Chapter 4: The Devil You Know
Dexter's apartment has become a war room. His vampire night vision allows him to work in near darkness, photographs and notes covering every surface like obsessive documentation of a conspiracy only he can see. The coffee maker perpetually brews drinks he can no longer fully enjoy—normal food tastes like ash now, his body craving sustenance he's afraid to name.
[SPECIES ENERGY: VITALITY 70/100]
[BLOOD CONSUMPTION REQUIRED WITHIN 48 HOURS]
[WARNING: LOW VITALITY AFFECTS BORROWED ABILITY EFFECTIVENESS]
The system displays its countdown with clinical precision: seventy-two hours until Simon Lewis gets kidnapped by Camille's vampires. In the original timeline, that kidnapping leads to his transformation, his relationship with Clary changing forever, and supernatural politics drawing innocent people into deadly games.
But the timeline is already shifting. Camille's agents are moving faster than expected, adapting to factors they don't understand. I need to warn Simon, but how do you tell someone they're about to be targeted by vampires when every attempt at explanation makes you sound insane?
The curse coils in his throat like a living thing, ready to scramble any attempt at direct prophecy. But last night's discovery at Hotel DuMort proved something crucial—he doesn't have to speak warnings directly. He can show evidence instead of explaining futures.
Time to test whether photographs can bypass limitations that speech can't.
Java Jones Coffee Shop sits in the heart of Brooklyn, exactly where Simon and Clary meet every Tuesday for study sessions disguised as social time. Dexter arrives early, claiming a table with clear sightlines to the entrance, camera equipment spread around him like props in the performance of being a working photographer.
Enhanced vampire senses make the coffee shop overwhelming—dozens of heartbeats layered over conversations, the scents of multiple perfumes and body washes competing with coffee and pastry aromas. How do vampires function in crowds without going insane from sensory overload?
Simon Lewis pushes through the door at exactly 3:17 PM, right on schedule. He's thinner than Dexter remembered from the show, more nervous, still carrying the emotional weight of watching his best friend's world explode into supernatural chaos. Clary follows minutes later, sketchpad tucked under her arm, green eyes scanning the crowd with new wariness.
They're both changed already. The Institute interrogation, the apartment fire, discovering magic exists—it's written in their posture, their movements, the way they unconsciously check exits. Trauma leaves marks even supernatural healing can't touch.
Dexter approaches their table with calculated casualness, camera dangling from his neck like a conversation starter.
"Excuse me," he says, addressing Simon directly. "I know this sounds random, but aren't you in a band? I swear I've seen you play somewhere."
Simon's face lights up with the desperate gratitude of a musician finally being recognized. "Yeah! I'm in Millennium Lint. Well, trying to be. We're still working on, you know, actually getting gigs."
"Mind if I sit? I'm a photographer—I document local music scenes, underground culture, that kind of thing. Always looking for new bands to feature."
Clary studies him with artist's eyes, cataloging details with the same intensity she once applied to drawing. Recognition flickers across her face.
"You were at Pandemonium," she says quietly. "The night everything went crazy."
Careful. She's suspicious, processing trauma, probably wondering if every strange encounter connects to the supernatural chaos that destroyed her normal life. I need to seem harmless, coincidental, not like someone stalking them with impossible knowledge.
"Yeah, terrible lighting for photography though," Dexter replies, settling into the chair across from them. "Too many strobes, not enough consistent illumination. I got some interesting shots, but nothing really usable for a portfolio."
The lie flows smoothly because it's wrapped around truth. He did get interesting shots—images of demon death and angelic warriors that shouldn't exist on mundane technology.
"So what kind of photography do you do?" Simon asks, clearly grateful for any conversation that doesn't involve demons or missing mothers.
"Urban exploration mostly. Abandoned buildings, hidden communities, subcultures that exist in the spaces between mainstream society." Dexter pulls out his portfolio, carefully selected images that tell stories without revealing supernatural truths. "There's this whole hidden world operating parallel to normal New York. Most people walk right past it."
Clary leans forward, artist's curiosity overriding suspicion. "Hidden how?"
