Disclaimer: Sadly, I still don't own anything. P.C. and Kristin Cast do.
A/N: Here you are, the next one  But I have bad news guys… most likely, I won't be able to post the next one shot and the continuation of Fallen Priestess in time. I have already started to write them, but I am really busy these days. I'm going for my driver's license, which means that I have extra classes three evenings a week, plus I'll have seven(!) tests next week, in four days (English, Chemistry, Physics, Music, Geometry, Math and possibly History), not to mention the competition for which I have to read a really long book…

But the good news are that after next week I'll have a week's worth break, in which I plan to write a lot 

Genre: angst/family/hurt/comfort

Rating: T

Word count: 3361

Dedicated to my two almost roomies, Vivi and Mesy. To Vivi, because she was the one who infected me with the Rubik's cube-fever, and to Mesy for her unconditional love for any gay character (I swear, she actually cried when she thought that Lafayette died in True Blood )

Two: Damien

'How was school?'
'It was okay.'

'Did you have a test today?'
'Yes.'

'Did you study for it?'

'Of course.'

'Good.' His mother said, not even looking up from her precious pan. She wasn't this emotionless, anyway. Or at least she didn't use to be. She was only like this since he admitted to his parents that he was gay.

Well, admitting maybe not the right word. Long story short: he had come to his senses, planned a date with a boy, but right before he would have gone out, he confessed it to his parents, at dinner.

His father freaked out. At first, he just questioned him, smiling wryly if he was kidding, then when he got the truth, in rage he broke a vase, proclaimed that he has a month worth detention – like he could solve this with detention -, and then went to his precious church to pray – not for his son, but help him solve this problem. Yeah, his big, priest dad. Ha! He had always been little more than a selfish man and a coward. Hiding behind his wretched faith.

His mother just started crying. So he felt like he was excused, and went up to his room. He couldn't even go out on his date, or cancel it – since he had no cell phone back at that time. But this issue had been taken care of ever since. But nonetheless, he haven't heard about that boy ever since.

It was so his luck – or rather, the lack of it.

He only had the courage to go down next morning. And from that point his parents acted this way: his father tried to engage him with manly things, though he would talk himself out of them, and his mother spoke to him less, just the about the essentials, just like she didn't know what to do with a gay son. Oh, and yes: they didn't say a word about him being gay. Just like that little fact didn't exist, just like he wasn't caught with a guy. Goodness, his mother even tried to set up a date with the daughter of some of her friends for him!

Not that he had dated ever since. Not even with another guy. His parents seemed pissed enough.

And he started to have enough of it.

'I'll be up in my room.' He said, not waiting for an answer. He knew it wouldn't come.

Up the stairs, the second door to the right – that was his little realm, his cozy little room, his bubble of calmness. It was small, but it was his.

Simple white walls, only one, west-facing window – it had a good view to the setting sun. It was jam packed with a bed, a nightstand, two full bookcases, a wardrobe, and a desk with sheets, school papers, drawings and textbooks scattered all over it. Well he was kind, a good student, and overly a nice guy – a little untidiness could be forgiven, couldn't it?

He put down his book bag to his chair, and started to pack it out – the work first, having fun later. With the excuse of studying he might as well be able to avoid his mother until dinner.

He sat down and opened his history book – and coughed.

He put down his book, annoyed. Right then, he really wasn't in the mood to studying. And he had already known this lesson, anyway.

He picked up a Rubik's cube from the far corner of his desk, and started turning it.

Great, he thought, while playing with the cube. Now he was getting ill – which could mean that he will has to miss a few days from school and stay home. At least in school he didn't have to be together with his 'in-denial' parents. It was a good change, though at school he was usually bullied, called names and picked on, it was still better than being at home.

