Nameless Ghoul

Gifts

“Wake up sleepy head,” said the sing-song voice close to Itzal's ear, “this is no fun if you are not awake!”

The sultry, heavily accented voice sent chills over Itzal's exposed flesh. He blinked, but everything looked fuzzy. Something was in his eyes. Maybe they were swollen? They wouldn’t fully open. A few slower blinks, and they focused a little better. Itzal felt spaced out. Couldn’t remember where he was.

"There he is!” said the voice.

He turned his head. Pain through his skull. Itzal hissed, closing his eyes. When he worked up the courage to open them again, a pair of eyes so impossibly blue they seemed surreal stared back at him.

In a rush, Itzal's memory caught up. His body lit up with all kinds of information.

None of it was good.

The blonde witch. She'd borrowed Itzal for the night. Her powers had needed a recharge.

Instead of finding some pretty waif wandering around the streets of Paris she could lure back to the Catacombs to torture—her usual preference of late—she'd chosen Itzal as her plaything this time.

Santos' witches used pain to gain power. Every now and then, they'd need a boost. A boost they couldn't get from human suffering. Using Itzal seemed to supercharge their magic for a while. The witch must have buttered up Santos for quite some time to earn playtime with him.

Judging by the amount of damage Itzal could feel on his body, he'd been in her chambers for a good few hours. He'd definitely passed out at some point which meant he'd lost a fair amount of blood.

The good thing about that was that her use for him would almost be over.

The fact she’d woken him up, though? That usually meant she still had something fun in store.

Fun for her, that is. Not for Itzal.

The witch gave him a brilliant smile. Smudges of Itzal's blood marred the usually flawless pale skin of her cheek. A perfectly manicured finger trailer down the side of his face. She gathered some of the blood.

A sharp sting. A cut on his eyebrow. Itzal flinched away.

Santos was going to be livid with her for messing up his ghoul’s pretty face. Injuries that might scar Itzal's face were something he tried to avoid.

Santos would be unlikely to let her use him again anytime soon, Itzal thought. Maybe if she scarred him up well enough, if she made him ugly enough, then Santos would tire of him as well.

Wishful thinking.

The witch sucked the blood from her finger. Most males would probably find it alluring, but Itzal felt sick to his stomach.

“Délicieux!” she said, closing her eyes.

A shudder ran through Itzal when he remembered her lapping blood from the wounds she'd inflicted earlier.

These little sessions usually began with sex. Sometimes the red-haired witch or others would join them, but usually it was just the two of them.

When Santos loaned Itzal out, he instructed him to do as the witch commanded. There was no questioning that. The command was absolute.

Itzal often wished for a momentary lapse in concentration on Santos’ part. The chance to lay open her throat with his claws was something he'd dreamed of many times, but alas, so far, it hadn't happened.