Perfect opening. Time to see if visual evidence can bypass the curse's limitations on spoken warnings.
"Like this," Dexter says, sliding a photograph across the table. Hotel DuMort in perfect focus, its Gothic architecture framed against New York's skyline. Red circles highlight figures moving through blacked-out windows—shapes that could be human but seem wrong somehow, too fluid in their movements.
"DANGEROUS—DO NOT APPROACH" is written in careful block letters along the margin.
"What is this place?" Clary asks, studying the image with professional attention to detail.
"Hotel DuMort. Supposedly just an old boutique hotel in Lower Manhattan, but..." Dexter lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Strange things happen around it. People go in, don't come out. Weird sounds at night. Local cops avoid the area."
Simon laughs, but it's forced. "Sounds like something from Twilight."
"Twilight is a documentary, and you're the leading man—AVOID HOTELS WITH FANCY FRENCH NAMES!"
The words explode from Dexter's throat, mangled by the curse into apparent madness. Simon blinks in confusion, but Clary—already processing supernatural reality—studies him with new intensity.
She heard something beneath the scrambled warning. Maybe not the full truth, but enough to recognize genuine concern disguised as nonsense. Artists are good at seeing patterns others miss.
"Are you okay?" Simon asks. "You just went really weird for a second there."
Before Dexter can respond, his enhanced vampire hearing catches a conversation from two blocks away—voices speaking in the clipped tones of people discussing business rather than pleasure.
"—target confirmed. Lewis, Simon. Musician. Close to the Fairchild girl—"
"—tonight then? Camille wants him before the boy gets Shadowhunter protection—"
"—alive, remember. She has plans for this one—"
No. Not tonight. The timeline is accelerating faster than I anticipated. Camille's people are moving now, not in seventy-two hours. Simon is going to be kidnapped today, and I'm sitting here playing word games while vampires plan his abduction.
[EMERGENCY QUEST TRIGGERED]
[PREVENT SIMON LEWIS CAPTURE - TIME LIMIT: 6 HOURS]
[FAILURE PENALTY: VAMPIRE AFFINITY -50, CONTRACT TERMINATION]
[SUCCESS REWARD: QUEST CHAIN ADVANCEMENT, SPECIES AFFINITY +15]
The system interface flares red, emergency protocols engaging as the situation deteriorates beyond predicted parameters. Dexter's coffee tastes like copper—blood from where he bit his tongue in shock.
"I have to go," he says, gathering his photographs with shaking hands. "Simon, seriously—stay away from fancy hotels today. And maybe don't walk alone after dark."
He's already moving toward the exit when Jace Wayland steps through the door.
Perfect. Just perfect. As if this situation wasn't complicated enough, now I have to deal with Shadowhunter suspicion while racing against time to prevent a kidnapping I can't properly warn anyone about.
Jace's golden eyes find his immediately across the crowded coffee shop. Recognition, suspicion, and something that might be protective instinct war across his angular features. He begins moving through the crowd with predatory grace, ignoring the way mundane eyes track his otherworldly beauty.
Dexter bolts.
POV: Jace Wayland
The mundane photographer moves like someone with training, slipping through crowds with efficiency that suggests military or police background. Jace follows, angelic speed allowing him to keep pace despite the head start, his hand automatically checking the seraph blade concealed beneath his jacket.
He was talking to Clary and Simon. Showing them photographs. The same mundane who appears at every supernatural incident, who knows things he shouldn't know, who smells like death and secrets.
The chase leads through Brooklyn streets that twist between mundane commerce and hidden supernatural enclaves. Jace tracks his quarry through enhanced senses, following the scent of human fear and something else—something cold and predatory that doesn't belong on mundane flesh.
The photographer ducks into an alley behind a bodega, probably hoping to lose pursuit in the maze of delivery routes and fire escapes. Instead, he traps himself in a dead end.
Jace corners him with blade drawn, celestial bronze gleaming in the narrow space between buildings. "Start talking. Why are you following Clary? Why do you know about vampire nests? And what the hell are you?"