When he put out the first color he coughed again. So he decided to have a nice mug of hot tea, hoping that it would help. He put down the toy and walked downstairs to the kitchen. His mother was still there, stirring something in a big pan. She had always liked cooking – it was a part of the "being a perfect priest wife" act she has been putting on for as long as he could remember -, but since she found about his only son being homosexual she cooked even more – just to keep herself busy. She would make a dinner for the three of them that would be enough for an entire class at Damien's school. She would try new recipes, some of them would turn out great, and some of them wouldn't. At all. But he would still eat it, with a smile on his face. Despite his mother's behavior, he was still desperate to keep some of their bond.

He walked silently into the room, to the cabinet to grab a mug and a box of tea filters. His mother only looked up when the door of the cabinet closed with a soft thud.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm making a little tea, 'cause my throat is a little sore. Would you like some too?' He tried to talk with her, holding up his favorite mug, with the teddy bears on it.

His mother put down her wooden spoon, and stepped up to him, putting a hand on his forehead.

'You have no fever.' She said with a small smile, sounding relieved. There were still moments when she could forget all this my-son-likes-guys issue. 'That's good. It's might be just some slight cold.' She turned to the cabinets, putting out a water pot. 'You just sit down. I'll do it.'

Damien did what he was told and sat down beside the old, circular oak table that dominated their kitchen, and watch his mother work.

He'd always liked to do this. When he was little, he'd occasionally go down to the kitchen and watch his mother prepare dinner. Sometimes, she'd even ask him to help her: cut the vegetables, stir the soup. Sometimes, he'd cut his fingers, and the soup would leak out. Back in those times, his mother laughed, said that he'd be the next Jamie Oliver, and kissed his temple.

But ever since his coming out of the closet, she hadn't asked him to help.

They haven't even really interacted ever since, like they didn't have a topic.

But with sudden flick of courage, he decided to change this.

'Mom, can I help somehow?' He asked cautiously. She looked at him with wide, surprised eyes, like she didn't expect it. Like she'd forgotten that her son was with her.

'Yeah, sure.' She said softly, absentmindedly. 'Would you please stir the sauce?' Then she went back to preparing to tea.

Damien stepped to the stove and sniffed the air before looking into the pan – onion, oregano and tomato…

'Are you making spaghetti Bolognese?' He asked with a big smile on his face – it was his favorite.

'Yeah, of course' she said, without looking up from her work. 'I know how you like it. And I haven't made it for ages.'

Damien felt like he was soaring – his soul was filled with hope. He could feel that there was still a slight chance of them – or at least his mother – accepting him.

'I'll make the pasta!' He offered eagerly, and not even waiting for an answer he pulled out another casserole and a package of pasta. His mother just shook her head, smiling.

'You know, I kind of miss those old times.' She said quietly.

'You too? Then I'm not alone. It's good to hear.' He said, also smiling. After that, they fell into an easy chatter, while preparing dinner… Just like in those old times.

And meantime, he has almost forgot his coughing.

***

It was almost eight o'clock by the time his father arrived home – but it was usual. He was priest in a nearby church, therefore he was a rather busy man, but he used to find the way to go home early to spend time with his family. But it has changed ever since that day; ever since then he had always found some excuse to stay in God's house. By now, the eight o'clock seemed rather soon, considering, that there were times when he just called home to tell his wife that he wouldn't come home for dinner. They even could go to bed, don't even wait for him; he has a ton of paperwork.

But Damien saw right through it: he couldn't bear to be together a sinned son.

He briefly greeted his wife, giving her a peck on the cheek – there was audience, even it was only their son, so more physical interaction was inappropriate. For Damien, he only grunted an 'Evening, Son.'

'Evening, Father. Welcome home.' He looked down to the table, where he was sitting. When the food was done, he stayed in the kitchen, and continued his conversation with his mother. But their easy chatter died down as soon as the man, who Damien used to be so proud to call his father back in time, walked in the door.

'What's for dinner?' He asked, with faked enthusiasm.

'Spaghetti Bolognese, I hope it's okay for you.' His mother replied with a smile, and way too much perkiness, which didn't suite her at all.

Oh, yeah, Damien thought. We're back to pretending.

'That's great, Darling.' He replied with faked interest. 'Son, help your mother, and put up the table.' He said to Damien, without even looking at him. He never looked into his eyes anymore.

