Nameless Ghoul

Aftermath

Itzal woke slowly. His mind was foggy, and the metallic tang of old blood coated his tongue. He was facedown on the bed, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Reaching out with his senses, he realised, with no small relief, that he was alone.

As the haze cleared, pain signals lit up across his body like a storm map. From the throbbing ache in his skull to the raw agony down his back, he catalogued the damage methodically. The memories of the night before rose unbidden. He exhaled a shuddering breath and skimmed past the stinging, ugly core of it—the violation—locking that away with the rest.

He shifted and winced as dried blood tugged at the healing scabs across his back. Being a ghoul had its advantages, he supposed. His body would recover far faster than a human’s. But because he couldn’t shift into shadow form like others of his species, his healing wasn’t as fast or as clean. The scars would remain. They always did.

Clumsily, he pushed himself upright and shuffled to the shower. He cranked the heat until the atmosphere of the tiny, makeshift bathroom steamed, then stepped under the spray. The scalding water bit at the wounds on his back, but he welcomed the sting. It felt real. Blood swirled red down the drain as he scrubbed harder than necessary, trying to erase every trace of the night before. Every memory of filth. He always felt so fucking dirty after.

The heat seeped into his bones, loosening something cold and brittle inside him.

Itzal stayed under until the water began to cool.

His thoughts drifted to the ghuleh from the show. The one who’d looked at him like he mattered beyond what he could do for her. He’d hidden her card during his run, unwilling to risk Santos finding it. He still didn’t know what he should do about her. By all rights, the Clergy should want to tear him apart. And maybe they should.

Santos’ sect was the worst kind of stereotype; the virgin-sacrificing, demon-bargaining, power-hungry cult. Everything the true Clergy had once stood against. And Itzal? Itzal had been there, willingly or not, for most of it. Obeying. Enforcing. Carrying out orders in the name of the Dark Lord.

He wasn’t sure what that made him anymore.

Still, the memory of the Clergy ghuleh lingered. Her concern. The way she’d stepped back when she saw his collar. A frown had darkened her face, like she recognized what he was. Or maybe who. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did need a friend.

But contacting her would only put her in danger. Itzal wasn’t sure he was worth the risk and the trouble that would bring her.

At least when Santos took the reins, everything was simple. He didn’t have to make choices. He was just a tool. Used, put away. Just blood and obedience. If he was lucky, his mind would check out, and when it came back? He’d clean the blood from his hands and move onto the next instruction.

Itzal shut off the water and stepped out, steam floating around him. He patted his hair dry and draped the towel over his shoulders, careful of his wounds. Every movement sparked fresh pain, but he endured it as he always did. Silently. What other choice did he have?

He dressed slowly in clean clothes, then went to the sink. The mirrored cabinet gave him a glimpse of his reflection, and he winced. One eye swollen. A healing split above his brow. A bruise the size of a fist on his cheek. His fang felt loose when he prodded it with his tongue.

He looked like a corpse. Or at least, someone halfway there.

If he was lucky, Santos would leave him alone for the day. He usually gave him time to recover after one of his lessons. Last night had been...worse than usual. Not unique in its brutality, but the worst it had been for a while. So maybe, just maybe, he'd have twenty-four hours of peace.

He grabbed his thickest blanket from the foot of the bed, wrapped himself up, and lay down again. It was one of the few real comforts he had in this frozen hellhole. Soft, warm, and heavy. He curled beneath it, knees to his chest, letting the wool cocoon him and the weight of it ground him.

Again, her face.

That ghuleh. The Abbey.

He could go to her. Maybe? The Abbey was the Clergy’s local stronghold. It’d be a risk, though. A big one. Walking in there, even with good intentions, could get him killed. Or worse. Tortured. Broken open for everything he knew about Santos’ plans.

A part of him smiled at the idea.

If they killed him, then maybe Santos would feel it. Maybe for just a second, the old bastard would be blindsided. Shocked. Maybe it would even hurt, when he realised his pet had died and their bond was about to drag him down with him.

Itzal would gladly die with a smile on his face, if that was the case.

A wave of exhaustion crept up his spine and settled in his limbs. He was too tired to plan right then. Too tired to decide. He had some time. Santos was still in his information-gathering phase. The real horror hadn’t started yet.

Itzal closed his eyes.

Let the warmth of the blanket seep into him.

Let his aching body relax.

Let the darkness take him.