Secondo and Itzal walked through the maze of corridors toward the study. Itzal clung to himself, still in shock from what had just happened. He’d always known Santos might find a way to reach him, but inside the Abbey, he’d felt safe. The magic here felt powerful. He’d felt tentatively untouchable.
He remembered what Sunshine had said. How Santos barely showed in his aura while he was within these walls. But that still meant he was there. A thread, a ghost. Faint, but real. Santos must be exploiting that last tenuous link between them. He’d have to speak to her about it.
Secondo looked furious. The wards hadn’t been physically breached, but it didn’t matter. Santos had broken through in spirit, and that alone was a threat.
Itzal could feel the panic humming in his bloodstream as he thought about the last few days. About how good it had felt to be fully in control of himself. No darkness riding his soul. No curfews. No forced violence. No being a passenger in his own body. Just choice. Autonomy. Peace.
The bond in the dream had felt just like it always had. Raw, invasive, utterly crushing.
He couldn’t go back.
He’d tolerated it for so long. The collar, the orders, the punishments, because he believed he had no choice. That survival was all there was. But now? Having tasted even the illusion of freedom and of stability, he wanted more. The other ghouls here, ghouls like him, they had lives. Roles. Freedom.
Itzal wanted that for himself.
Even if true freedom was impossible. Even if he had to stay within these walls forever to remain out of Santos’ reach, it was a price he’d gladly pay. To belong to himself again—even just a little—would be enough.
Wasn’t that worth hoping for?
They reached the study. Secondo opened the door. Alpha and Omega stood waiting with two witches. The moment Itzal saw them, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. His stomach turned.
He hated witches.
Over the years, he’d dealt with too many. Rituals for Santos always demanded blood or sex. Usually both. Ghoul blood, potent with their ties to Hell, made him the obvious choice for their rituals. Those witches had been ethereal, seductive, cruel. Their beauty hid the rot in their souls. Their power came from pain, and they relished dealing it.
So Itzal was surprised to see witches here, within the Clergy. He supposed it made sense. Someone had to maintain the wards and plan rituals. Still, he hovered near the door, cold sweat against his skin. He kept a wide berth and a close eye on them. Omega, noticing his unease, gave him a curious look.
Itzal realised these two weren’t what he’d expected, though.
The older one was a dark haired woman in her thirties. Unassumingly ordinary, dressed in leggings and a hoodie. The younger stood taller, her black hair streaked with electric blue, her face filled with piercings and bold makeup. Both smiled at him. Genuine. Warm. Not the heated, insidious smiles Santos’ witches gave him.
Still, when the older one stepped forward, Itzal reacted before he could stop himself. He recoiled, fangs bared.
She halted, a flash of surprise crossing her face. Omega stepped between them, calm and firm.
“I don’t think he likes witches,” he murmured to her.
The woman’s expression softened with understanding.
“I’m Seren, Head Witch of the Abbey. I manage the magical protections here. This is my sister in the craft, Helena,” she said carefully, gesturing to the younger witch. “I just want to take a look at the collar. See if I can help. I won’t touch it. I promise. Just a quick look.”
Itzal hesitated, breathing hard. He glanced at Omega who was watching him closely, blue eyes glowing alert. Itzal felt calming tingles of magic, and he shivered as it skimmed soothing warmth over his skin.
He took a calming breath, and noticed their scents. This witch didn’t smell like the others; like blood and brimstone. She smelled like herbs and spice. Warm and delicate. Itzal frowned when he realised Omega’s scent clung to her, too; ingrained and unmistakable. They were close, then? Bonded like mates, perhaps? She couldn’t have enslaved him. Omega belonged to Terzo. Was bonded to the human ex-Papa. That meant Omega must have chosen to be with her.
Itzal’s heart ached just a little when faced with something that happened naturally for most ghouls. Finding and connecting with someone else. Forming a bond with them. Building a life with them.
Natural things that Itzal would never have.
“I’m guessing the witches you’ve met were black witches?” Seren asked gently. “Given what we know about Santos, that makes sense. But, Itzal, you need to understand. We’re not the same. Clergy witches are born with our gifts. Black witches… Let’s just say they aren’t. They gain their power through pain and blood sacrifice. Your reaction makes sense, if those are the only witches you’ve known.”
She tilted her head, her voice softer now.
“I’m so sorry you had to deal with them.”
Itzal’s cheeks flushed with shame. She knew. She knew what they’d used him for. He stopped himself from whimpering. This was always going to happen, wasn’t it? They were always going to find out.
He dropped his gaze and nodded, taking a shaky breath. It was okay. She could look.
She approached slowly. Omega stayed close, a silent shield. Seren stopped in front of him. At her height, his throat sat at eye level. Itzal raised his chin, muscles tense, gaze locked on Omega’s steady blue eyes. A couple of minutes and it would be over.
She wasn’t one of them. She didn’t feel like them.
“Has anyone treated these burns?” Seren asked the others, her brow furrowed. Secondo shook his head. “They need to be cleaned. These are not just surface deep.”
The burns had faded into background pain until she mentioned them. Pain was something Itzal had grown used to, ignoring it and carrying on because he hadn't ever had the luxury of wallowing. Now they throbbed with awareness.
Seren studied the band around his neck, murmuring under her breath, occasionally tutting at what she saw. Itzal stood as still as he could, barely daring to breathe.
Finally, she stepped back.
“You were right,” she told Secondo. “This is one of the original collars. The inscription’s been altered, though. My guess? Santos is trying to strengthen the bond by accessing the collar, since the Abbey’s wards are suppressing the original soul-bond. The modifications look targeted, likely tailored to his ghoul type.” She glanced at Itzal. “I should’ve asked. What kind are you?”
“Shadow,” he said quietly.
“Ah. Itzal. It means ‘shadow’ in old Basque.” Her expression lit with recognition. “Should’ve known. Sorry. I’m a bit of a language nerd.”
Itzal blinked. He hadn’t known that. When Santos named him, he thought it was just a name he’d plucked from the air. But now? It had meaning. He found it didn’t bother him as much anymore.
Seren continued, “I’ll need to do more research, but I think we can alter the inscription just enough to break the link. Temporarily, at least. He’ll find another way eventually, of course. The bond is more than just the collar. But if Santos was attempting to rewrite the runes through accessing Itzal’s consciousness, it makes sense. The burning means the new inscription was likely being branded with hellfire.”
Helena stepped forward, thoughtful.
“I’ve got a few ideas already. We can go over them at breakfast? I’ll order something in.”
“Perfect,” Secondo said. “I’ll send someone to clean up your neck too, Itzal. Then we’ll get started, si?”
Everyone agreed. And for the first time in a long time, Itzal felt...not safe exactly, but seen. And that? That was more than he’d ever expected.
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...
