Nameless Ghoul

The Ghost Project

Twenty years have passed and Itzal is sent on an information gathering mission.

*****

Itzal leaned back against the wall of an alley, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and wrapping his arms tightly around his torso against the cold. It was always so fucking cold here.

He laughed under his breath. Of everything he’d endured over the past twenty years, it was Earth’s chill that still bothered him the most. Compared to the horrors he’d survived—or committed—this seemed absurd, but it always crept in. Always clung to him.

He took another breath, letting the icy night air fill his lungs. The scent of wet asphalt and distant fast food places grounded him in the present. His 'off-leash' time was precious. Not freedom, exactly, but for a few hours, his will was mostly his own.

Santos couldn’t fully control a grown ghoul twenty-four hours a day. The effort drained him too quickly; an unacceptable weakness to a man so obsessed with power. His solution had been to ward a set of rooms where Itzal could exist without being a flight risk. The collar did the rest, suppressing his ability to change into shadow form. A cage, invisible but unyielding.

The early days after Itzal’s summoning were a blur of humiliation, training, and pain. He avoided thinking about them. The less he remembered, the better. But it hadn’t taken him long to realise that Santos owned only his body. Not his mind. That much, at least, he could retreat into. He survived the torture by daydreaming: of hunts with his brothers, of quiet nights under the stars, of the soft hands of a ghuleh from a neighbouring family. Mundane, beautiful, aching memories. The sort of moments he’d once taken for granted. He’d kill to be back there now.

Across the street, the venue was alive with light and music. A queue snaked around the corner, late arrivals still hoping to get in.

Tonight’s task? Attend a Ghost Project concert. They were the public face of the Clergy. Their music wasn’t just noise; it was spellwork, propaganda, used to lure humans into the Dark Lord’s orbit.

This had been of great interest to Santos. He’d relocated his sect here from the Catacombs in Paris. His ranks had swelled, and with them, his arrogance. Now he wanted to observe his enemy up close.

Itzal was to gather intel. Blend in with the human concertgoers. Observe. Report.

He was good at blending. Glamour came easily to him. It took little energy to hide his fangs, horns, and claws. He could maintain the illusion even while asleep. Tonight, to human eyes, he was tall and lean, with long dark hair, a five o'clock shadow, battered leather jacket, band shirt, jeans and military boots.

He crossed the street and slipped into the queue near the front. Another of his species’ talents, shadow glamour, made humans instinctively overlook him when he didn’t want to be seen. The collar forbade ghosting, but this was close enough.

He handed over his ticket and stepped into the venue’s warm, thrumming darkness. A drink firmly in hand, Itzal melted toward the edge of the pit. The opening act had finished, which he was glad about. He didn’t want to waste any more of his precious free hours than necessary.

The pit filled quickly. The air buzzed with excitement, the humans’ scents electric with anticipation. The massive white curtain obscuring the stage fluttered with movement.

When it dropped, the crowd went wild.

Itzal stood still as chaos erupted around him. He’d seen footage of the band before. Knew some of the songs. But nothing had prepared him for the gut-punch of envy that hit when he saw the ghouls onstage.

Laughing. Leaping. Free.

They moved like a storm; alive, untethered. Itzal watched, numb, as Papa Emeritus IV stalked the stage, radiating charisma, power, and command. He felt the unmistakable pull in his blood, that ancient connection. His people were near. His kin. His kind.

And they were living.

It had been more than twenty years since Itzal had been near another ghoul. Santos couldn’t summon more than one, barely having the strength to keep him in line. So he poured everything into shaping Itzal into a perfect weapon. A loyal slave. A solitary one.

Before too long, the show ended, and the band took their bows. The ghouls hugged each other, basking in the crowd’s adoration. Itzal dropped his guard for just a moment, too overwhelmed by it all, letting the shadow glamour slip. A big mistake.

That’s when it happened.

That's when she saw him.

A ghuleh, holding a rose tossed from the crowd, caught his eye. Her gaze widened. He felt the jolt in the air. The recognition. A silent alarm between predators. She sensed him. Knew instantly that he was one of them…but wrong. A stranger. Illegal in this world. A ghoul who shouldn’t exist here.

“Fuck,” Itzal breathed.

He threw up his glamour like a shield and slipped into the moving crowd, heart pounding, dread crawling up his spine. He had to disappear. Before someone came looking.