the books, male readers tend to like Butch's best, and that doesn't really surprise me. It's got a lot of good fight scenes, and the world building is more extensive than in some of the other stories, where the romance might take up more space. And some of the guys have commented that they love the idea that there is a great force inside of them, one that rocks the world and puts them in a position of power, and with the Omega's tinkering, Butch certainly has that.

Plus, they think Marissa is hot.

So that's my take on Butch. Now . . . for V.

*sigh*

—LOVER UNBOUND, p. 443

*At this point, the answer is scribbled out and below is written:

 

Out on the compound's lawn, Butch and I pack up the duffel and take Edna back to the mansion, where we spend about fifteen minutes weeding through the rose garden picking up the rockets. After we find all four and detach their parachutes, we go into the library and Butch gives me a hug. He smells good.

 

I head off, crossing the foyer and going into the dining room, which has been cleaned up. On the other side of the flap door into the kitchen, Fritz, butler extraordinaire, is polishing silver with two other doggen. I chat with them and end up trying to fend off offers of food and drink. I fail. As I go down into the basement, I have a mug of coffee and a homemade raisin scone wrapped in a damask napkin. The scone is delicious and the coffee is just the way I like it: superhot with a little sugar.

At the bottom of the basement stairs I look left and right. The cellar is huge, with great stretches of open space broken up by storage rooms and HVAC piping. I have no idea where V could be, and I listen, hoping for direction. At first all I hear is the sound of the ancient coal furnace that is up ahead, but then I catch a beat.

It's not rap. It's a rhythmic, metal-on-metal clanging.

I follow the sound all the way down to the far end of the basement. It takes me a good five minutes of walking to get to where V is, and along the way I finish the scone and the coffee. As I go, I try to think what the hell I'm going to ask him. He and I don't really mix all that well, so I figure this is going to be short and not-so-sweet.

As I come around the last corner I stop. V is seated on a stout wooden stool wearing heavy leather chaps and a muscle shirt. In front of him is an anvil on which is a deep red dagger blade that he's holding with a pair of calipers. He has a blunt hammer with a special grip in his glowing hand and is pounding the tip of the weapon. Between his lips is a hand-rolled, and my nose registers the woody smell of Turkish tobacco, the sharp acid of hot metal and dark spices.

 

The ovenlike room is about twenty by twenty and has whitewashed concrete walls like the rest of the basement. Black candles are lit all around, and next to the anvil is an ancient brass pot full of sparkling sand. Behind V is a sturdy oak table on which are a variety of daggers in various stages of creation, some just the blades, others with handles.