Nameless Ghoul

Back in the Circle

Itzal knew it was a dream, or something like one, because he could feel his body sleeping in the cell at the Abbey. But this other reality was so vivid, it made his blood run cold.

Panic flooded his mind when the horror of where he was dawned; back inside the pentacle of blood, deep beneath the bustling streets of Paris. Naked. Trembling.

Standing over him was Santos, exactly as he’d been on the day of his summoning, draped in crimson velvet robes.

Itzal forced himself to his feet, locking eyes with him. The smell of burning incense wafted over from the workbench, and the cold from the damp stone floor crept up through the soles of his bare feet, settling into his bones. The black ache of their bond flared once again. That sick knot where his soul tangled with whatever it was that Santos had instead of one.

A shiver ran down Itzal’s spine, bile rising in his throat. The familiar dread settled in his gut, heavy as lead.

“You have broken my heart, Itzal,” Santos said, voice low and grating, sending a chill across his already cold flesh. “I never expected such betrayal from the one I hold most dear. I do not surrender what is mine so easily. You should know me well enough by now. You will always belong to me. There is no way out for you. This is a temporary reprieve. I know exactly where you hide. It will not be long before you return to your rightful place.”

Itzal’s naked body shook, but he found the courage to speak.

“No. You cannot reach me. I will not come back,” he said through clenched teeth.

Santos backhanded him. His head snapped sideways as the taste of blood flooded his mouth.

“You will see,” Santos hissed with a cruel smile.

He began murmuring under his breath. It had the tone of a spell, though the words were foreign. The collar around Itzal’s neck flared to life, symbols glowing and heated metal burning his skin. He clawed at it, desperate to stop the scorching of his flesh, but it held fast. Just as it always had.

His lungs burned, and his vision blurred. Itzal collapsed to his knees on the cold stone. The impact jarred him, but he was too desperate to stop struggling, fighting for breath against the pain.

His eyes flew open. He was thrashing on the cell floor at the Abbey, Alpha and Omega struggling to keep him still. Secondo knelt nearby, hand outstretched, chanting from an ancient scroll. The collar blazed against his skin, and Itzal craned his neck, trying to ease the agony.

Secondo placed a hand at the base of his throat and finished the incantation. The burning stopped abruptly. Itzal lay still, gasping for breath, eyes wide with panic. The weight of the two ghouls pressed down on him.

“Let him up. Slowly. Move away carefully,” Secondo ordered.

Alpha and Omega obeyed cautiously.

“What the fuck was that?” Alpha asked, eyeing Itzal warily.

“It seems Santos has tricks we didn’t expect,” Secondo said grimly. “He shouldn’t have been able to breach our wards. We need to strengthen them right away.”

They helped Itzal onto the bed. He sat, chest heaving, shaking hands brushing over the charred skin of his throat. Secondo handed him a bottle of water, which he took with a trembling hand.

“What happened?” Secondo asked.

“I was back there… In Paris. Inside the summoning circle.” He touched his lip carefully. It stung, and when he pulled his hand away, he found it smeared with blood. “He said he knows where I am and he’ll get me back. He hit me. Look…” He held out his hand to the ex-Papa to show him the blood.

Secondo shook his head, hands on hips, frowning. He glanced at Alpha and Omega.

“Get the witches down here. We need something stronger to block him. The wards should be bombproof. Clearly they’re not. Someone needs to fix this today. Meet us in the study.” The two ghouls left, and Secondo turned back. “Tell me everything. Every single detail.”

So he did.