Chapter 6: Hotel DuMort Divergence - Part 2
The Institute infirmary smells of antiseptic and iratzes—Shadowhunter healing runes that burn with angelic power Dexter can somehow sense even through his depleted vampire abilities. Magnus Bane sits beside his cot like a glittering guardian, rings catching the light as magic crackles at his fingertips in warning to anyone who might threaten his "patient."
Eight hundred years old and still dramatic as hell. In the show, Magnus was flamboyant but wise, hiding ancient pain behind glitter and sarcasm. Here, studying me with those cat eyes that have seen empires rise and fall, he's terrifying in ways television never captured.
Through the glass partition, Dexter watches a heated argument playing out in pantomime. Alec gesticulates with military precision, clearly advocating for detention or interrogation. Jace paces like a caged predator, golden hair catching the light as he demands answers that don't exist. Isabelle surprises everyone by defending Dexter, her fierce loyalty extending to someone who saved civilian lives regardless of his impossible nature.
And Simon—poor, traumatized Simon—keeps pointing at Dexter while clearly asking "but HOW?" Clary stands apart, artistic mind cataloging impossibilities with the same intensity she once applied to drawing runes she'd never seen.
They're processing trauma. All of them. Watching their reality expand to include things that shouldn't exist, people who defy every category they understand. I know the feeling.
"Fascinating," Magnus observes, following Dexter's gaze to the argument outside. "They're debating whether you're more dangerous as an enemy or an ally. The consensus seems to be leaning toward 'yes.'"
"Comforting," Dexter manages, his voice rough from whatever the system did during the backlash. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Six hours. Long enough for me to run every diagnostic spell in my considerable repertoire." Magnus leans forward, cat eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Would you like to know what I found?"
Do I have a choice? Magnus Bane doesn't ask questions he doesn't already know the answers to. He's leading up to something, probably something that will make my life significantly more complicated.
"I've lived eight hundred years," Magnus begins conversationally, "and I've never encountered a mundane who smells of vampire blood without being turned, moves with Downworlder grace, yet registers as completely human to every magical test I've run while you were unconscious."
Dexter's heart skips, but he keeps his expression neutral. "Maybe your tests aren't as comprehensive as you think."
"Or maybe," Magnus continues, eyes narrowing with predatory interest, "you're something very old and very strange. Something that shouldn't exist according to every law of magic I understand."
He knows. Not everything, but enough to recognize I'm an anomaly. The question is whether he'll help or hinder, whether his curiosity outweighs his caution.
"I made a deal with the crossroads demon for my soul on eBay—IT'S COMPLICATED!"
The words explode from Dexter's throat, mangled by the curse that rewrites every attempt at honest explanation. But instead of confusion or concern, Magnus throws back his head and laughs—genuine delight mixed with ancient amusement.
"At least you're entertainingly mysterious," the warlock says, wiping tears from his eyes. "I haven't been genuinely surprised in decades. You, my strange friend, are a gift."
Before Dexter can respond, Simon Lewis bursts through the infirmary door—physically impossible given the privacy wards Magnus established, but panic apparently makes people bold enough to accomplish supernatural feats through sheer determination.
"I want answers," Simon declares, his usually gentle voice cracking with stress. "I want to know what you are, how you knew I was in danger, and why you can apparently heal vampires with your bare hands."
Here we go. The confrontation I've been dreading. How do you explain impossible knowledge to someone who's barely processing that vampires exist? How do you justify intervention without revealing transmigrator status?
"Simon," Dexter says carefully, "you're processing trauma. Everything that's happened over the last few days—"
"Don't," Simon interrupts, fury replacing confusion. "Don't patronize me with psychological explanations. I saw what I saw. You moved like them, fought like them, but you're not like them. So what are you?"
Dexter tries honesty within the limitations of his curse. "I have the Sight. I can see supernatural phenomena that most mundanes miss. And I make deals with Downworlders for protection, for knowledge, for the ability to survive in a world that wants to eat people like us."
"How did you know I was in danger?" Simon demands. "How did you know exactly when and where to be?"
The crucial question. The one that could expose everything if I answer wrong, or damn Simon to ignorance if I don't answer at all.