'Right away, Father.' He said, also avoiding his father's gaze, stepping to the cabinets.

That's going to be a hell of dinner, he thought bitterly.

***­­

They prayed first, thanking God the food – that was something Damien could never understand. Somehow, God was too distant for him to believe. And anyway, what kind of god was him, if he despised everybody, who was different from the crowd? What kind of God is the one, who wants every man of his to be the same? In Damien's eyes it was like he was taking their selves from them.

But his father insisted it, so he did it. He didn't need any other confrontation.

Then they eat, he in silence, his mother chatting about harmless little gossips, his father listening wisely, only rarely saying anything, when his mother went too far. He coughed for a few times, but his father didn't even pay attention. And even if he did, he would have just told him to pray for health. He didn't believe in modern medicine.

When they finished the dessert, he asked Damien about school. He replied vaguely, saying that his grades are still good. He asked this every night – in fact, it was the only thing he kept asking him.

And Damien answered him every night the same. And he never failed to notice the little surprise in his father's eyes. It told him that his father thought so little of "his kind", that it was unusual for him that his son was still a good student.

When they collected the dishes after dinner his father went to his study – to pray, surely -, and Damien remained in the kitchen, helping his mother.

He was a good son, even if they didn't want to admit it.

He was just about to go upstairs to his room to finish his History homework, after every dish was washed, dried, and put in place, when his mother called after him.

'Honey, would you take out the trash?'

If he had known what was waiting for him outside, he wouldn't have said yes.

The sky was already ink black outside – they were early in spring, and it still got dark pretty soon, but the soft breeze was soothing, but not cool enough to make someone cold. Their container was placed by the northern wall of their house, by a flower bed. Even in the darkness, he couldn't miss it.

It was a silent night, even for the calm suburb of Dallas, but still, his instincts was telling him, that something was wrong. Or it was because of the silence?

Then as he rounded the corner, he saw him or at least his distinct contour in the darkness. And his eyes, his eerie, sleet-silver eyes, which were glowing like a cat's eyes.

Damien was so surprised – scared? – by his sudden appearance, that he dropped the bag of thrash from his hand.

'Excuse me, mister' he said carefully. 'You have scared me. Can I help you? Are you lost?'

It was so typical of him – the man could have been a burglar, or the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper – okay, he had a little bit too creative imagination, but he could have been a murderer – and he just started chatting with him, like he was just an old acquaintance of his.

The man didn't answer just stepped into the soft light of the lamppost.

Damien gasped.

He could see so much before that the stranger was tall and skinny, but now he could see him in detail. He wasn't that that sick, I-don't-eat-anything skinny, but the kind of with sleek muscles. He had insignificant, dirty blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail, white skin, long nose, and strong jaw line, oh, and of course – vampyre tattoos all over his face.

Damien wanted to say something – that he wouldn't disturb the vampyre, hat he would just go back to the house, or beg him not to harm, not to rip out his throat, but his words lost somewhere.

So he just stood there, gawking at the vampyre, doing nothing.

He could swear he was the corner of vampyre's mouth twitch upward, then he held up his hand, and suddenly Damien knew what would come next.

And it scared him endless.

He didn't want it to happen.

But he could nothing against it.

Damien Maslim! Night has chosen thee; thy death will be thy birth. Night calls to thee; hearken to her sweet voice! Your destiny awaits you at the House of Night!

Before he could stop himself, he let out a scream, then everything went black.

***­­

The first thing his mind registered was the warm, uneven, slightly damp ground under his back. The second was his mother's soft, worried voice.

'Damien, are you here? Is everything alright?' As her footsteps were coming closer, Damien struggled himself up, glancing up the woman, standing by the corner of the house.

'Everything is okay mom, at least I guess…' he said, his voice sounding hoarse. But as he lifted up his head to meet the woman's gaze, she screamed, her hands flew to clap her mouth.

'What…?' He started, but he silenced by his mother pointing her finger at his forehead, sobbing loudly.

