Itzal had one blissful day of peace, left alone to heal, to think, to simply exist in the warded room that passed for privacy. But eventually, Santos came calling.
Another week passed without incident, but Itzal had been quietly, meticulously making plans. Today was going to be it. The be-all and end-all. His one chance at escape.
The calendar had been full of required rituals and duties. A confirmation ceremony for a teenager. A wedding for two high-ranking congregation members. A demon summoning that needed a living sacrifice. Itzal had played his part in all of them. Silently. Obediently. No protest. No hesitation.
Today, preparations were underway for a set of twins’ coming-of-age celebration. A glorified name for an orgy. Of all the rituals he had to endure, this one was the worst. The things they had done to Itzal, and forced him to do, since he’d been summoned to Earth had turned sex into something twisted and hollow. He hadn’t felt true desire in years. Only humiliation and disgust.
But today, Satan be thanked, he got lucky. His presence wasn’t required. He was still technically healing, and Santos deemed him unfit for their particular aesthetic ‘needs.’
Even better, Santos had given him some off-leash time.
Itzal had been playing the perfect ghoul since his last ‘lesson.’ Going above and beyond in his duties, never resisting. Santos had basked in the victory of it. He took particular pride in Itzal’s obedience when it didn’t need to be forced. It made all his hard work worthwhile, he often boasted. So, he granted him a few hours to himself, free of the tether.
The day had been a flurry of preparation. Santos had kicked off the celebrations early, retreating to his quarters for an afternoon tryst with two of the congregation’s prettier acolytes. Itzal, his own ghoul for once, had wandered the grounds, through frozen gardens and bare-limbed trees, soaking up the last slant of the winter sun.
At dusk, he checked the chapel one final time to see if he was needed. He wasn’t. Santos was already greeting guests, already distracted. Perfect.
Itzal slipped into the night without looking back.
The city felt strange, foreign. But the scent of it, oil, smog, frost, grounded him. He kept his pace casual, unhurried, breathing in the cool evening air. He knew exactly where he was going, but he let himself feel free for once.
This could be the last time he ever would.
He stopped at a bar just a street away from the Abbey. Familiar. Unassuming. He’d been here a few times during brief windows of downtime. He sat at the bar, ordered ten shots of vodka, and took a steadying breath.
Was this suicide?
Maybe. But death wouldn’t be the worst outcome.
Death would be a kindness, at this point.
Capture and torture might come, sure, but that didn’t frighten him now. His life was already pain and chains and silence. At least this was his choice.
He paid for the drinks and knocked back the shots, one after another. The alcohol wouldn’t last long—his body burned through it too fast—but it should cloud the bond and numb his emotions just long enough to get through the Abbey doors unnoticed. He was gambling on their wards doing the rest.
He stepped out into the cold again and turned onto the street leading to the Abbey.
It loomed before him. Cathedral-like, old and imposing. Huge stone steps. Dark wood doors carved with ancient sigils. Itzal’s heart hammered against his ribs as he climbed. For the first time that night, he hesitated.
What the fuck am I doing?
Too late, now.
He gripped the metal handle. Pulled the heavy door open.
The hinges creaked, and he stepped across the threshold.
The wards found him instantly. An electric, crawling sensation under his skin, like insects biting from the inside. The sheer force of the protection magic pressed against his bones. It hurt. But it was good. It meant they worked.
He stopped just past the door. A secondary barrier flared before him. An invisible wall of magic that halted him. He couldn’t go any further.
He waited.
Three ghouls strode toward him across the polished foyer. All massive. All wearing black uniforms. Two had silver masks obscuring their faces. Intimidation incarnate.
Before they could speak, Itzal slowly raised his hands to show he meant no harm.
“I’m here to speak to Sunshine,” he said. “She told me to ask for her.”
The lead ghoul, a fire ghoul, from the amber glow burning behind his eyes, stopped just in front of him and sneered.
“You walk in here all brazen like that, and expect an audience with a Clergy ghuleh?” he growled. “Where the fuck do you think you are, rogue?”
A door off the foyer opened, and a smaller figure emerged. A man, slight and elegant, with painted skull makeup and a shock of black hair. He moved with theatrical grace.
“Alpha, my friend,” the man crooned, “why is the air so thick with testosterone?” He glanced at Itzal, sighed, and offered a thin smile. “My apologies, ghoul. These meatheads have forgotten their manners. But as you can imagine, we don’t often get uninvited guests. Especially of the ghoul variety.”
Alpha—clearly the fire ghoul—folded his arms and glared daggers.
“I met Sunshine after the show last week,” Itzal said. “She gave me her card. Said to come here if I needed help. Look. I don’t want trouble. I’ll go. You won’t see me again.”
He turned to leave.
He didn’t make it three steps.
In an instant, he was face-down on the marble floor, pain flaring across his back as all three ghouls pinned him.
“See,” Alpha growled, “we can’t just have rogues waltzing in off the street. We don’t know who you are. Or what you’re running from. The Ghoul Council’s going to want answers.”
Itzal struggled, but the movement lit up the still-healing lash marks. A pained grunt escaped him.
The smaller man crouched beside him, observing him like a curious cat.
“Are you bleeding?” Alpha asked, scenting him.
The weight on his back lifted, and Itzal didn’t answer fast enough. One of the masked ghouls yanked off his jacket and pulled up the back of his shirt. A breath caught. A curse.
“Holy fuck…”
Even Terzo winced.
The damage was clear. A brutal roadmap of scars, old and fresh, burned and torn into his back.
Terzo rose and sighed.
“Come,” he said softly. “Let us see what Secondo can do for those.” He gestured with a flourish. “I am Terzo Emeritus, by the way. Surely you’ve heard of me.”
They hauled Itzal to his feet. He didn’t fight.
What would be the point?
He’d made it inside. Completed phase one of his plan. That was all that mattered.
YOU ARE READING
Nameless Ghoul
ParanormalA ghoul is summoned illegally and enslaved by a rogue sect of the Clergy. For the past twenty years, an evil Satanic sorcerer has held Itzal captive. He took control of his will, subjecting him to unimaginable horrors, and forced him to commit acts...
