Nameless Ghoul

Sunshine

Itzal couldn’t believe he’d been so fucking stupid. Leaving himself exposed and getting recognised by a Clergy ghuleh. He growled under his breath, striding back down the alley where he’d smoked earlier, putting swift distance between himself and the venue. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to suppress the spike of emotion he knew Santos would feel through their bond. But it was already too late.

The whole thing had been a complete and utter fuck-up.

That sick, familiar feeling curled in his gut as he thought about what would come later tonight. His skin prickled, suddenly too tight, and he swore the old scars on his back began to sting in anticipation. He stopped at the far end of the alley and leaned his forehead against the cold, damp stone. Slowly, he reached inward, toward the numb place that shielded him when things got bad. His heart was racing, palms clammy. The panic attack was already rising.

For the second time that night, Itzal lost track of his surroundings.

“Hey,” said a small, female voice.

He whipped around, startled, and found himself staring into the violet eyes of the ghuleh from Ghost Project. She raised one hand in a gesture of peace, like coaxing a wounded animal. The other still held the rose she’d caught from the stage.

“Are you okay?”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. Words refused to come. His mouth opened and closed a few times before anything intelligible emerged.

“Fuck. Ugh, yeah. I think so? For fuck’s sake,” he blurted, then gave a bitter, humourless laugh.

His cheeks burned. That was the most he’d said in weeks, and what a fucking wordsmith he was.

She tilted her head, smiling faintly.

“Well, okay then. I knew I didn’t recognise you. I felt you while we were playing, but I couldn’t see anything. I figured it was just the crowd’s energy. Thought maybe I’d imagined it.” She paused. “They were great tonight.”

She stepped closer, reaching toward his face, but he flinched and moved back. His frown deepened. He needed to get out of here. Fast. If Santos sensed her too. If he saw her...

Itzal didn’t want to have to kill one of his own kind. But if Santos commanded it? He wouldn’t have a choice.

“Look, I need to go. I can’t be here,” he said.

Her eyes dropped to the black metal collar at his throat.

The etched symbols shimmered under the streetlight. She must’ve heard the panic in his voice, because she lowered her hand and slowly reached into her jeans pocket. She pulled out a small card and held it out.

He hesitated, suspicious, but snatched it and stepped back, out of reach.

She sighed and frowned.

“What’s your name?”

He scowled, unsure if he should answer. But when he met her eyes, the word just slipped out.

“Itzal,” he murmured.

She studied him for a moment, then nodded.

“I think you might need us. My gut’s never wrong. Call if you need a friend. Any time, day or night. Just ask for Sunshine.”

Then she turned and walked away, heading back down the alley toward the venue.

He waited, watching to make sure she made it safely inside. Then he turned and ran.

He still had an hour before he needed to be back at the church. After tonight, he needed to do the one thing that had always helped him cope, when he could manage it. Run.

He didn’t think, didn’t choose a direction. Just let the cold, wet streets blur under his feet, his body moving on instinct while his mind tried not to look ahead. Not toward the pain waiting for him.

It didn’t feel like long before he reached the outskirts of the city. His lungs burned, but the ache felt good. Real. He drank in the endorphins like lifeblood, let himself feel alive, just for a moment. Then the church loomed.

Its tall windows flickered with candlelight. His heart sank.

Almost midnight.

Santos would be finishing up his midnight sermon, surrounded by his most devoted followers. Those who had crossed the ocean to worship him.

Itzal crossed the threshold just as the bells began to chime the hour. The wards shivered against his skin, silently alerting Santos to his return. He slipped into a back pew and kept his head down.

But as he looked up, their eyes met. Santos’ cold black gaze found him in an instant. He narrowed his eyes, just briefly, then returned to his sermon.

Soon, the congregation began filing out. And then they were alone.

Itzal stood, exhaled a slow breath, and walked down the aisle.

Santos stepped down from his pulpit to meet him.

“What the fuck happened tonight, ghoul? I gave you one simple job. It seems you’ve failed to gather the information I required. I felt your panic. Explain.”

If he could have lied, he would’ve. It might have spared him a few hours of agony.

But the bond denied him that luxury.

Still, over the years, he’d learned to omit things. Half-truths could slip through. So that’s what he gave Santos now.

He recounted the night. How the ghuleh had seen him. How he’d fled. He left out the conversation. The card. Her name.

He stuck to the facts, stripped bare of emotion. His voice hollow in his ears.

Santos studied him in silence, eyes gleaming. Waiting. Watching.

Then Itzal felt it. That slow, inevitable slide as his will drained away, replaced by the suffocating presence of his master.