Oh, yes. So it's really happened, he thought.

He looked around him; the Tracker was long gone.

Composing himself, he tried to soothe the frantic woman.

'Mom, it's me. You needn't be scared…' He even surprised himself how calm he sounded.

'Evan! Evan, come here now, please, Darling!' His mother shouted through her tears to her husband.

And Damien's father came, oddly remembering him a panting dog who got a glimpse of a rattlesnake. He stopped abruptly at the corner, taking a step back in surprise and – fear?

'Oh, my Lord…' He whispered and crossed himself.

'Dad, I…' Damien started, but he couldn't finish it; he couldn't find words to describe it. Were there even words to express what he was feeling? He doubted.

But in one thing, he was sure: this picture would haunt hi forever: his mother bending in waist, crying, unable to look at him, her very own flesh and bone; his father, otherwise, looking at him with wide eyes, his mouth moving without sound, reciting away too many times repeated prayer.

By the time he finished his prayer he was able to compose himself enough to step to his wife, and hug her shoulders, trying to unsuccessfully calm her. She looked to his face, shaking her head in sadness, like she was saying that it couldn't have happened. Not to her only son.

'Boy, go to your room, and pack everything you'll need. We're leaving in an hour.' He said coldly, not even looking at Damien.

'Yes, father.' He said, not even startled by the lack of comforting, lack of emotion. Ha was used to it by then. He got up from the ground, and walked past his parents without a word. If they didn't feel the need of talking, then so did he. If they wanted to act like this, then he would go along. Just to make things easy; not just for him, but for all three of them.

He walked upstairs in silence, feeling, more like than hearing his parents well behind him. He packed quickly, not really too much things: just a few clothes, just as much as was necessary, his favorite bedclothes, the books he liked the most, and the ones he didn't have the chance to read yet; he stole a quick glance at the Rubik's cube, and packed that as well. He left his schoolbooks on the desk; he didn't thought he would need them in a vampyre school. Most likely he won't even have History, or Biology, or any other subjects he has been studying until now.

As he went to the bathroom, to collect his toothbrush, his towel and stuff, he looked into the mirror.

It was a… funny sight, he could find other words to it. The crescent moon was nested so snuggly to the centre of his forehead like it have always been there. He seemed pale, but otherwise he looked normal to his own eyes. Odd, but even the Mark seemed to be in place. Like it has belonged there.

He sighed and left the bathroom.

He could fit all of his stuff into two suitcases. It took only about fifteen minutes to pack that all. He lifted the luggage with a little effort, walking away slowly from his room, closing the door with a little thud, which made the leaving final; his hearth clenched, as he coughed again.

He hasn't even reached the top of the stairs when he first heard their hushed voices. His parent; and they were talking about him, he could feel it in his core.

He it wasn't nice, but he crept quietly closer so he could eavesdrop their discussion.

'Helen, don't feel pity for him. He invited this with his outrageous behavior. Think about it as God's rightful punishment.'

'But Evan, he's my – our son… we just can't let the darkness embrace him… there must be a way to fight it…' He could hear that his mother was still crying.

'The only way he can be saved is the way of God. We can only pray for him.' His father sighed. 'But I doubt that God will listen. In a case like this… this aberration… and be honest, it'll be easier, even for us…' his voice was totally lack of emotion, like he didn't even care. Like was talking about some insignificant soul from the church, not his only son.

And Damien knew that he meant it, when he said, that it'd be easier – for them. He really didn't care about him anymore – or more like felt that he was a burden, a sin, that he had to bring with himself on the way to God, to Heaven.

And there was no more place in his heart for his son.

Damien's knees gave away as he slumped to the floor, sobbing quietly. So this is what his parents became.

And he realized, that it really will be easier at his new place, where he was going. The place, where he won't have to pretend, where he won't have to face his parent's hatred for him every day.

The place, where he could be himself again, where ha could get a new start.

Being a vampyre suddenly didn't even sound as bad.

Next: Erik