The Blood Debt

The air in my father’s study smelled of expensive bourbon and desperate lies. It was a scent I had grown to loathe, almost as much as the heavy, silver-bound ledger sitting on his mahogany desk.

You did what?" I whispered, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat.

My father, Julian Vance, couldn't look me in the eye. He stared at the window, watching the rain lash against the glass of our estate. Once, the Vance name meant something in Oakhaven. We were the "Ink" the record keepers, the information brokers of the underworld. But looking at the slump of his shoulders, I realized we were nothing more than a dying flame.

The debt reached its limit, Elara, he muttered, his voice shaking. The Syndicate doesn't take IOUs anymore. They wanted collateral. Substantial collateral.

I stepped forward, my hand hovering over the edge of his desk. I fought the urge to touch the wood. If I did, I would see everything his trembling hands as he signed the papers, his cowardice, his greed. My gift, the ability to read the history of objects, was a curse in a house built on secrets.

I am your daughter, I snapped, my voice rising. Not a bartering chip. Who did you sell me to? The Morettis? The Petrovs?

No, he said, finally looking at me. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a terrifying mix of pity and relief. "The Vane Syndicate."

The blood drained from my face. My heart didn't just skip a beat; it felt like it stopped entirely. Dante Vane? You sold me to the Shadow Walker?

Everyone in the Oakhaven underworld knew the stories. Dante Vane wasn't just a Don; he was a myth wrapped in a bespoke suit. They said he was born from the very shadows of the city's foundations. They said he hadn't touched a living soul in ten years because his skin carried a curse of rot and ruin. He was the "Iron" that kept the supernatural factions in line, and he was a monster.

lt was the only way to keep us alive!" my father cried out, reaching for my hand.

I flinched back, my fingers grazing a heavy brass letter opener on the desk.

Static.

A sudden, violent flash of imagery flooded my mind. I saw the letter opener being held by a man with hands like carved marble pale, strong, and terrifyingly steady. I felt a coldness so deep it felt like winter in my marrow. I heard a voice, smooth as dark silk and just as dangerous: *“Bring me the girl, or I will burn this house with you inside it.”*

I gasped, pulling my hand away, my chest heaving. The vision faded, but the cold remained.

He's coming tonight, Elara, my father said, his voice sounding far away. "To collect."

"I won't go," I said, backing toward the door. I'll run. I’ll disappear into the city

You can't run from a Shadow-Walker!" my father yelled. "His reach is everywhere. He has eyes in the walls and ears in the wind. If you leave, he will kill me. He’ll kill everyone on the payroll. Is that what you want?

I stopped at the door, my hand on the cold iron handle. The irony wasn't lost on me. I was trapped between two types of monsters: the one who raised me and the one who had just bought me.

A sudden hush fell over the house. The distant sound of my mother’s weeping in the hallway silenced. Even the rain seemed to quiet its frantic drumming.

Then came the knock.

It wasn't loud, but it resonated through the floorboards, vibrating in my very bones. Three slow, rhythmic strikes.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"He's here," my father whispered, his face turning a sickly shade of grey.

I straightened my spine, smoothing the silk of my dress. If I was going to be led to the slaughter, I wouldn't go whimpering. I reached into the hidden pocket of my skirt and felt the small, silver dagger I kept there. It was an antique, passed down through the Vance women. It was cold, sharp, and had a history of shedding blood.

I opened the study door and walked toward the grand foyer.

The front doors were already open. Four men stood there, dressed in suits so black they seemed to swallow the light. But it was the man in the center who demanded the world's attention.

Dante Vane was taller than the stories suggested. His hair was the color of midnight, swept back from a face that was hauntingly handsome but carved from stone. His eyes were the most striking part a piercing, unnatural silver that seemed to see right through my skin and into my soul.

He didn't wear gloves, yet his hands were tucked into his pockets, as if he were restraining himself.

"Elara Vance," he said. His voice was the same one from my vision the dark silk that promised both a bed and a grave.

"Mr. Vane," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. "I believe you’re here for a debt."

Dante stepped into the light of the chandelier, and for a brief second, the shadows at his feet seemed to ripple like water, reaching toward me.

l am here for a wife," he corrected, his silver eyes narrowing. Though I suspect you'll be much more difficult to manage than a ledger.

He moved closer, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He stopped just inches from me. I could smell cedarwood, rain, and something metallic like old coins or fresh blood.

"Do you know what I am, Elara?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl.

"A monster," I whispered.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but there was no warmth in it. "Good. Then we won't have to waste time on pleasantries. Pack your things. Your life as a Vance ended the moment your father signed that paper. You belong to the shadows now.