"A little bird told me, and that bird was Netflix with spoilers—I'M TRYING TO SAVE YOU!"
The curse strikes with particular viciousness, scrambling his words into apparent madness. Simon stares at him in frustration, clearly hearing sincerity beneath the nonsense but unable to parse meaning from the scrambled warning.
"This is insane," Simon says, running his hands through his hair. "Everything is insane. Three days ago I was a normal college student. Now I'm apparently valuable to vampire politics for reasons no one will explain, and my weird photographer friend can fight monsters with camera flashes."
Clary appears in the doorway, having followed Simon despite Shadowhunter protests. Her green eyes study Dexter with artistic intensity, cataloging details that might reveal truth through observation.
"You saved his life," she says quietly. "Whatever you are, whatever deals you've made, you saved Simon when you could have just documented another supernatural incident for your portfolio."
She understands. Not the specifics, but the core truth—I chose intervention over observation, risked everything to protect someone I barely know because it was the right thing to do.
"I'm trying to help," Dexter says, hoping his sincerity comes through despite the curse's interference. "I can't explain everything, but I'm on your side. Both of you."
The argument ends abruptly when Dexter's system suddenly flickers back online, interface materializing in his peripheral vision as vampire abilities begin regenerating. His eyes flash amber-green for a split second, and Simon stumbles backward.
"Your eyes just... what ARE you?"
Before anyone can answer, Raphael Santiago appears in the infirmary doorway—somehow having bypassed Institute security, Shadowhunter wards, and Magnus's privacy spells with casual vampire arrogance.
POV: Raphael Santiago
The Institute reeks of angelic power and barely contained violence, every stone saturated with centuries of Shadowhunter righteousness. Raphael moves through corridors that should reject his presence, protected by Accords law and the simple fact that sometimes even angels need to negotiate with darkness.
Dexter changed everything. The photographer with impossible knowledge disrupted Camille's operation, saved my people from having to choose between violence and surrender, gave us tactical advantage we shouldn't possess. But favors create debts, and debts must be acknowledged.
The infirmary holds a collection of people who represent every major faction in the Shadow World—Shadowhunters suspicious of any mundane with supernatural abilities, a warlock whose curiosity could prove dangerous, and two civilian witnesses who've seen too much to be safely ignored.
"Raphael Santiago," Magnus says with diplomatic politeness. "You're rather far from Hotel DuMort."
"I'm collecting my investment," Raphael replies, keeping his voice level despite the tension radiating from multiple armed Shadowhunters. "The photographer is my consultant. What happened tonight was vampire internal politics, nothing more."
It's a lie wrapped in enough truth to provide plausible cover. Dexter isn't technically his consultant—the mundane is something far stranger and potentially more valuable—but the fiction serves everyone's interests.
"Consultant?" Alec Lightwood appears, bow in hand, clearly ready for violence. "For what possible purpose would vampires need a mundane consultant?"
"Documentation," Raphael improvises smoothly. "Photography of Camille loyalists, evidence of their activities, proof for the Clave that our clan is actively working against the old regime."
Let them think this was surveillance gone wrong, intelligence gathering that turned violent when cover was blown. Better than admitting I bound myself to a mundane who somehow knows future events and speaks only in riddles.
Jace studies Raphael with warrior's assessment. "And you just happened to arrive in time to help him fight off four vampires?"
"I was protecting my asset," Raphael states flatly. "Camille's people discovered his activities and attempted elimination. Natural response was to defend him."
Magnus's eyes narrow, clearly recognizing the careful dance of diplomatic half-truths. But the warlock remains silent, apparently content to watch supernatural politics unfold without interference.
"What intelligence did he provide?" Isabelle asks, cutting through the masculine posturing to focus on practical concerns.
Perfect opening. Time to provide something valuable enough to justify the fiction and deflect attention from what Dexter really is.
"Camille's location," Raphael says, producing a photograph from his jacket. "She's operating from a warehouse in Queens, gathering loyalists for an assault on my clan's holdings. Your Shadowhunters might be interested in preventing vampire civil war."
The photograph—actually taken by Dexter three days ago, though Raphael won't mention that detail—shows Camille Belcourt meeting with known vampire dissidents in an abandoned industrial complex. Solid intelligence that the Shadowhunters can act on immediately.
