Loved (House of Night Other World #1)(55)

Actually, after he’d been Marked, they had pretty much stopped being his parents. Though they used to send the same sports-themed birthday gifts every year. But this last year, after he made the Change, the gifts stopped. The sporadic calls stopped. The visits—not that there had been many of them to begin with—stopped. Period. It was a relief. Or, at least that’s what he told himself.

He’d reached out. Not long after he’d moved to New York. He’d called. Their phone number had been changed. The email he sent them had bounced back undeliverable. He’d sent them a postcard—a gorgeous shot of the Statue of Liberty—letting them know he’d been transferred to New York, inviting them to visit any time. It had been returned with a handwritten note refusing delivery. That was the last time he’d tried to reach them.

He had friends. A lot of them, actually. At the New York House of Night he’d been welcomed eagerly—as had most of the changes Zoey’s new Council had initiated. Basically, things were going well. Really well.

Except he missed everything about Tulsa. Even the moronic redneck Bubbas and Bubbettes. At least they were Okies, and his redneck morons.

His homesickness was his guilty secret. His new friends were great—smart, well-traveled, interesting, and a lot of fun. There definitely was a lot of fun to be had in the Big Apple.

Yet, still, Damien found himself alone in his very hip condo on the New York House of Night campus pulling up Tulsa’s midtown real estate sites and looking at houses for sale—just so he could see the old neighborhood that surrounded the House of Night. Home. Just so he could see home.

There was definitely something wrong with him.

Damien reached his room and entered the spacious, luxurious suite. He went straight to the kitchenette and began brewing a pot of tea, and while it brewed he held the delicate porcelain teacup in his hand and stared at nothing.

When the electric pot beeped, he jerked and shook himself. He put the tea service on a tray and placed it on the coffee table. Then he easily located his carry-on and suitcase where one of the fledglings had put them on the luggage holders just outside the closet. Inside his carry-on he found the book he’d grabbed at the airport, Last Seen Leaving by Caleb Roehrig, and went to the plush velvet settee. While he added almond milk and cubes of sugar to the cup, he lifted the school’s landline and pressed 9 for the administrative office.

“House of Night, Tulsa. This is Shaylin,” she said after one ring.

“It’s Damien.”

“Hi! I heard all about Other Jack trying to bite your neck, and the zombies and such. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m in my guest suite, but with the cell service still out I’m not sure how to find Zoey.”

“Oh, she’s in and out of the office. I can tell her to call you next time she comes in,” Shaylin said.

“That’d be nice. Thank you. She’s planning to send Warriors downtown to trap the other red vampyres, isn’t she?”

“Well, yeah, that seems to be the plan.”

“Would you let her know I’m ready to go with her if she needs me?”

“Absolutely. Hey, are you sure you’re okay. You sound a little—I don’t know—off. No offense.”

“No offense taken. I am off. Probably more than a little—what with Other Jack and everything. But I’ll be fine. Just let her know I’m here if she needs me.”

“Will do. Damien?”

“Yes?”

“Remember we’re all here for you. All of the Nerd Herd. We love you.”

Damien’s head bowed as he fought against tears. “Thank you,” he managed to say faintly before hanging up.

Damien wiped his eyes and tried to sound cheery. “Okay. Well, Z knows I’m here, and she’ll call if she needs me. I’ll have a pot of chamomile tea, read a little, and then maybe even nap. Actually, napping sounds like a good idea.” His shoulders slumped and he stared at the closed cover of the book he had been looking forward to reading.

He missed Jack. His Jack. But his Jack was dead. Other Jack, as Aphrodite and everyone was calling him, was downstairs. Alive. He wasn’t his Jack, but he looked like him. He even sounded like him sometimes. And any part of Jack was better than the horrid gaping hole that was his absence.

“What would happen if I went back down there—to his room—and just sat with him?” Damien murmured to himself. He glanced at the clock on the mantel of the unlit fireplace. It was a few minutes after six, so he had about an hour and a half until Jack was unconscious.

“No. I have to stay away. I have to remember he’s dangerous, and he’s not mine.” Damien pressed his hand against his mouth, trying to stifle a sob.

There was a soft knock on his door.

Damien cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. “Who is it?”

“Grandma Redbird. Might I come in, please, Damien?”

Surprised, Damien hurried to open the door. She was standing there with a small picnic basket held in the crook of her arm, smiling up at him and looking sweet and familiar and so filled with grandma-love that he wanted to put his head on her shoulder and cry himself to sleep.

Instead, he said, “Of course. It’s really good to see you. Would you like some chamomile tea?”

“I would, dear,” Grandma said.

He motioned for her to have a seat on the settee while he went to the cupboard for another cup.