Bloodline

The Dept Collector

The tunnels beneath Central Station were a tomb long before the floods.

Damien descended with a dying flashlight in one hand and the silver knife in the other. The air grew thick and wet, heavy with the stench of mold, piss, and something far older — like rot mixed with incense. Every step sent echoes rolling ahead of him like an invitation.

His body was rebelling harder now. The black veins pulsed in time with his heartbeat, spreading across his chest like roots seeking soil. The fever made the darkness shimmer. Sounds multiplied: dripping water, distant trains, and something else… a low, wet breathing that wasn’t his own.

He reached the flooded lower level. Black water lapped at his boots. The satchel’s journals had mentioned a collapsed platform where Elias Vale had first made the bargain. Damien waded in, the cold water hissing as it touched his burning skin.

Then the visions started.

He saw his great-grandfather on his knees in this very spot, 1892. Plague-ridden bodies stacked like cordwood. Elias, half-mad with grief and ambition, slicing open his own arm and offering the blood to the darkness. A shape rose from the water — not wolf, not man, but a shifting mass of hunger and eyes. Too many eyes.

“You give me your line,” the thing had whispered in a voice made of screaming children and feasting wolves. “Every third generation, a vessel. In return… power.”

The vision snapped.

Damien gasped, nearly dropping the knife. His reflection in the dark water showed his face distorting — jaw pushing forward, eyes glowing amber.

“No,” he snarled, slapping the water. “I’m not your f*****g vessel.”

A chuckle echoed through the tunnel. Not a memory this time. Real.

Lucian’s voice drifted from the shadows ahead. “Brave words for a man already changing.”

The pack leader stepped into view on a half-submerged platform, flanked by two massive figures that were almost fully shifted — seven feet of muscle, fur, and rage. But they weren’t attacking. Not yet.

“You followed me,” Damien said.

“Of course. This concerns all of us. The entity below doesn’t just own your family. It’s been feeding on every pack that refuses to serve it. We’ve lost dozens to its… appetite. Join us, and together we might actually stand a chance when you try to kill it.”

Damien laughed bitterly. “You want to use me as a weapon.”

“Obviously.” Lucian spread his hands. “But a respected weapon. You could lead with me. No more hiding what you are. No more hunting your own kind out of shame.”

One of the massive werewolves shifted impatiently. The movement sent ripples through the water — and with them, a new scent. Fresh blood.

Aunt Ruth.

She was slumped against the far wall, barely conscious, her silver pendant torn away. Lucian had brought her as leverage.

Damien’s control fractured.

The hunger roared up like a tidal wave. His spine cracked loudly. Fur erupted across his arms and back in agonizing waves. His fingers lengthened into black claws. The pain was exquisite. For one terrifying, euphoric moment, he wanted it.

He dropped the flashlight and charged.

The fight that followed was chaos and savagery.

Damien — half-transformed — tore into the first guard with a ferocity that shocked even Lucian. Claws met claws. Blood sprayed across the tunnel walls. He felt bones snap under his new strength. The taste of victory flooded his mouth again as he ripped out the creature’s throat.

The second guard slammed him into a pillar. Concrete cracked. Damien’s ribs broke… then knit back together almost instantly.

Lucian watched with gleaming eyes. “Yes. This is what you are.”

Ruth’s weak voice cut through the red haze. “Damien… don’t… let it win…”

He hesitated — just for a second.

That was enough.

Lucian moved like lightning, grabbing Ruth and pressing claws to her throat. “Choose. Us, or we feed her to the thing right now and let it accelerate your change until you’re nothing but its puppet.”

Damien stood chest-deep in bloody water, half-monster, breathing like a wounded animal. His mind screamed at him to kill them all. The curse whispered that Ruth was weak. Prey.

For the first time, he wasn’t sure the hunter’s voice was louder.

He lowered his claws slightly.

“Take me to it,” he rasped, voice distorted and guttural. “Tonight. I’ll face the debt collector myself.”

Lucian smiled like a wolf who’d just cornered dinner.

“Excellent choice.”

As they dragged him and Ruth deeper into the flooded dark, Damien realized the terrible truth:

He had just made a new bargain.

And this one might be worse than his great-grandfather’s.