The mundane—Dexter—raises his hands in surrender, but his heterochromatic eyes don't show the terror most people display when faced with angelic steel. Instead, there's calculation. Desperation. And underneath it all, the kind of determination Jace recognizes in warriors who've accepted death as a possibility.
He's not just some random civilian who stumbled into supernatural affairs. There's something else here. Something wrong.
"The best defense is a good offense against sparkly bloodsuckers who read minds—I'M ON YOUR SIDE!"
The words come out scrambled, distorted, like prophecy filtered through madness. But Jace has heard enough demon-touched speech to recognize the difference between insanity and supernatural interference. This man isn't crazy—he's cursed.
"You smell wrong," Jace observes, leaning close enough to study the stranger's face in detail. "Like death but not dead. Like vampire but still warm. What are you?"
Fear flickers across Dexter's expression for the first time. Not of the blade at his throat, but of the question itself. As if being discovered is worse than being killed.
He's hiding something. Something big enough that exposure terrifies him more than immediate death. And that smell—cold death mixed with human warmth. I've never encountered anything like it.
Before Dexter can answer, his phone buzzes with an incoming message. The sound breaks the tension momentarily, and Jace catches a glimpse of the sender name: Raphael Santiago.
"You're in contact with vampires," Jace says slowly, pieces clicking together in his mind. "That's how you know about DuMort. How you understand clan politics."
"It's complicated," Dexter manages, voice steady despite the blade at his throat. "But Clary and Simon are in danger. Immediate danger. Camille's people are moving tonight, not next week."
He knows about vampire factions. Knows timeline information that isn't public knowledge. Either he's deep cover Circle, or he's something else entirely. Something unprecedented.
"Explain. Now."
"I can't." The words carry genuine frustration. "Every time I try to warn people directly, it comes out wrong. Scrambled. But the threat is real—Simon Lewis will be targeted by vampire loyalists tonight unless we stop them."
Jace studies the man's face, reading micro-expressions with Shadowhunter training. Terror, yes, but also sincerity. Desperation wrapped around core honesty. And something else—grief, old and deep, like someone who has failed before and refuses to fail again.
He believes what he's saying. Believes it completely. Which means either he's genuinely trying to help, or he's been fed false information designed to manipulate us. Either way, if there's a credible threat against Clary's mundane friend...
The phone buzzes again. This time, Jace catches a glimpse of the message: "Camille moves tonight. Your mundane friends are targets. Choose wisely."
"Show me," Jace commands, lowering the blade slightly. "Show me proof that Simon is in danger."
Dexter's relief is visible as he pulls out his phone, displaying the message thread with Raphael Santiago. Jace reads quickly, warrior mind processing tactical information with trained efficiency.
Vampire clan politics. Leadership disputes. Camille Belcourt using mundane kidnapping to force compliance from clan reformers. It fits known patterns of supernatural manipulation.
"Why should I trust you?" Jace asks finally.
"Because," Dexter replies quietly, "I'm the only one who knows exactly when and where they'll strike. And because if we don't stop them, an innocent kid dies just to prove a political point."
The phone buzzes one final time. Dexter reads the message and his face goes pale.
"What?"
"Raphael says they're moving now. Not tonight—now. Simon Lewis has approximately one hour before Camille's people make their move."
An hour. Not enough time to get Institute authorization, not enough time for proper backup. Just enough time to make a choice—trust the mysterious mundane with vampire connections, or watch an innocent civilian get dragged into supernatural politics.
Jace makes his decision.
"Lead the way," he says, sheathing his blade. "But if this is a trap, I will personally ensure you regret it."
Dexter's smile is grim with determination. "Fair enough. But first, I need to call in that backup Raphael promised."
As he dials, Jace catches the whispered words: "I need backup. Hotel DuMort, tonight, when the sparkling murderers try to kidnap my friend."
The response comes immediately: "You're insane. I'll be there."
Insane. Probably. But sometimes insanity is the only rational response to an irrational world. And if this mundane photographer can prevent vampire politics from destroying an innocent life, maybe his particular brand of madness is exactly what they need.
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