Nameless Ghoul

Gifts

“Wake up sleepy head,” said the sing-song voice close to his ear, “this is no fun if you’re not awake!” The sultry, heavily accented voice sent chills over Itzal's exposed flesh. He blinked, but he couldn’t see too well. Something was in his eyes. Or maybe they were swollen, so he couldn’t open them properly. He blinked again slowly and they focused a little better. His head was fuzzy and he couldn’t remember where he was. "There he is!” said the voice.

He turned his head, but it sent pain through his skull, and he hissed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was staring into a pair of eyes so impossibly blue that they seemed not to be real.

In a rush, his memory caught up with him and his body lit up with all kinds of information, none of it good.

The blonde witch had borrowed him for the night. Her powers needed a recharge so instead of finding some pretty waif wandering around the streets of Paris that she could lure back to the Catacombs to torture, as had been her usual preference lately, she had decided that Itzal would be her plaything again this time. The witches used the pain of others to gain power, and every now and again, they would need more of a boost. His being a ghoul seemed to supercharge them for a while. She must have been buttering up Santos for a while to earn alone time with him.

Judging by the amount of damage he could feel on his body, he must have been in her chambers for a good few hours. That he had passed out at some point meant he must have lost a fair amount of blood. The good thing about that was that her use for him would almost be over now. She’d woken him up, though, which meant that she still had something fun in store.

Fun for her, not for Itzal.

She smiled her brilliant smile at him and he noticed a couple of smudges of his blood on the usually flawless pale skin of her cheek. She ran a perfectly manicured finger down the side of his face and gathered some blood on it. He could feel a cut on his eyebrow and it was stinging. It felt pretty bad.

Itzal huffed a laugh at the thought of Santos being livid with the witch for messing up his ghoul’s pretty face. Santos was always careful to avoid injuries that might scar his face. He would not let her use him again for a long while now, he thought. Maybe if she scarred it up well enough, then Santos would tire of him as well.

Wishful thinking.

The witch sucked her finger into her mouth in a way that most males would probably find alluring, but it made Itzal feel sick to his stomach.

“Délicieux!” she said as she closed her eyes.

He shuddered as he remembered her lapping blood from the many small cuts she had made on him earlier.

She always started off these little sessions with sex. Sometimes the red-haired witch or others would join them, but usually it was just the two of them. When Santos loaned him to her, he kept him leashed and instructed him to do as the witch commanded. He often wished for a momentary lapse in concentration on Santos’ part, which would give him a chance to lay open her throat with his claws, but alas, so far it had not happened.

She had a small, ivory-handled knife that she used for making minor cuts in his skin. The blood welling up to them seemed to fascinate her. She mostly opened up old scars that he already had. A lot of them had ritual significance, thus strengthening her magic.

The thing she liked the most, though, was handing him the knife and making him do the cuts himself. One of her powers was that she was attuned to his torment. The helplessness he felt when not being in control of his own actions was like an aphrodisiac to her. He had given up trying to escape into his mind like he could do when Santos was dishing out his wrath; somehow the witch had realised what he did and found a way to stop him from doing it. She could keep him trapped in his body and present while she used him.