Alec studies the image with professional interest. "This is actionable intelligence."
"Consider it a gesture of good faith," Raphael replies. "The vampire community has no interest in destabilizing the Accords. Camille's activities threaten the peace we've all worked to maintain."
Truth, mostly. Camille does threaten peace, though not in ways any Shadowhunter could predict. But giving them something to chase provides distraction from the real mystery—how a mundane photographer acquired political knowledge that should be impossible to possess.
Before leaving, Raphael approaches Dexter's bedside under the pretext of checking on his consultant's condition. His fingers brush the photographer's wrist, and power floods back—the vampire contract reactivating, Vitality beginning its regeneration cycle.
"Rest," Raphael says quietly, loud enough for Shadowhunter ears but carrying deeper meaning in tone. "Recovery takes time."
[VAMPIRE ABILITIES RESTORED]
[VITALITY REGENERATION: 0/100 → 30/100]
[ESTIMATED FULL RECOVERY: 7 HOURS]
The system interface flickers back to life, displaying quest updates and relationship changes that only Dexter can see. The photographer's eyes clear as enhanced senses come online, and Raphael nods slightly—acknowledgment between contractor and contracted.
You owe me now. Tonight's intervention saved your secret, but secrets have prices. We'll discuss terms later, when Shadowhunter ears aren't cataloging every word.
POV: Dexter Hale
Released from the Institute with warnings to "stay available for questioning," Dexter walks New York streets at three AM accompanied by the one person who refused to be deterred by Shadowhunter intimidation or supernatural politics.
"I don't understand what you are," Simon says quietly, watching Dexter's eyes reflect streetlights with subtle vampire shine. "But you saved my life. So I'm going to trust you, even though every horror movie says this is a terrible idea."
Simon Lewis. Loyal to the end, even when loyalty makes no logical sense. In the original timeline, he becomes a vampire to save Clary's life. Here, he's still human, still innocent, still carrying the kind of faith in friendship that supernatural politics usually destroys.
"Horror movies also say the black guy dies first," Dexter replies, managing a tired smile. "But you're still here, still breathing, still annoying vampires with questions they can't answer."
"Fair point." Simon kicks a discarded beer bottle, sending it skittering across empty asphalt. "So what happens now? Do I go back to college and pretend vampires don't exist? Write poetry about the night I almost got kidnapped by creatures that shouldn't be real?"
What happens now is that you get drawn deeper into supernatural politics whether you want to or not. Clary's heritage, her connection to Valentine, the role you'll play in events that are already spiraling beyond canonical boundaries. But I can't tell you that directly, and you're not ready to hear it anyway.
"Now you learn to survive," Dexter says honestly. "You've seen behind the curtain. There's no going back to purely mundane existence. The question is whether you fight the knowledge or accept it and figure out how to use it."
Simon's laugh carries the edge of hysteria that comes with processing impossible revelations. "Use knowledge about vampires? I'm a music major from Brooklyn. What am I going to do, write songs about the supernatural community?"
Actually, that's not a bad idea. Art has power in this world, truth wrapped in metaphor that can influence events in ways direct action can't. But that's a conversation for another time.
Dexter's phone buzzes with an incoming text from an unknown number. The message is brief but intriguing: "Interested in discussing your unique condition over drinks. I promise not to dissect you. Much. - M.B."
Magnus Bane wants to meet. The warlock who could expose his secrets or become his most powerful ally, depending on how the conversation goes.
Three months ago I was dying of cancer in a hospital bed, watching Shadowhunters on Netflix and wondering what it would be like to live in a world where magic was real. Now I'm walking New York streets with a character from that show, bound to vampires through contracts that shouldn't exist, carrying knowledge that could save or damn everyone I care about.
The timeline is changing. Simon is safe but aware. The Shadowhunters know I exist but not what I am. Raphael has invested in my survival but expects returns on that investment. And somewhere in the shadows, Valentine Morgenstern adapts his plans to account for variables he doesn't understand.
Time to find out if a mundane photographer with borrowed vampire abilities and impossible knowledge can navigate supernatural politics without losing his humanity in the process.
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